She’s asleep.
I shift from foot to foot, waiting. She doesn’t show signs of waking up soon. I can’t wake her, even to ask her this. She needs her sleep. Sighing, I sink into the chair. I fidget, watching her. At last, I grab the paper and pencil, and I begin to sketch Peter.
He takes shape through my fingers. I know every curve of his face. I capture the look in his eyes, the sardonic twist of his lips. I fill out his body in broad strokes, trying to catch the flow of his coat. I draw him in a crouch as if on a rooftop, looking at me, his hand extended, as if he’s waiting for me to join him on the roof. Bending over the paper, I focus on his hands. It takes three tries before I’m satisfied with them. I add the swirl of his tattoos to his chest.
“It’s nice to see you draw again,” Mom says from the bed.
I look up. I don’t know how long she’s been watching me.
“Can I see?”
For an instant, I don’t want to show her. This seems personal. But I’ve already told her everything about my dream. She knows about Peter. I go to her bedside and show her.
“Last night didn’t go well?” she asks.
“Last night was great.”
“That’s not a sketch of William,” she points out.
“Mom, I have to ask you an odd question.” I sit on the edge of her bed, careful not to bounce her tubes or wires.
“Yes, William’s father was excellent in bed.”
“Not that question!” I feel my face flame red. I’m positive that uncomfortable questions about last night are coming, and this is far too important to be derailed. “In my room, on my dresser, I found a stuffed puffer fish. Have you seen it before?”
“Stuffed puffer fish? Is this a trick question?”
“I want to know if I’m forgetting things. You know, because of the...” I tap my forehead. “Do you know where it came from?”
“Never seen one.”
“Really? Are you 100 percent certain?”
“Yes. Sounds like a knickknack I’d remember.”
I exhale and then I can’t stop smiling. “How would you like to leave the hospital? Go on a little trip with me?”
She gestures to the IV. “I’m not exactly portable. And, Lauren, no offense, but you don’t know the first thing about nursing. Remember how you fainted when our cat had to get shots?”
“In fairness, that was mostly because of the smell. I swear that vet smelled like formaldehyde.”
“I can’t argue with that. But, Lauren, I told you before, I can’t ask this of you. It’s a lot to take care of me. Too much. You have a life, a job. Have you called them yet? Please tell me you have. Your friends are worried about you.”
“I will, I will,” I lie. I push forward before she can call me on the lie. She can read me better than anyone. “I’ll talk to Dr. Barrett and...”
“Talk to me about what?” asks a familiar, smooth voice from the doorway.
I look up and wish I weren’t holding a sketch of Peter. I quickly put it down. He sees my movement.
“You drew again. Great.” He looks at Mom. “I saw some of your daughter’s artwork last night. You’re right. She has real talent.” He checks the chart that hangs from the foot of Mom’s bed. “How are you feeling today? Can you rate your pain?”
“I continue to think that’s the stupidest question ever,” Mom says. “It’s random. How do I know what a four is? How do you know that my four corresponds to anyone else’s four?”
“Humor me.”
“Four.”
“Great.”
