These characters and their setting are the property of J. Rowling and her associates and affiliates.
Chapter 4: Emergence
"Emma, dear. Come sit by me."
The young woman named "Emma" rose slowly from her seat next to R&R ( Mr. Robinson and Mr. Rosenberg,) and with careful, wobbly steps made her painful way over to Mrs. Atherton's wheelchair. She leaned her cane against a nearby park bench before sitting down.
"Can I get you something, Grace?" she huffed a little from the effort of walking and pushed away an errant bushy curl that the sea breeze kept blowing in her face. On this particular day the inmates-- those, of course, who were able-- were enjoying a nursing home outing, a picnic at a sunny little park by the sea. Emma reveled in the feel of the crisp, fresh air and bracing wind, but she had to watch her footing on the uneven, grassy ground. Some of the elderly walked better than she did.
"No, no. I don't need anything. Just wanted to talk with you... and to get you away from those silly old fools! Have they been flirting with you again?"
Emma laughed. "Flirting? Those two? Not with me!" She winked conspiratorially. "They've just been asking advice on how to get on with you!"
"Oh, go on! Mercy, child, the things you say! I never know when to believe you or not." Despite her chiding words, the woman's eyes gleamed with loving affection.
"Seriously, Grace. What they've really been telling me about is the Normandy landing. During D-Day, you know? Seems they both landed at Gold Beach at the same time, though in different units. Funny how they ended up here together. Looking at the sea over there made them both remember it."
She gazed at the ocean's bright, silver glint. It was odd how she knew so much about D-Day, the Blitz, and other important facts of history yet couldn't remember anything about herself. Emma actually envied the two old soldiers telling tales of their war years. After all, they could remember their lives while she knew nothing of hers. Sadly, at that moment she would have given a few years off of her own life to be able to remember her past-- even if the memories were bad.
"Oh I remember D-Day too!" the old lady added in an almost childish eagerness. "I had a brother went to Normandy. Landed at Sword Beach. And I danced with some nice American boys that went to Omaha. Most of them died there I think, but I still remember dancing with them. And flirting with them too. You'd never know it to look at me now, my dear, but in my day I was quite the dancer!"
"I bet you were, Grace." Emma's eyes traveled to her cane resting beside her on the bench. She wondered if she would ever be able to dance, and how long it would take before she could. She also wondered if she had ever danced before.
Old Mrs. Atherton noticed her looking at the cane and reached over a gnarled claw to pat her gently on the arm. "Don't you worry dear. It'll come in time. You're young and strong and you'll be dancing before you know it. Look how far you've come already! Just don't go dancing with those two old coots over there. They're way past it, even if they don't think they are!"
The young woman smiled at the encouragement from the dear old crone and squeezed her hand in return. Old Grace was right. She had to think positively. Just about anything could be accomplished with hard work and the right attitude. She had to keep working. She had to keep trying. If she did that then one day she might be back to normal... she might even get back her memories.
It had taken long months of intense physical therapy to get her to the point where she could actually walk again. Atrophied muscles and shortened tendons from two years of complete inactivity had left her virtually helpless. In the beginning even just sitting upright had been an ordeal. With desperate determination Emma had set out to regain as much as she could of what had been lost. She had given it everything she had.
At first she had needed other hands to move her limbs and stretch her stiff, frozen muscles, and every step of her recovery had been dauntingly, excruciatingly painful. But no matter how painful it was, Emma had never given up. The girl had worked as hard as she could, harder than the staff had expected her to, and had carefully, doggedly made progress. She fought hard to regain her strength, holding on to every little victory, pushing, pushing, always pushing for still more. She flexed and exercised her limbs and joints, repeating movements even as she waited for sleep. She asked question after question to all involved in her care so as to understand all the processes in her rehabilitation. She ate healthy food, even when she felt little appetite, and took advantage of fresh air.
As the long months advanced, she had moved from a bed to a wheelchair, and then from wheelchair to walker. Presently she had progressed from walker to cane, and was eagerly working on leaving even that. Though she had no personal memory of walking, running, or jumping as she must have once done, she had a sense within her that her body remembered these things was was eager to relearn them. She felt frustrated with the halting movements and helpless clumsiness caused by her weak limbs and shaky lack of balance.
Looking about her at the beautiful natural scene, Emma wished she could run across the green, windswept field with her arms out-stretched like a child pretending to fly. She wished she could splash about in the sparkling waves and jump from rock to rock on the shore. She wished she could twirl around like a fairy dancer with her hair blowing out about her and her skirt billowing in the breeze. She also wondered if any of those images had come from some unregistered memory that was buried deep and which refused to come out. She surely couldn't remember ever actually doing any of those things. Perhaps she had only seen pictures of them somewhere.
"Are you cold, child? That breeze has a bit of a nip in it."
"No," Emma answered coming out of her reverie. "But how about you? Do you feel a chill?"
"Oh, perhaps a tad. Could you get me my blanket from behind my chair and put it on my legs for me?"
Emma suspected this had been part of the purpose for the old lady calling her over but she didn't really mind. She loved doing things for the inmates at the nursing home. All of them had been so good to her, and she had already observed that the staff were somewhat slow to attend them. She smiled as she pulled out the faded old afghan and spread it comfortably over the woman's thin, bony knees. It was such a small thing to do, and it made her so happy. Emma like to think she was putting a little joy into someone else's life.
"That's lovely, dear. So nice and warm."
"How is your back? Should I raise your pillow up a little for you?"
"If you would, thank you. What a dear, you are!"
Emma beamed at her and the woman smiled back. The young girl was sort of a pet among them all, someone young and vital whose condition they all were interested in. From the day it had been announced that the poor girl had miraculously "awakened" they had followed her progress with avid interest, talking amongst themselves eagerly over every aspect of her case. It seemed as though the entire nursing home had adopted her.
Of course, life in a nursing home was rather stilted. Most of the inmates had nothing to do and little else to talk about except the trivialities of daily life. They talked about the weather, the food, which one of them had had visitors, or whatever was lately on the telly. None of them had much to look forward to except more of the same, unless it was the darker aspects of aging. Having someone young to care about was a welcome diversion that added interest to their days. It was also a pleasant change to see someone getting progressively better instead of progressively worse-- far better than the dull sameness of decay. All the inmates rallied around Emma. They regarded her recovery as partly their doing.
Never did a young woman have a more fulsome army of Uncles and Aunties, each one competing for her attention and regard. They encouraged her. They cheered her. They gave her advice, sympathy, and prayers. So many of them reveled in the chance to once more be useful, to pet and care for someone-- or, adversely, to have someone to listen to them. And the attention they gave her actually seemed to help. Young Emma seemed to bloom under all the love and care they showered upon her. And she gave back to them sevenfold for all the love they gave her.
The young woman brightened life for everyone at the nursing home. She brought energy and bounce into any room she entered, even if laboring to enter with walker or cane. Emma had drive and steel-hard optimism, and her brightness was contagious. She greeted everyone with a smile always—even when it was obvious that she was troubled concerning her recalcitrant limbs or her continual lack of memory. She still contrived to maintain a positive attitude and was almost always thoughtful of the people around her. It was a breath of fresh air.
None of them knew knew the quiet darkness she kept hidden from them, the haunting sense of incompleteness, the frightening feeling lostness that colored her waking hours. She worked diligently not to show any of it because she didn't want to trouble anyone or seem ungrateful. Tears, moping and complaining wouldn't help, and Emma had a feeling, though from where she couldn't actually say, that there had already been too much pain caused to too many people. She didn't want to be the cause any more. It was best to stay positive, to brighten those in her corner, and for that reason she was reluctant to share her burden.
Emma had to believe, she just had to believe, that time would eventually sort things out, that just as her body had responded slowly to therapy, her mind would respond as well. Surely with more time her memories would come back to her. They had to. She just had to believe. Otherwise she would continue to exist in this half life, this frightening limbo forever...
She gazed pensively again at the glinting waves. If only her memories could be triggered by something as simple as the sea. If only her own "war stories" would return to her as those of the old soldiers' did. If only she knew who she was. Perhaps there were people waiting for her, people who cared for her and were worried about her. Perhaps there was a man waiting for her who wanted her for his own...
Or, then again, perhaps there wasn't. Emma knew there had been numerous inquiries made concerning her identity, and she knew that none of them had been fruitful. That didn't appear to be a good sign. If there were people who were looking for her, they either weren't trying very hard or they weren't going about it the right way. She had to face the possibility that she might really have no one, and that the past had been just as dismal for her as the present.
More dismal, actually. Here, in the nursing home, Emma had friends. No matter what her past was, no matter when-- if ever-- she regained her memory, here she had people who cared for her. And she wouldn't let them down. She would face whatever life handed her with a brave face. And who knew, maybe what happened to her would turn out to be a good thing. Maybe this was her new start in a life that had formerly been unhappy. All Emma knew was that whatever happened, she needed to stay positive, and something inside her simply refused to do anything else.
