“Yes.”
Once they’re on her lap, she moves slowly as she sifts through them one at a time, but she seems faster than I feel. Lying my head back, I allow my eyes to close. I can hear Joe saying something to her, just making conversation, because he’s like that, a friendly guy. I can remember my dad saying about my grandpa once that no one was a stranger to him. He loved everybody and would talk to anyone. Joe’s like that.
Wait. That’s a memory.
Holy crap.
If I weren’t so tired, I’d open my eyes and tell Joe.
I can’t see my grandpa’s face nor my father’s, but I remember those words, that sentiment, and I think maybe all is not lost.
Then I hear Joe. “Anna. Anna!”
My eyelids feel like they have weights on them, but I persist until I’m able to move them and I get a view of the world again. Joe seems unusually close, taking up my entire line of vision.
He says, “You gotta see this.” As he helps me sit up, I see Sharon again, and she looks almost like she’s smiling. Then Joe places a news magazine on my lap. First, I notice red letters and then I focus on the words: New Fed on the Block.
Finally, what jumps out at me is, perhaps, what’s most important: the photo on the cover.
To the left is the man I visited with yesterday, the man who said he was my husband. Standing with him…is me.
I look younger there. As I’m examining the picture, having a hard time making sense of it all, Joe says, “It’s almost six years old, Anna, but that’s you, isn’t it?”
I give a short nod, continuing to look. Like the photo the man showed me yesterday, I look beautiful, business-like, wealthy, attractive.
I can hardly relate to her, my old self.
But in the photo I’m smiling. Was I in love with him then? He looks a little younger there as well. His hair is almost black in the picture and there seem to be no lines in his face.
My eyes finally move to the other words on the bottom of the cover. Family man Donald Clawson shakes up D.C.
“We gotta read this article, Anna,” he says to me as another wave of overwhelming sleepiness washes over me. “It’ll tell you so much about yourself.”
My eyes are already closing, but I continue to hear his voice. “Thank you, Sharon. This was so helpful.”
“Welcome.”
But right now, all I can do is give in to dreamless slumber.
*
Dinner. How did I get here? I’m pretty sure I’ve slept all day—in my bed—but I have no recollection of it. Here I am now, though, with Joe at a table and Sharon of all people.
I remember that, talking to her—and I feel bad that I dismissed her all those times before. I was a little frightened by her when, really, all she wanted to do was help.
Joe is talking as I feel like I’m coming out of a haze. It’s rude, but I interrupt him just the same. “I’m sorry, Joe. I missed everything you’ve said.”
“Where do you need me to start?”
“The very beginning.”
“Man, they fucked with your brain, didn’t they?”
I manage half a smile.
“I was saying I hid the magazine. Well, not really, but I put a bunch of them on the bottom of the end table where nobody ever looks, and I put the one with you and your husband second to last. But just in case it disappears I read the whole thing twice.”
“What did it say?”
“He was elected to the House of Representatives and the article said he was ‘shaking up the house’ by introducing and backing all kinds of radical legislation. They quoted him as saying a lot of it was geared to helping families. They talked about how he’d married you later in life and decided to pursue politics.”
“But he told me yesterday he’s a lawyer.”
“It said he used to be.”
“But why wouldn’t he tell me he’s a politician now?”
“Maybe he’s a dick.”
But why would I have married a dick?
Joe says, “You can read it later if you want.”
I’m finally eating. My appetite is huge now and I’m regaining energy with every bite. I also drink all the water in my cup.
“Do you want me to fill that back up?”
“Yes, please.”
As Joe stands, I make eye contact with Sharon, and she’s almost full-on smiling now. I say, “Thank you so much, Sharon. It is Sharon, right?”
She gives me a brief nod, but she’s busy gnawing on her mashed potatoes.
I’ve just about taken care of all my potatoes as well and starting to work on the Salisbury steak. This is the tastiest food I’ve ever eaten. The savory gravy is lighting up my taste buds, and my stomach is begging for more.
When Joe returns with my water, he says, “Whoa. Slow down, filly. You’re gonna make yourself sick.”
“I’m starving.”
“I know, baby, but you can take your time. They’re not gonna kick us out before you’re done.”
I feel almost awake again, like I had felt yesterday before the shot. I don’t know if the food or water are helping or if maybe the effect of the meds is wearing off, but I’m experiencing hunger like I can’t remember feeling before, and the food tastes amazing. Still, I nod, letting Joe know I got his message.
“Wanna hear my idea?” Again, I nod, shoveling in a spoonful of greens. Joe takes a drink and then says, “Actually, I’ll tell you later.”
Now I pause. “I want to hear now.”
“Finish eating first.” I get ready to protest but then, as I look at him, his eyes move Sharon’s way before focusing back on me and I get the message. What he wants to say needs to be in private.
“Fine.”
“But slow down.”
Then we eat in silence. When my plate is almost clean, Joe asks Sharon if she needs him to fetch her anything else. She actually tells him no and then begins to slide her tray off the table. Joe says, “Let me get that for you.” At first, something inside me bristles, because I don’t want him taking my tray. I want to do it myself. But Sharon smiles and nods and even tells him thanks before backing her wheelchair away from the table.
When Joe returns, he asks, “Ready? Or do you need more to eat?”
“I think I’m good,” I say, but when we dump our trays, I keep the nondescript cookie and munch on it as we leave.
My stomach is filled to the brim, and I almost feel uncomfortable. But, aside from a slight lingering feeling of floatiness, I’m returning to the land of the lucid.
When I realize Joe is leading me toward the living room, I say, “Why aren’t we going to my room?” After all, when we’re in there, we don’t have to watch what we say as much.
He whispers. “No fucking way, Anna. If a tech’s keeping an eye on you, that makes you stand out like a sore thumb. And, after all that stuff, for all we know, they’re bugging your room now or something. I don’t trust these fuckers, and we’re not taking any chances.”
Soon, we’re sitting in our usual spots, looking out the window. While it’s still light outside, the quality of it has faded, as if the sun’s about to dip behind the horizon at any moment. I have no sense of time here, and that’s not exactly discouraged by the facility. There are no obvious clocks anywhere and, while things feel like they’re on a schedule, no one tells us anything like that.