Page 7 of Last Summer

A soft murmur comes from somewhere beyond her dreams. Her name.

“Ella.”

Another whisper.

Damien.

He says her name again. It draws her from the depths of slumber. She was dreaming. Dreaming about...what?

Biting tongues and keeping secrets.

“Ella, sweetheart. Wake up.”

Her eyes flutter open. She looks up into her husband’s blue-grays, the whites of his eyes bloodshot. Her heart goes out to him. He must be working late nights again. She tries to recall which client is giving him difficulty: the new commercial bank in Atlanta or the social media company based in London touting itself as the Facebook for the iGen? But she doesn’t know. Her mind is blurry, a camera lens that can’t focus.

Damien leans over her. Dark whiskers dust his jaw. Locks just as dark sweep back from his forehead. He’s been running his fingers through the thick mass. He does that when he’s stressed. And worried. He’s definitely worried. Why? And why are his jeans rumpled and shirt crinkled? That’s not like him. He looks like he hasn’t showered in days.

With a quick glance over his shoulder, he shoots her a conspiratorial smile, a flash of straight teeth. He drops a white bakery bag on a food cart. “I got you an omelet, as promised.”

When did he promise that?

And where did that food cart come from?

Ella looks past her husband’s looming form and her heart stalls. Stark walls surround them in a box-shaped room. Lysol and antiseptic cling to the air. The drone of unfamiliar voices penetrates the closed door. A door she doesn’t recognize.

This isn’t their bedroom.

Ella inhales harshly through her nose, the chemical smell burning the back of her throat. Her chest rapidly rises and falls as her gaze bounces around the hospital room. How did she get here? Why is she here? And why is Damien acting as if waking her up here isn’t surprising? Doesn’t he realize where they are?

Damien removes a cardboard take-out container with a Luna’s Café sticker from the bag. Luna’s is their favorite café around the corner from their Russian Hill flat. They eat there most Saturdays. Ella frowns. What day is it?

Saturday. She’s sure of it, because last night was Friday. She cooked Damien dinner.

Damien opens the box, bending back the flaps. Steam rises, carrying the scent of cooked onions and bell peppers. Ella’s stomach turns over. He positions the food tray over the bed. Ella instinctively recoils, scooting out of the way. Jagged pain tears through her lower abdomen. Her left wrist throbs from putting pressure on it. She gasps, a sharp, audible intake of air.

“Easy now.” Damien presses a button on a panel attached to the bed rail. Slowly, the head of the bed rises. Ella stares at her splinted wrist. She slips her other hand under the covers, searching for the source of discomfort as her husband adjusts pillows behind her shoulders. Gauze and tape over her pelvic region meet her wandering fingers.

“What happened to me?”

Damien gives her a tired smile. His fingers lovingly caress her cheek. “Relax.” He points at the food in front of her. “Eat up before Nurse Grouchypants catches a whiff and makes me toss it.”

She watches the steam diminish as the omelet cools. She turns her face away, sickened by the smell.

Damien pops open his oatmeal. He shovels a spoonful of the ungarnished oats into his mouth. He eats his oatmeal plain, and he’s eating ravenously. Ella wonders when he last ate. When did she last eat? Did she even eat the dinner she cooked?

He glances up to find her watching him.

“Aren’t you hungry? You’ve hardly eaten this week.”

This week?

Damien nudges the food tray closer to her. “You need your strength to recover.”

Recover from what?

“Why am I here?” She kneads the bedsheet.

The spoon pauses midway between the cardboard cup and his mouth. “What?”

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