IT’S A DREAM; it has to be. No, not a dream, a nightmare. One of those horribly vivid Technicolor ones that you need to lie still and spend ten minutes untangling to determine whether it really happened. The kind of nightmare that leaves you breathless, trembling in a cold slick sweat. Yes, that’s it. I’m having a nightmare; I just need to try relaxing, and it’ll be over soon. I’ll wake up. I’m clutching onto that notion until the nurse removes the cannula from my arm, the sharp scrape of the needle being removed against my sensitive, sore skin lets me know that I’m very much awake. I watch in morbid fascination as the tiny puncture wound starts to seep deep crimson droplets of blood; I can smell the metallic tang.
“Here, hold this cotton bud to your arm tightly. It will stop soon,” the nurse says passing me a small fluffy white bud that looks like cotton candy. I take it from her and press it to my arm as instructed. I don’t trust my voice not to crack, so I don’t attempt any form of response. Instead, I remain silent and focus on breathing in and out, in and out, inhale, exhale. You’re fine, Blair, I tell myself. My emotions are winning out; I feel anything but fine. My vision is starting to blur from the tears that are gathering in the corners of my eyes.
“Are you okay, sugar?” the elderly plump nurse asks. “You should have let me know if you have a phobia about needles.”
I smile and nod my head. She eyes me carefully for a few seconds. “Okay then, that’s the IV all out. Just press the buzzer if you need anything,” she says, already halfway out of the room.
Mom went back to her hotel to shower and change into a clean set of clothes. I was thankful to be left on my own, but now I wish I wasn’t. He didn’t know me. There wasn’t a single spark of recognition in his beautiful azure eyes. I replay the whole sorry interaction like a movie stuck on a loop in my mind. The first tear falls and bursts the damn, more are quick to follow. The silent tears turn to sobs, the sobs turn to wails and then before I know it I’m pounding my fists as hard as I can into the bed in complete and utter frustration. By the time I’ve calmed down, my arms are aching, and I have the beginning of a headache forming behind my eyes. The throbbing around my stitches is a welcomed distraction from the emotional pain. This is so unfair! Why is this happening? I should be happy that Ethan woke up, but I can’t focus on anything other than the agony I feel coursing through my heart. He doesn’t even know who I am.
“Blair?” Moira whispers as she takes a seat next to my bed. “Honey, are you awake?”
I don’t think I can do this; I don’t want to talk to anyone, I just want to lie here and pretend that none of this is happening. I’m contemplating keeping my eyes closed and faking sleep. Maybe if I don’t respond she’ll leave again.
“Blair, Ethan’s asking for you.”
This has my attention. I bolt upright in bed, pushing the covers away from me and ignoring the smarting in my stomach that the erratic movement caused. “He’s asking for me?”
She gives me a small smile and nods her head gently. “Yes.”
“Wait, does that mean he remembers me?” My voice has risen a few octaves with the hope that’s surging through me. Her face falls and she looks like she’s about to cry.
“No honey, not yet.”
I feel my body sag as I release a long breath. “Oh.”
I excuse myself to the bathroom and splash water on my face; I’m hoping that it will quell the heat in my cheeks and dampen the overbearing desire I have to cry again. I look at the reflection staring back at me and almost don’t recognize it. My eyes are puffy and red behind my glasses, my face is blotchy from the huge volume of tears that have rained over my cheeks, and my hair is limp and lifeless. I feel like I should care, but in truth I don’t. I have zero energy and feel completely drained. I look down at my watch and realize that my mom’s been gone almost two and a half hours; she should be back soon.