Page 2 of In a Haze

“That’s right. You remember.”

I didn’t even know I remembered until it popped out of my mouth.

We enter the hallway, not quite bustling with activity like the street outside, but there are a few people moving around. It’s then that I notice we’re divided. Most of the people are dressed like me—white t-shirts, gray sweatpants—and the rest are wearing powder blue scrubs like Rose.

As we make our way down the hallway, I take in the repetitiveness of it. All the doors, like mine, are metal with rectangular wired windows, the walls that same shade of off-white, the floors all shiny tile, appearing to be the newest part of this building. As we make our way down farther, I notice places in the walls where the paint has peeled—come off, rather, like something was scraped along it.

We begin to pass an older woman in a wheelchair. She’s overweight, her hair turning into a salt-and-pepper mix, her blue eyes looking as if they’re covered in feathery clouds. My emotions around her (because that’s all I have right now—feelings without words) are encased not in fear but in apprehension. Again, I have no idea why. And, as we pass by her, she lifts her head and her eyes take me in. I see the slightest hint of recognition and then she says, her voice frog-like, “Rep.”

This is one of those things I know somewhere deep down. As we continue down the hall, both Rose and I ignoring her, I know she’s going to say “resent.” She says the part of the wordrepresentas if they’re two words—repandresent—follow by some mumbling. And she’s only ever said them to me. I don’t know why or what she means. I only know she freaks me out, gives me the creeps.

At the end of the hall, we enter a big room. There are bathroom stalls and, just beyond, a large area with tiny blue tiles of various hues on the walls and floor and showerheads hanging a few feet apart. Rose says, “Go ahead and do your business, honey,” and I understand she’s letting me have a little privacy in the bathroom stall. Already, I’m consumed by a sensation of humiliation, somehow recalling deep down having to be watched while I had to urinate and defecate and while I showered. Deeper, though, I know that somehow those are preferable to bedpans and sponge baths. Somehow, I know I’ve experienced it all.

It's a feeling.

Soon, I’m under the warm water of a showerhead, wishing the pressure was better, praying the water could wash away the blanket on my brain. That’s what it feels like—as if all the answers are there, buried, almost under lock and key, and I can’t get to them. I can almost taste them but they’re out of reach.

The husky woman who was showering near the corner moves closer to me, taking the showerhead next to me. Once more, I have an emotion associated with her. Like the woman in the hallway, I don’t want to associate with this female, either. Both have left me with negative emotions but this woman here makes the fear run deeper. “Ah, my favorite friend Anna with the creamy skin and perky little titties.”

My eyes dart over to her as I swallow hard. Another memory prods me with images of this woman pressing me up against the wall, trying to shove her hands down my sweatpants. My skin crawls as that tiny glimpse floods my brain and I huddle under the water, no longer interested in shampooing my hair.

It’s then that I realize it’s short—my hair—like the woman I’m standing next to, and I also think mine should be much, much longer.

“Bobbi, back off.”

“I was just saying good morning to my favorite friend.”

“Isaidback off, Sanders. You want detention?”

“No.” As she scowls, she at least stops leaning over me, but she otherwise stays where she is. I shut off the faucet and walk across the tiles. At one point, the bottom of my foot digs into the round drain in the middle, but I keep taking small steps until I get to the bench where Rose has already set a towel and fresh clothing.

No underwear.

I think I miss underwear, but I don’t know that for sure. I dry off quickly, wrapping the towel around my head, and then put on the shirt and sweats, struggling as my damp skin refuses to let them slide on. And we move through my morning routine as other people come and go throughout the space. I brush my teeth and comb out my hair while Rose stands nearby, and it’s then that I consider she might be an ally of some sort. Maybe not an ally so much as a neutral party, someone perhaps looking out for my best interests.

As I wash my face, I pause. It’s familiar, this visage looking back at me, but also foreign. I’d expected something a little different. My face looks so plain. My skin is pale, and the deep emerald of my eyes contrasts with it. My hair, light brown, should be longer, but it’s as short as that person Bobbi’s was, almost like a crew cut. And there are lines in the corners of my eyes that shouldn’t be there.

How long have I been here?

And, if I were to leave, where would I go?

Soon, we’ve shuffled to the dining hall and it’s then that I tell myself I have some of my strength back. How do I know that?

What the hell does that mean?

And why, when I see the man with dark blond hair and royal blue eyes, does my heart start pumping like it never has before? I’d swear, even without remembering anything else, that he is the most gorgeous man I have ever seen. When he begins walking toward me, my heart starts thudding so hard I can hear it in my ears. As he gets within a few feet of me, my breath catches in my throat and my knees grow weak.

Whether that is from fear or desire, I don’t know. I have no context.

2

The man is marching across the room toward me. I look around and behind me and, suddenly, Rose is nowhere to be seen. My savior has left me in my biggest moment of need.

But as he gets closer, I think he seems like he has a friendly face. The way he’s smiling at me—kind and happy, not vulturous and depraved like that woman named Bobbi—helps me let go of the breath I’ve been holding in.

“Anna, something looks different about you today.” I cock my head. I’m going to have to take his word for it. “Do I know the reason?”

I have no idea whatsoever what he might be talking about. Someone behind me says, “No cutting, Dublin.”

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