The Sunshine

It was a man's hand, I could feel that. I did not open my eyes yet. The hand was soft on my arm, like a whisper on a summer afternoon. David. It had been a nightmare. None of it had happened.

My body was sore. My lips parted, and I took a deep breath. I felt warm. I could almost feel a blue sky above me: no clouds, just the big, yellow sun. I opened my eyes.

"David?"

Even as I said it, I didn't know why I asked. I knew it wasn't him. This man looked nothing like my husband.

A corner of his mouth tucked up; more of a greeting than a real smile.

"David?" he echoed.

We stared at each other. His eyes were bright and clear, like green apples. He raised his eyebrows. I turned my head, confused, to look out the window. This was not my window. I looked down at myself. The sunshine filtered through the Venetian blinds, casting stripes of light and shadow on my hospital gown. A soft blue blanket tucked me in carefully, folded down precisely at my torso. I could smell my hair; it wasn't my shampoo.

"Celeste?" the man said. I looked at him again. I only noticed then that he was wearing hospital scrubs. I squinted at the name tag clipped to his clothes. Andrew.

I opened my mouth to speak, but I didn't know what to say. He looked like a surfer. This image of him entered my mind. He was running on the beach, his blond hair flying, a surf board under his arm.

"I'm a nurse." His voice was deep and calming. "You're in the hospital. You were in a car accident. Do you remember what happened?"

I blinked. I saw myself, as though from above, leaning on my dead husband's shoulder, facing my daughters in the backseat. I saw their tiny, closed eyelids. I saw the way their heads had lolled to the side, leaning towards each other. It was as though they were trying to be closer; trying to comfort each other.

"I—" My voice cracked. My throat was hot and dry. I didn't want to cry; I instinctively knew that I'd been crying in my sleep. I lifted my face to Andrew's, locking eyes with him. His calm face grounded me.

"I tried to save him," I said. "But...I couldn't." I searched his eyes for forgiveness. "I didn't know how. I'm sorry. I just didn't know what to do."

A deep line appeared between his eyebrows as he frowned. "Tried to save who, Celeste?"

"David."

"Who is David?"

"My husband." My eyes filled with tears.

Slowly Andrew walked to the end of my bed, his eyes on me the whole time. He picked up a clipboard. Silently he flipped through the pages. He glanced at me, his young face inscrutable.

"Celeste, you were seriously injured in that accident," he said, at last. "You broke your left leg, your left shoulder, several ribs, and suffered a severe head injury. You lost a lot of blood. I won't lie, you almost didn't make it." He paused, waiting for a response. His eyes were curious, expectant.

What was I supposed to say? I felt like there was a correct response. Something I should know but didn't. In a quiet and restrained voice, I said, "Tell me what's happened to my girls." I knew the answer, but I had to ask.

Andrew opened his mouth to respond, then shut it. He pressed his lips together. He put the clipboard back, and walked methodically to my side. He knelt down, and took my bruised hand in his large, soft one. I glanced down, and before my hand was enveloped in his, I saw four deep, red marks in my palm.

He leaned a little towards me, his voice barely above a whisper. "Celeste, you're not married." He hesitated, looking away for a moment. Then, back to me. Those serious, kind green eyes kept me focused on the moment. They kept me from drifting back to the accident. From getting stuck in it. "And you have no children. There was no one else in the car with you."