Today’s Positive Adjective:
Transpicuous: clearly seen through or understood
Erivana knew she was in the hospital, but she couldn’t remember why. The doctor on his morning rounds said there was an accident. There was a knot on her left temple, otherwise, she felt fine. Still, there was something —
Banishing the uneasy sensation, she flipped the sheet back. She didn’t intend to stay a moment longer than necessary, and it was time to go. She needed to—Erivana paused. Well, she would remember when she got home. An image flickered. Bright sunny windows with a lake view. She grasped at the vision as it faded. She closed her eyes.
“Relax,” a strange voice instructed her. Startled, the sight vanished. She looked around but the room was empty.
“Damn,” she said. She swung her feet over the edge and the room began a slow rotation. Her fingers clenched the fabric forming a tight, crumpled ball. Swallowed hard, breathing in ragged gasps, she fought to regain her bearings.
“Deep breaths,” the voice said.
The spinning slowed and stopped as she focused on the needle embedded in her right hand. She picked at the tape holding it in place and traced the tubing which tethered her to the IV pole. She thought about pulling it, but they would frown and delay her discharge. Far wiser to play the game. Steadier now, she grabbed the pole.
“Better safe than sorry,” she stated as she eased toward the edge and stood.
An alarm sounded and Erivana fought the dizziness trying to understand.
“What are you doing?” the nurse screeched as she rushed into the room. “You can’t be out of bed. Sit,” she commanded.
“I, I needed to use the bathroom,” she said, only half lying.
“I’ll get you a bedpan.”
Erivana crinkled her nose and took two defiant steps. Having announced her intention, she would complete her mission.
The nurse faltered unsure of how to proceed. Erivana pushed forward while the alarm buzzed.
“All right then,” she punched a button on the footboard, silencing the noise and grabbed Erivana’s elbow.
Later, after being tucked safely in bed and promising not to get up alone, she considered her predicament. She would have to remember more than her name, phone number, and address. The doctor had asked a battery of questions and she had answered most without understanding how she knew the answer. He said, her memory might be restored in a flash, in pieces, or perhaps never. She needed them soon if she was to complete—.
“Complete what?” she wondered.
“I’ll help you,” the voice said.
“Who are you?”
“You’re right, you must remember. Can you see your apartment?”
“Yes, the memory from earlier.”
“That was my apartment?” she asked, but guessed it was true.
“Yes. Return there. Locate the key. It will become more transpicuous with each visit.”
“Why can’t you just tell me?”
There was no response.
“Some help you are,” she muttered.
She imagined the windows again, the brilliant light flooding the room and sparkling on the waves. She drifted, a force pulled her, and she didn’t resist. It deposited her in front of the giant panes. Erivana held her hands before her stepping closer. Her bare feet touched warm hardwood floors as she inched closer.
She gasped as her fingertips brushed the glass.
“How is this possible? I am in a hospital bed,” she said as she pressed her palms flat against the unyielding surface.
“It is real,” she marveled.
Her reflection regarded her with pity.
“You really have lost your memory,” the image said.
Erivana placed both hands over her face. It wasn’t logical.
“It is enough for now. Sleep. Regain your strength.”
She peeked through her fingers, to find herself once again in the hospital bed.
“I’m mad,” she whispered as she turned off the light before falling asleep.
A figure took corporal form and moved to her side. He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead and traced the goose egg beneath.
“You are not crazy. You are special and heroic, and I owe you my life. We all do. Tomorrow you will be stronger, and when you are well enough, you’ll find your memory. Then it will be clear. I pray it will come in time.”
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer