I blink into the cool evening light, which striates the far wall through the crooked blinds on the windows. Christ. Even my eyelids seemed to ache, perhaps in sympathy with my broken leg. The dim atmosphere of the hospital room seems to echo my own dismay. Of course, it had been a dream, for now I am lying in this bed, trussed and stuffed like a holiday goose, very much alone. Of course she has not been here. If I dare to hope otherwise, I should think that the medications they put me on are at a dose too high even for my broken body. I inhale, filling my lungs with stringent, clinical air- but there is something else.
I tell myself that I must really have cracked- or that perhaps I'm still unconscious. I flex my toes inside the cast, and a dull pain shoots up my fractured tibia. I am awake. And I can smell her perfume.
With a sigh, I reach for the call button. Surely some exhausted nurse has botched the morphine drip, because I am hallucinating.
A plump, breathless woman with frizzy, thinning hair marches into my misery.
"Miss Charlton- what is it?"
I blink- this nurse already looks harried, and unimpressed. I wonder for a moment if I should play the sycophant, ask her to adjust my pillow, or scratch my toe. Playing nice, however, is still not in my repertoire.
"I'm hallucinating."
The frumpy matron blinks. "What?"
Is incompetence the new black?
I take a deep breath. "h-a- double l-u-c-i-n-
"Don't get snooty with me, dear- I don't get paid enough." She shuffles a little towards my bed. "Are you seeing things?"
I shake my head.
"Hearing things?"
"Not at all."
She puts her hands on her wide hips, straining under the dingy white uniform. "So?"
I'm starting to feel quite stupid under her imperious gaze, but I've come this far.
"I can smell…perfume."
She nods slowly, offering a look which clearly states she doesn't have time for this. "You're not hallucinating, Miss Charlton- it does smell a bit exotic in here."
Oh.
"Really?" I ask. My voice is quiet, struggling. Nurse Ratchet looks perplexed at my tone.
"Is there anything else, Miss Charlton?"
I shake my head, feeling confusion settling over me like a heavy blanket. The woman gives offers a final, depreciating glare and turns to leave when something catches her attention. With a smoker's wheeze, she bends over with the grace of a woman in her third trimester, and retrieves something from the floor.
"This yours?" she queries, brandishing a long rectangle of white silk.
I stare at the Hermès scarf with a gut wrenching mixture of disbelief and elation.
"Yes," I whisper, too fervently.
The woman actually has the audacity to crumple my holy grail into a ball, before depositing it nonchalantly on my nightstand. My fingers are burning, tingling, and I can barely wait until she leaves the room before with a shaking hand, I retrieve the calling card. I should be furious, irate. I almost died for these scarves. I've lost Paris.
I'm barely breathing, unwelcome tears are stinging in my eyes. I smooth the wrinkles from the delicate cloth, and twine it through my fingers- the fabric is almost warm, and I hold it to my cheek, rubbing it against my skin like a security blanket. The unique, singular scent of her designer perfume quells my fears that the scarf could belong to anyone else but her.
Relaxing into the lumpy, scratchy pillow, I hold the silk to my chest. At this moment, I love my job.
Miranda
