Helena wakes with a general sense of nausea. She doesn’t feel like she’s going to vomit, but like each individual part of her body is about to heave its entire contents into the white glare surrounding her. Then the light takes shape and becomes a narrow room with two beds—the one she’s lying in, and one to her right, in which a shriveled old woman is either sleeping or dead. Helena shifts her arms and legs, just to make sure she can. Her right arm feels strangely heavy and the white sheet spread taut over her legs resists her, but she can control her body. There’s some kind of cast from her right wrist to her elbow. Her mouth tastes like metal and soap. There’s a window to her left with the blinds down, and when she turns to examine the strange feeling in her left arm, she discovers a tube clamped to the inside of her elbow, pumping an unidentified fluid into her. She winces and swallows hard, more nauseous than ever.
Gingerly, she leans forward and explores her face with her left hand. Most of it is bandaged. She can feel something hard on her right leg that could be another cast, and something firm is holding her torso in place. She wants to yell for help or simply an explanation, but is afraid of disturbing the old woman. Something is terribly wrong, but she can’t think what. She must’ve had an accident—did she fall down the stairs? It must be the medicine in her arm making her groggy. She’ll remember when she’s more awake.
She finds the call button on the wall and presses it firmly, like an insistent visitor ringing a doorbell.
The nurse who comes in is young, just out of school, with thin blonde hair and a blotchy complexion. She looks first at the old woman, as if she’d long expected an emergency call from that bed, then approaches Helena.
“So, you’re awake. How are you feeling?” She uses the formal you, but Helena still notices and resents something condescending in her tone. She may have just regained consciousness but she isn’t a child.
“Where am I?” she snaps.
“The hospital—”
“I know that! I mean…” She feels angry, helpless, helpless to direct her anger toward anyone. She wants to shout at this young woman, stand up and shake the answers out of her. What hospital? What’s happened? She doesn’t even know what day it is. Or, she realizes to her horror, what year. Has she been here for long? She can’t breathe and a wave of dizziness washes over her so that she falls back against the stiff pillow behind her.
“Calm down, ma’am. Everything’s fine. You’ve had an accident, but you’re going to be okay. Your husband will be back in a moment; he just stepped out to get some coffee.”
“I see.” Helena struggles to remain calm, to act with dignity. But already tears of relief are rolling down her face. Just like Joachim, she thinks. Stepping out for coffee right when I need him. But the thought of his presence reassures her, takes away all her confusion. Joachim will be here any minute, and he’ll explain. It can’t be as bad as she thinks.
He comes through the door and the young nurse dashes out as if chased.
“Oh, darling, I was so scared!” She doesn’t want him to think she’s blaming him for stepping out, but she can’t help herself.
“Hi, Helena. I’m glad to see you up.” Something about him is different, though she can’t quite place it. His hair’s longer, for one thing.
“How long have I been here? What happened? What day is it?”
“There, there.” He walks over to her bed and places his hand on hers. “It’s all right. You’re going to be all right now.”
They must’ve had a fight, she thinks. That’s why his manner is so strange. They must’ve had a fight before whatever happened to her happened, and now he feels awkward because of that. He shouldn’t bother. She can’t remember the fight, whatever it was. She wants to tell him that but he begins to answer her questions in that measured, soothing tone he uses when he knows she’s upset. Like she’s a bundle of explosives he’s taking care not to ignite.
“Today’s Tuesday. You’ve been here for three days now,” he says. “Don’t worry, I let your work know what was up. Do you remember what happened?”
“Of course not! Why else would I have asked? Nobody around here wants to tell me a thing!” She presses his hand so he won’t be angry with her. The drip in her arm pulls taut. He hates when she raises her voice.
“You were crossing the street and you got hit by a truck. The driver braked, but you still got knocked down, broke a couple ribs, your arm, and your ankle. The doctor said none of it will leave major damage, and you’ll be on crutches in a couple days. That’s pretty lucky, right?”
Yeah, lucky. A few broken bones and who knows how much work piled up when she gets back to the office. And who’s going to be cleaning the apartment while she hobbles around on crutches? He sure isn’t.
“Where was I?” she asks. It’s not important, but it bothers her that she can’t remember. Something isn’t right here, and it’s not just the nausea coursing through her body and keeping her from thinking straight.
“They said you were in Friedrichshain, crossing Warschauer Strasse.”
“But Joachim, weren’t you with me?”
He doesn’t answer, and she doesn’t blame him. He must feel guilty for not having been there. As if he could’ve known. He squeezes both of her hands and mumbles something about speaking to the doctor. When she looks up, he has tears in his eyes.
“Nothing, nothing. I was just so worried.” He kisses her forehead and steps out of the room.