I cleared my throat awkwardly before diving a hand into my backpack and reaching for my polka-dot notebook and pen. I placed them both on the bedside table, within my reach, before turning my attention back to him. Once he had finished his last gulp, I asked, “Would you like some more?”
“No,” he replied.
“Okay.” I cleared my throat. “Well, um, I’m going to be caring for you in between Shayla’s treatments and examinations.… I was thinking that, since you don’t remember your name, why don’t we pick one for you?”
He frowned at me.
“I mean, we don’t have to,” I added, “but it would just make things a bit more personal, you know…”
There was a beat of silence, his face quite deadpan. It was hard to tell whether he loathed the suggestion, or whether he was considering it.
Then he replied, “Josh, I suppose. You can call me Josh.”
“Josh,” I said. “Okay! As you may remember from yesterday, I’m Grace. Grace Novak.”
He merely nodded.
I raised my hand for him to shake. He took it, though his grasp felt weak and loose. I preferred to put that down to his lack of strength rather than extreme lack of enthusiasm.
“The doctor, Shayla, mentioned that she believes I am something called a half-blood,” he said, eyeing me. “She said that your mother used to be one.”
“Yes,” I said, happy that he was showing signs of actually wanting to engage in a conversation. Then I started rambling, “She was. It’s quite normal to feel as cold as you do. It really kinds of sucks being a half-blood, rather than a full vampire, I won’t lie.” I’d given him a brief explanation about vampires yesterday too. In explaining the existence of the IBSI, unavoidably, I’d had to touch on some of the supernatural creatures they hunted. “Although vampires are freezing cold to the touch,” I went on, “they don’t feel as much pain as half-bloods do, since they no longer have human sensitivity. You, on the other hand, do. That’s why it’s important that we keep you wrapped up.”
Then I continued to talk about the rest of my family. In the back of my mind, I was thinking that perhaps talking about my family could possibly jog something in his own memory about his family.
As I came to a stop, it didn’t seem to. He just looked at me, quiet.
He didn’t ask any more questions after that, and I found myself struggling for things to talk about. For topics to engage him with. Having a conversation with a man with no memory was harder than one would think. I could talk to him, but he had nothing really to add to the conversation.
Then he broke the silence by saying, “I want to get out of this bed.”
“Oh, sure,” I said, leaping to my feet a little too quickly. “Um…” I headed for his wheelchair, and pushed it to the side of his bed. He immediately grabbed one of its handles and began attempting to pull himself onto it. I clutched his shoulder and said, “Let me help you with that. Don’t want you falling.”
He grimaced, looking loath to accept my help, and I feared for a moment that I might have even offended him by offering it.
His response piqued my curiosity further about his past. It showed that he was instinctively independent, which appeared to confirm my suspicion that he had not always been paralyzed.
I made a mental note to record that observation in my notebook when I next got the chance.
I reached an arm around his waist, assisting him in sliding into the chair. Then I bent down, guiding his feet to the footrests. I grabbed some blankets and wrapped them around him.
“You all right?” I asked.
He only grunted in response. I was about to ask him where he wanted to go when he began wheeling himself away from me, toward the exit of the room. Oh.
He reached out for the door’s handle and pulled it down, letting himself out. I followed swiftly after him.
“Um, Josh, where would you like to go, exactly?” I asked, not wanting to overstep my mark, but also kind of concerned.
He just continued wheeling himself down the long corridor, beginning to build up pace, even as I caught him wincing. He kept going until he reached the other end. When he turned around and began to wheel back, it dawned on me that he was doing this for the exercise. He felt the urge to work his muscles—whatever muscles he could work.
As he reached within about fifteen feet of his room, his hands slipped off the wheels and he rolled to a stop. I hurried to him, circling the chair and standing in front of him to see what was wrong. He was wincing more than ever, even as he rolled his shoulders gently. He appeared to have exhausted himself already. Worried about him straining himself further, I gripped the handles of the wheelchair and returned to his room.
I did not wheel him back to the bed, however. I moved to the long, wide window that afforded a gorgeous view over the sunflower meadow and the forest of redwood trees beyond it. It was a shame that it was dark outside. The flower fields were pretty even at night—it was the witches’ magic that allowed them to bloom—but they would look so much more stunning beneath the sunlight. I glanced down at Josh as he gazed through the glass. I could not miss the longing in his eyes.
Hmm…
I have an idea.
Grace
We remained looking out of the window a while longer before he looked away, back toward the bed. I took that as my cue to return him there. He got worn down easily—first the vomiting and now wheeling up and down, although I had to admit that the corridor was pretty long. It would’ve made a human moderately tired, not to speak of a sick patient, at the speed he had been rolling.