by Hannah McLeod
I remember walking down a long, cold hallway toward the exit sign and then nothing. Just a bright blinding blank space.
I came to while scooping candy from a self-serve station into a thin plastic bag that was already most of the way full. I stopped and looked around. I was in some sort of convenience store, and though it was dark out, it must have been warm because the door was propped open. Some of the overhead lights were out and I remember wondering whether that was a choice or necessity. Underneath the arm that held the open bag of candy I found that I was holding a bag of potato chips, squeezed tenderly between my elbow and ribs.
Unsure how I got to be standing in front of this wall of candy, I set down the scooper, tied off the bag and moved toward the counter. I looked up at the stout old man behind the counter and found he was gazing back at me with a puzzled, verging on horrified, look. I waited, confused, and when he didn’t move I tried to prod him.
“¿Cuánto vale?” I asked.
Without averting his eyes from my face he took the candy and put it on the scale beside his register. He was moving slowly, and by that point I had opened the purse on my shoulder and realized it didn’t matter how much it cost—I had no cash, just a card languishing at the bottom of the bag among a spattering of coins. I pulled it out, stuck it in the card reader and was met softly by the man’s first word.
“Espera,” he said.
I pulled it out and waited. He punched a few buttons on the machine.
“Listo,” he almost whispered.
This time the machine accepted the card and, paid up, I took the plastic bag from the counter. I felt his eyes trailing after me as I went out the door.
Once outside, a new conundrum revealed itself. Streets, buildings, sidewalks were all novel or else concealing themselves from my memory. I spotted a young man walking in my direction down the sidewalk. He wore headphones, the universal sign to fuck off, but I swooped in anyway. I was desperate.
“Sabe donde puedo coger un taxi?” I heard myself ask, and immediately regretted the question. Why should he know where I could get a taxi? Taxi’s drive down streets, or congregate at airports, you have to look for them and catch them as they go by. Maybe? I don’t know. But for whatever reason, wherever I was, there were no cars on this street. Not even parked along the side.
He surveyed me briefly and an expression of alarm swept over his face, though he politely choked it back. I was beginning to wonder if I had something on my face and before I could catch the instinct, my hand was on my cheek. The soft touch of my fingers sent needles of pain throughout my whole head.
“What the fuck?” I thought.
The man told me to wait and pulled his cellphone from his pocket. He dialed a number, had a quick conversation and then told me a taxi was on its way. Before walking on, he looked me straight in the eyes and asked, “está bien?”
I did not know the answer to his question.
In an effort to comfort myself I did exactly as I was told. Standing there in the square of light that poured out of the store window, I wondered why I hadn’t thought to use the tiny computer in my pocket to look up and call a taxi company.
After what felt like hours a white car with a glowing green light on top pulled up in front of the store. I got in the back seat. The driver punched in the address I told him, and looking absently out the front passenger window, he told me how much it would cost. I said ok and he started driving.
A mist of hazy panic began to settle over me. I kept it at bay by consuming the candy I had picked out for myself. And now I know that one of my more pitiful talents is choosing the perfect assortment of sweets from shelves with too many options while blackout drunk.
After close to an hour I began to recognize what passed outside the window and soon enough the car stopped. Conveniently, it was at this moment I recalled that I had no cash and, tensing my whole body with hope and anticipation, I handed him my card.
“Solo en efectivo,” he said, dismissively.
Shit… I hung my head and in response to the silence he twisted around fully in his seat to look at me.
Sometimes, when you’re a terrible person, it’s better to dig in, stay in the trenches. What’s the phrase? Sometimes the best defense is good offense?
“Como que no me dijiste antes?” I bellowed at him, knowing full well that is not something a taxi driver should have to tell a customer before taking off. “Solo tengo tarjeta! No te hubiera llamado si supiera que no tomaste tarjeta!” I almost shouted, pretending to be appalled, feeling like the scum of the earth.
He kept his tone even, calm, when he reminded me that I wasn’t the one who had called him.
With all the drama I could muster, I scrounged at the coins in the bottom of my purse and dropped them in the passenger seat in front of me over and over again, my stomach twisting itself into knots.
“Dejalo,” he said quietly.
I sensed defeat in his tone so I kept at it.
Finally he yelled at me to get the fuck out of his car and I obeyed.
Once upstairs in my apartment I stripped off shoes and pants. There I found tender pieces of skin and bone on my knees and hips, even the tops of my feet. I turned on the bathroom light and, seeing the face staring back at me in the mirror, began to understand the looks that had followed me through the night.
This face in the mirror was covered with patches of raw, bloody skin where layers that were never supposed to see the sunlight were now exposed to warm night air. Something furious connected the top of my lip to my nose and I dared not investigate it. A bright flare of purple and red was beginning to unfurl itself across my jaw. As I removed my shirt, it stuck on my right shoulder where blood had dried the cotton to my body. I ripped it off and the skin underneath oozed fresh red liquid. Pain crouched calmly in the corner, awaiting the departure of numbness. Guilt and confusion clawed their way up my throat until my eyes began to water.
I shut off the light and the face disappeared. Still nothing.
After cooking an egg in too much oil and walking back to the bedroom, I saw the plastic bag and remembered that I had already made arrangements for comfort food. Excessively so.
It would be hours later, the next morning, before I would remember waking up in a hospital bed the night before with no understanding of how or when I had gotten there, but feeling relieved that my purse was beside me and my shoes were on my feet.
I remember a nurse passed by and I asked her if I could leave.
“Puede hacer lo que quiere, pero debería quedar… tenemos algunas pruebas que necesitamos hacer,” she told me.
With great effort my brain tried to determine what tests she could possibly be talking about. I absently itched at my arm and found a needle inserted there, held down by tape. I frantically started to try and peel the tape up, my eyes starting to sting, and she hurried to that side of the bed. I remember her hand was small and cold on top of my swollen, overheated arm.
“Cariño,” she pleaded. “Por lo menos, quédate hasta que pueda hablar con el doctor.” And when I stared at her blankly she said in a reassuring tone, “estás segura aquí.”
I almost laughed. Safe? What a ridiculous thing to say, no one is ever safe at a hospital.
“Me voy,” I told her, and scratched at the tape again. This time she acquiesced and removed the IV for me. Handing me a piece of paper she told me there were certain things that needed to be done tonight. Things that would not be possible in the days to come. I shoved the paper in my purse.
I had no idea what she could mean by that.
So I took off down the long hallway towards the exit sign and lost the thread of consciousness again before ever making it to whatever destination I had started with, nothingness clouding out whatever came next, whatever came before, until I stood in front of a wall of candy in a dimly lit convenience store.
