11.3.08 - Word Count 2180

The next few days, I noticed the old woman in the activities room. She would shuffle in, look around and catch my eye. With a wiggle of her fingers, she would wave at me and grin her childish grin, then continue to the large chair by the fire. I would glance her way occasionally, without trying look as if I were really looking, but it didn’t matter. She was caught up in her internal world, seemingly oblivious to everyone around her.

One day, I asked Louise about her. “Who is that old woman over there?” “Honey, you are gonna have to be more specific than that. There are a bunch of old women in this room.” I pointed to the woman by the fireplace. “Her – the one by the fire.” I said. “Oh, my. That one? Well, I’m not supposed to talk about other clients, you know. Why don’t you go ask her about herself?” She smiled an enigmatic smile and turned away from me.

“Oh, come on, Louise. I’m not asking for her freakin’ medical history. Just tell me her name!”

“Sugar, that lady there is Miss Emmeline Wilson. That is all I will tell you, except this – you should talk to her. She’s got a lot of wisdom to pass along.”

“Great! Wisdom! Wow – thanks Louise. Gee, I think I’ll go right now and ask her what the Beav and I should do when faced with peer pressure. Sheesh. What the hell?”

“Hmm. Sensitive a bit, are we child? Well, let’s get you down to PT before you turn into a cream puff.” Her cackle rankled every nerve in my body. I looked over at Miss Emmeline Wilson, Wise Old Woman, and would swear she was laughing, too.

That night, as I lay in my hospital bed, all I could think about was Miss Emmeline Wilson. Her name reminded me of something, was familiar in some way that I couldn’t put my finger on.

That night I had a dream. I was driving my silver Mustang convertible down a country road. Miss Emmeline Wilson was sitting in the passenger seat, her translucent white hair blowing in the breeze. She kept looking over at me and telling me something, but her words were torn away by the swift wind barreling through the open top. I asked again and again what she was saying, but every time I asked, she looked away and her mouth went slack. She turned to me again and again, but I couldn’t hear her. The last time I asked her to repeat it, she looked through the windshield and screamed.

I saw the bridge abutment, heard the ripping of metal on concrete and felt the searing heat of my pelvis being crushed as my car folded in on its self.

My eyes flashed open and I caught myself just before I cried out loud in the dark room. My heart was beating so fast, it felt as if it would fly out of my chest, and the sweat on my forehead was dripping into my hair. It was as if I were back there again, at the scene of the accident. That’s all I could ever remember – seeing the bridge, hearing the crash and feeling the initial pain. Everything on the day leading up to that event was completely lost, as were the seven days following the accident.

Apparently, that’s not uncommon in an alcohol-related blackout.