CIRCE
The doctor has ignored me time and again, doped me up over and over, then walked out, quickly stating an emergency with another patient. It could be a random patient, but I don’t believe it is. It doesn’t feel like it in my heart. More days have passed, and I can’t even say how many it’s been. I want to know something.
No. I need to know. I’m grateful for my life, but I need to know about them.
Is the emergency Wyatt?
Is it Marca?
Dr. Callie has forbidden the nurses and cleaning staff from handing me the remote or the paper. Softhearted pussies are fearful they’ll spill the beans so they avoid me.
Speaking of the devil in scrubs, Dr. Callie has been here for a good twenty minutes, looking over my damages for the day. I have enough energy now to stay awake beyond twenty minutes, and to speak a whole sentence without taking short breaths between words.
Reaching across, picking up a Styrofoam cup and the plastic jug from my side table, Dr. Callie pours me a cup of ice water. Handing it to me, with that same lamented look I’ve seen day after day, I smile.
“Thank you,” I say, even though it’s halfhearted. Taking the cup with my opposite hand, which is mighty tricky, I lift it to my parched lips and sip happily. These stupid drugs make me awfully thirsty. It’s so bad, that I think I’ve drank my yearly ration of Californian clean water.
Pushing my hair back, peeling away the dressing that covers the stitches, she does her inspection. “Everything seems to be mending well on your forehead. I think that will clear up nicely.”
“Do you have any idea when I might be allowed out of here, doc?” Reaching over, I shakily place the cup on the table. A week ago, that was an insurmountable feat.
“Until the rattle leaves your chest, you’re staying put.” Pressing the controls for the bed, Dr. Callie fluffs my pillow behind me, then raises the bed. “Is there anything you need today?”
“Nope. Nothing.” I smile weakly, as it’s such a wicked lie. She knows that, though. Dr. Callie’s not a stupid woman, but evil for sure. I’ve tried on more than one occasion to trip her up and taunt her into giving me something, anything.
Looking over my paperwork once more, she leaves me alone to stew in my sadness. Once she’s gone, I try to reach the side table that’s just out of reach. I’ve tried this every day, and everyday I’ve given in and resigned myself to the fact that it takes more energy than I have. I’m animated today. I have an energy that I didn’t have before.
Leaning out of the bed, and pulling the side table closer, it takes a great deal of effort. As my breathing hitches, I push past the pain. I’m not stopping until I’ve at least tried to learn the outcome of our crash. Having it in reach, flicking the portable receiver off the cradle, I bring the phone to the bed. Looking at it, trying to remember the combination of numbers, I get pissed. I can’t remember anyone’s phone number. Everything jumbles. One is something…4483? But I can’t remember the area or zone codes. Punching in random sets of nothing feels right. After a moment of straining my already tired head, I give in and place the phone down on the bed.
Dialling the numbers I know so well on a cell is easy; pick the preset and go. Remembering a phone number isn’t as simple. No amount of concentration can garner the digits I need either. “Fuck.”
Not knowing or hearing about Wyatt, and not seeing him in person with an ‘I’m okay’ is so hard.
Fate and love, I’ve learned, are intertwined. It was fate that changed my life, and it was love that crushed me, and both brought me to him. If my life hadn’t changed all those years ago, I never would’ve been at that race. If fate hadn’t intervened, would I have been at his caravan that day for the interview? No. It’s been a short period of time, but I know my fate was tied to his. Would I even consider changing the past? Maybe, maybe not. It took me on a path that brought me to him. Even the heartache of what was taken in the past can’t compare to what I’ve gained by being cared about, and caring deeply for Wyatt.
After a few exhausting minutes of despair, I decide to give up. I can’t remember something as simple as phone numbers. Curling up to rest once more, a quiet knock on the door catches my attention.
“Hello?” I hear from the other side of the semi-closed door.
“Who are you looking for?” I ask.
“I’m looking for Circe? Circe Maco?” Without seeing the person’s face, I know. It’s the voice of someone I’d never forget in a million years.
How did she find me?
“I’m here.”
Stepping around the curtain opening, I’m in awe of her consistent beauty. My mother was always a gorgeous woman. Her looks, her posture, her poise is all perfection. She’s always been stunning, and I doubt she’s aged a day. Gasping, she takes in my damaged body. I know what I look like. Wires, tubes, a lovely cast, and various nicks litter the surface of my skin with salve and bandages.
“I’m sure I look like shit. I feel like it for sure.”
“Oh, darling. You look terrible.” She pulls out the chair by the window, bringing herself closer to the side of the bed where my casted arm rests. “And I’m sorry, but you smell terrible.”
“Since the accident, I haven’t had a shower. It’s been sponge baths. No privacy at all. All I want is a steaming, soaking-through-to-your-bones shower to remove the grime. And don’t even start on the hair. I haven’t seen a mirror. My doctor’s kept me from looking to keep me calm. Everything is to keep me calm.”
“I’m so glad you’re okay, Circe.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“It’s all over the news.”
Well that’s a blessing.
“Are they saying what happened? No one will tell me anything.” Grimacing as a sharp pain lances through my side, I see the look on her face. It’s that same one of pain I’ve seen more than I’d like. Is it because she thinks I’m in pain? Or that what she knows could be painful for me to hear?
“Circe. I was given strict instructions before entering—”
“Hold up. I haven’t seen you in almost six years, and you won’t tell me anything beyond what they have? Why are you here then?”
Her face falls as I cut her verbally. I’m sharp, sharper than she deserves. It’s true, I haven’t seen her, but that’s not her fault. Not at all. “I’m a grown-ass fucking woman that can take a bit of mental anguish.” Why I’m upset and crass is that everyone seems to think that they know what’s best for me.
“Circe, I’m sorry for what’s happened, but instructions are instructions when given by lawyers with confidentiality contracts.” Sitting back against the chair, crossing her arms and lithe legs, she levels me with a look that states she’s pondering how to address me next, so I wait. “Your father doesn’t know I’m here. He knows you were in an accident, but he thought I shouldn’t come. I could not let this go any further.” The pain is visible in her sweet features. “I’ve missed you so.”
Fuck. Now I feel like a little shit for the way I just acted. Do I feel bad about the way things went down all those years ago? Yes, but I can’t change the past. I can only look to the future.
Unsure of how to answer her, I avoid the pain and the apology. “I’m tired.” I roll over, onto my side. “I’m going to sleep.”
“Do you mind if I wait here?”
Quietly, I say, “That would be fine. Thanks.”