Oh. If I were to believe in a god, now would be the moment. Now would be the moment.
Shivers race like scorpions under my skin. White-hot sparks erupt down the length of my body. I can't move. I'm stunned. Biologically mesmerized. I'm standing here on grass outside the hospital, and I'm effervescing from the light. Gorgeous gigawatts of peach-gold sunlight, hurtling through space, striking me.
I've never felt anything like this before. I doubt anybody has. My brain, so used to subdued, indoor signals-energy-saving lighting, a thermostatically controlled room, coolish washcloths, weakish tea-is in a state of something I think I have to call ecstasy. The heat receptors in my skin are going crazy, spiking signal after hysterical signal. I feel like a racecar that somebody has finally thought to take onto the highway.
The shivers strike deeper. They're in my muscles. They're catching at my veins. And then-bam-there's a shock to my heart. It skips. I gasp. A lightning strike of panic-and whoompf, the shamanic buzz is gone, and I see myself as somebody else might: a girl, standing in a park, blinking in bright sunlight.
I remain still, focused on the motions of my heart. While it's beating fast, it seems to be stable. Thud. Thud. Thud. No irregular gaps in the thuds. Thud. Thud. Thud. That's good. Well, it's something. I take a breath. Count to seven in…eleven out…seven in…At last, the strangeness evaporates entirely, and-part relieved, part devastated-I pay attention to the data streaming into my eyes.
I see trees. Four big ones, with generous, outstretched branches. Cedars, I think, the intense blues of the harbor and the sky shimmering behind them. And people. Everywhere. It's lunchtime, I realize. Yes, it's October, but it's warm in the sun. There's a group of nurses in green scrubs eating noodles out of boxes over near the harbor wall. A woman is pushing a stroller mounted with its own silver sun umbrella. A man in white sandals is chucking a ball at a young kid who's wielding a child-size tennis racket.
Through the gym window, I've noticed the kid with the racket before. And from my bedroom window I've seen the group of men over by the farthest patch of trees, a dense clustering that's more like woodland than park. They pile their doctors' coats and lunchboxes on a bench and hurl an American football inexpertly to one another. I've seen them before. But not like this. Not directly, unprotected by glass.
I've never been this close. Or this exposed. I notice details I never could have detected from inside. The kid with the racket is wearing Converse shoes decorated with felt-tip rainbows. The people aren't just mouthing words. They're talking. And it's mad, melodramatic conversation.
"That's crazy!" a woman shouts into her phone. Another says to her companion: "Yeah. Married four times before he knew."…"And then you told him you were pregnant?"…"They still in New Orleans?" "Yeah. They were lucky with Katrina. It stopped at their doorstep."…"Hey, big man, everythin' goin' all right?" "Yeah, how 'bout you?" "Just chillin', baby." Everything sounds larger than life. Everything. English people don't talk like this. No one in this park says: Tonight? A ready meal in front of Bake Off. Or Hmm, George, looks like rain.
I notice something else. The bench piled with the doctors' belongings has a plaque. It's glinting. I find myself walking over, ignoring the background of shouts, squeals, conversation, someone singing a hymn.
I read the word In…but the rest is obscured by the raw cotton handle of a reusable bag. I reach out to push it away-
"Hey!"
I register the word but it belongs to the din I'm doing a pretty good job of ignoring.
"Hey!"
The voice is closer. I squint at the letters.
"Hey! What are you doing?"
It's very close.
I look around. It's one of the doctors, goateed, overweight, red-faced, panting.
"This is our stuff," he says, and I don't miss the accusation in his tone. "What are you doing?"
I'm about to tell him it's none of his business, but someone else answers for me.
"She was just reading the inscription."
It's an American voice. It belongs to a boy who's standing to my right, on the other side of the bench. Nineteen, maybe. Slim. Gray jeans. Tall. Black hair that falls over one eye. Black T-shirt. A gray canvas satchel over his shoulder. There's a tattoo on his inner right forearm, but I can't quite make it out. He's looking at the doctor, not me.
He says it again, matter-of-factly. "She was just reading."
The doctor swivels to face me. I say nothing. Don't move. So he's forced to nod uncertainly, shrug at his friends, then jog back to them.
The boy says, "In spite of everything, she loved this bench. Denise. Forever."
Surprised, I glance back at the plaque. He's on the other side of the bench. He can't read it from where he's standing. "You knew her?"
"Denise? No. I just-"
"Rosa!"
The voice cuts through to the bone.
"Rosa! Honey!"
Jane.
Jane. Jane. Jane.
Her heavily sprinting feet make their final approach.
"Honey, what are you doing out here?"
We're barely fifty feet from the hospital. But she's breathing hard.
"I-" I stop, unsure what to say.
The guy with the tattoo and satchel looks at me. "Wait, it's my line again? She was just reading."
Surprised-I think because this is the kind of interjection I'd associate more with Elliot than a normal human being-I smile slightly. He smiles slightly back.
After an uncertain glance at him, Jane takes my arm. Her fingers feel red-hot. My sensory systems are confused. That peach-gold light tarnishes her face.
"Let's get you back," she says, "nice and safe."
Beyond her, I notice Elliot by the glass door. I see him shrug that he's sorry.
"Honey, what were you thinking?" Jane looks worried. But there's iron in her grip.
There's a phrase-I've heard it somewhere. It must be from a film, or something Elliot said, which perhaps still means it's from a film: Resistance is futile.
Option A: I meekly let Jane return me to the hospital. Option B: I convey in a single glance my not-unmitigated thanks to the guy with the tattoo (had I actually asked for a white knight?), tell Jane I still haven't forgiven her for the lie about the mirrors, but accept that, medically speaking, maybe it's better for me to stay inside. Option C: I punch her out and run away for cocktails and clam chowder or whatever normal people do in Boston.
Option C. Option C!
I turn only to find that the boy has vanished. I realize I feel disappointed. I tell Jane, "I just wanted some air."
I stomp toward Elliot, but halfway there, the doctors' football comes zinging toward me. I overreact, throwing myself backward, stumbling to my right, losing my balance. The world shoots sideways. Jane is behind me. She grabs me, but not before I've hit the ground. She hitches me back into a standing position. "Honey," she says, her mouth close to my ear, "we have air in the hospital. Nice, safe air."
I straighten myself, shrug her off. I try desperately to think of something smart to say in response. And I feel a hand on my arm. Elliot's.
"There, there, honey," he says, in a passable imitation of Jane's southern accent. "Let's get you back for a nice cup of hot sedative and some cozy wrist restraints."
Jane's expression says she can't quite believe what she just heard.
He winks at her. She shakes her head slightly, the corners of her mouth turning down.
As I let Elliot lead me back toward the hospital, he bends his head toward mine. I expect him to say something like You happy now? Or Just humor them-you're almost done.
But he says, "I pushed over this bench and they all came over. That boy Jared was right in there, and he wasted no time. 'Are you her boyfriend or what?' I was tempted to tell him I was your fart coach, what with you being England's number one fart champion, but I felt so sorry for him-he was so anxious and aggressive-that I told him the truth, and he looked so pathetically relieved. I would not recommend him for the position of first boyfriend but, hey, Rosa, it's a start!"
I debate who in the world I'd most like to smack right now. Jane or Elliot. It's close.
