Page 9 of Mangled Memory
“Why do you say that, Dad?”
“Because I know him. I’ve known him for years.We’veknown him for years. He’s dang?—”
The door pushes open, and a nurse enters. I’ve never seen her before. She carries a food tray. Next to my fork is a paper cup with a few pills in it. I take those immediately, hoping they address the piercing pain in my head and the soreness in the rest of my body.
She scans the barcode on my ID bracelet after setting down the tray and I notice what I missed yesterday.Allergies: Penicillin, hazelnuts
“Go gently with the food. We can bring you more, but you’ve had an empty stomach for a while.” This is the same speech I heard at breakfast when they denied me coffee. I explained that half of my headache was probably my body needing its morning fix, but they didn’t care and blew right past my desperate request.
I look down at the clear, pale-yellow soup before me and the bold red gelatin. I didn’t have my tonsils out. And I’m not five.
“Hard to go hard on broth and collagen.” I’m sure my sarcasm and frustration shine through the mumblings and grumblings of this non-caffeinated woman who has half a mind to do something illegal for a decent sandwich.
“I understand. Things will be back to normal in the next few days.”
“You mean with my diet.” It’s not a question.
She looks uncomfortable. “Yes. The body is resilient, and you’re young and in great shape.”
“My resilient body needs coffee.”
“Tomorrow. I’ll make a note.” She smiles as she leaves.
“Ayla.” My dad’s voice is urgent. “Do not trust that man. Watch everything. Listen. You’re too smart to get suckered in. I’m only a phone call away if you hear anything or see anything that worries you.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I spoon the broth into my mouth. It’s bland, except for the salt. This isn’t heart patient soup. This is keep-your-blood-pressure-up soup. I wish there was any flavor to it besides chicken bouillon and salt.
I slide the spoon to the tray and drink from the bowl. It’s not good. I don’t like it, but I’m hungry, and if I leave anything, they’ll be stingier at dinner.
“How’s work?” I ask my dad when I set down the bowl and reach for the Jello.
He begins telling me about current challenges in the Denver commercial real estate market but gets tight lipped after tipping his head to the door.
It swooshes open and in saunters the man I’m wed to. The wordhusbandseems too intimate for a man whose middle name I can’t even guess at.
And the bastard walks in with a paper cup from my favorite coffee place. It’s salt in a wound, and he’s flaunting it in my face. I clench my jaw and feel my blood pressure rise.
Maybe it’s the soup.
Certainly, it’s the fight this morning where he felt entitled to see me naked.
But, waltzing in here drinking a coffee when I’m however many days in without a cup is cruel.
I’m sure my face registers my anger.
“Seamus.” Christian nods curtly to my dad before rounding the bed to drop a kiss on my forehead. “Hey, Princess.” His soft murmur there vibrates across my body.
Grrr.
My dad stands, squeezes my hand, and heads to the door. He taps the jamb once he hits the threshold, his ring clanking against the metal frame, and turns back to me. “Remember what I said. I’ll be back soon.” He eyes the man at my side before lumbering through, his shoes squishing with every step of retreat.
“What did he say?” Christian’s suspicion is evident as he turns from watching my dad to eyeing me.
“Nothing much. We talked business a bit, and I complained about the food.”
“And you need to remember that conversation because it’s important?”
Shit. “Apparently.”
