While I know it’s still possible, I relax just a little.
Then I sit up. From this angle, I can see out the window, but I can’t see the street. I’d have to stand for that. I look around the entire room again, shocked that there is nothing but a bed in here. No dresser, no closet, no sink, no chair.
Just this bed.
As I look toward the door, I see a shadow outside, but when I glance up to the window, there’s no one there.
A shiver runs up my spine, because that can only mean one thing: the woman in the wheelchair. I pray she either can’t or won’t open the door, because I don’t know how to communicate with her, nor do I want to.
All but holding my breath, I swallow, waiting to see what’s going to happen next. After what seems like an eternity, the shadow slowly moves past the door going the other way, leaving me hoping she gave up.
What is that she says to me anyway? It doesn’t make sense. I realize it might be two different words the way she says it, represent, but somehow they feel like they go together. If she’s saying two different words, what would that mean? Resent could mean that she resents me or she thinks I resent her. I don’t resent her; I just feel uneasy around her—but maybe I should let her know I have no issues with her.
Or maybe I should wait. I don’t know what’s transpired between the two of us in the past.
But what would rep mean? It immediately brings to mind representative—like someone representing a group. But what would that have to do with resent? And representative sounds like what I’ve thought she’s been saying all along anyway—represent—just drawn out.
It makes no sense.
I lie down again, resting my head on the pillow. I feel a little sleepy now, but part of me is afraid of drifting off. What if this tiny window of time is a fluke, this short span of lucidity my only respite from a world of not knowing, not remembering?
Despite the possibility, I can’t stop myself from slipping into slumber, and the sunbeams coming through the window warm my skin, making my eyelids too heavy to hold up.
I give in to darkness, hoping I’ll once again wake up.
4
“Anna. Anna?” I stir, hearing my name pierce through the dreamless darkness. Unlike the way I awoke earlier in the morning, there are no images, no emotions following me from the shadowy world of sleep.
I recognize Joe’s voice before I even open my eyes, and my heart flutters a bit with joy.
Joy.
I already know that emotions have been a rare commodity in my drugged state. I just know that to my bones—without evidence, without corroborating facts. And I have this strange thought that, perhaps, that’s why we’re all here—our emotions are too dangerous, too scary to deal with on their own.
But it’s a weird idea that flits away as I open my eyes.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I say, inhaling a deep breath through my nostrils and shrugging my shoulders in my first moves to stretch a bit.
“Did they make you go to your room?”
“No.” Taking a chance, I decide to be completely honest with this man. “I came in here to get away from that lady in the wheelchair.”
At first, his eyes tell me he’s not sure what I’m talking about, but then they light up in recognition. “Oh, Sharon.”
“Sharon?”
“Yeah, the rep-resent woman?”
“Yes.”
“Her name’s Sharon.”
“Oh. I don’t know why, but she makes me really uncomfortable.”
“Yeah, I get that. She’s got a hard-on for you.”
I feel my cheeks turn pink, because I know what that word means, hard-on, but I’m not thinking of Sharon then.
Maybe sensing my discomfort, he says, “Well, you know what I mean. She’s obsessed with you.”
“But why?”
“Mystery of the universe. Anyway, are you hungry? Ready for lunch?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Pizza today.”
I think I like pizza. “Oh, good.”
“How has your day been so far?” he asks as I stand up.
“Really strange. Some guy in scrubs yelled at me for peeking through a window on a locked door.”
“Power trip bullshit.”
Now we’re out in the hallway and I try to remove emotion and expression from my face—but Joe keeps talking, making that difficult.
“I gotta tell you, Anna, it’s nice to have you with me, if that makes sense. I knew there had to be a way to coax you out of there.”
What was I like before that he had to coax me out? Do I even want to know more than he’s already revealed?
“I just wish you could tell me about yourself before you got here.”
“You and me both.” I notice someone down the hall staring at me, and I hope it’s not because he caught me actually talking. Lots of people here stare, so I don’t take it personally, but this time I wonder if I’ve given myself away.
Shifting my eyes back to the tiles in the floor, I continue walking beside Joe at a turtle’s pace, hoping that if I immediately act the way I’m supposed to, I’ll deflect suspicion. I know that Joe gets it, but I don’t know if that’s why he stops talking while we head toward the cafeteria or if he’s realizing he needs to chill a little, too. But the man has so much energy, I can’t imagine he was ever subdued.
His enthusiasm is one of the things I really like about him. And it’s contagious—meaning I need to double down in my efforts to stay calm.
When we arrive at the cafeteria, the line is short but most of the tables are full. I’ll admit it does smell really good. While it’s not like standing outside a pizzeria and finding yourself drawn in by the scents wafting out onto the sidewalk, there’s no mistaking the hint of garlic and basil lingering in the air.
After we get our trays of food, we turn around to survey the landscape. I see that we’re going to have to sit with other people, like it or not, because I’m pretty sure food’s not allowed out of the area. “Follow me,” Joe says and begins walking toward the back of the room.
We wind our way among the sea of round tables, and I do see some people engaged in conversation, meaning they’re not all so drugged out of their minds that they can’t talk. But I can’t allow that to stop me from acting that way myself. Eventually, near the very back, Joe points out a table with two people seated next to each other. If I have to guess, they look like they might even be friends, even though they don’t appear to be talking to each other. It’s how comfortable they look next to one another, especially because they don’t feel like they have to make small talk.
But I suppose those types of conventions don’t hold in a place like this anyway.
The man is heavyset with dark hair that looks like it hasn’t been washed in a week. It doesn’t necessarily appear dirty, just uncared for, neglected, but it’s pulled back in a ponytail. The woman appears to be really young, like barely twenty, if that, and withdrawn. She wears her wispy light brown hair like a mask, letting it hang in her eyes. It turns pink for the last inch or so, an old dye that hasn’t quite grown out yet.
As soon as we sit down, the man stops talking, although he mutters once in a while. The young woman doesn’t look like she was speaking before we arrived, but she makes noises every now and then, something it seems she can’t prevent herself from doing.