In the Meadow

I’m in the meadow. The serene sounds of the afternoon wind softly whisper in my ear, pushing my auburn hair back into the air. Rolling in like waves, the sweet scent of spring embraces my senses. My blue dress flies behind me as I tiptoe closer to the sky. I can almost touch it. In the distance, an oak tree stands in solidarity, fresh green leaves rustling to the music of the breeze. I feel a tug at my fingers. A boy rests amongst the dirt and the pale yellow daisies, grasping tight to my hand.

“Tree!” He points, jubilantly pulling me into the field.

A soft giggle escapes my mouth, “Yes, a tree, buddy. Good job!” The boy whips around his head of dusty ginger hair and flashes me a toothy grin. Hand in hand, we race to the tree, brushing the wildflowers as we blow past. I can see the corners of his mouth turn upwards. Gentle laughter floods the air.

He runs faster than me, stepping on flowers to forge a path for me to follow. “Over here! Over here!” He shouts, dragging me around the thick tree trunk. I twirl around watching my dress float up into the sky, gracefully. The tranquility is interrupted by the sudden presence of Tigger, like the one in the books. Tigger bounces up and down, making a circle in the air. He orbits the tree, like how the Earth revolves around the sun. Spinning.

The soft afternoon sky glowed and we felt the exhaustion creeping up our feet. Deflated, we lie against the tree, heads resting on the bark of the trunk, gazing into the evening. “Do you see the bird?” He asks me, still jovial. A bluebird rests on a branch right above us, perching over to give us a little peek.

“It’s so pretty,” I reply with a sigh, enjoying every last moment with him. I look over at him, staring into the bird’s eyes unmoving. Abruptly, his arms start to jerk, uncontrolled quaking possesses his body. A somber grey washes over his body, leaving the pale, cold pigment of cement. His pupils roll back, revealing the milky white state of his eyes. Trembling, I fumble for his wrist, hastily trying to find his pulse. The heaves of my breath drum in my ears, “wake up, wake up!”

…

“Anna? Are you awake?” A girl, dressed in a blue checkered apron and wearing her silky platinum hair in a high ponytail, gently strokes my arm. “I’m Caroline, your attendant for the day. Would you like something to eat? Perhaps some oats?”

“Oats are fine, thank you.”

“I’ll get that for you,” she replies, turning towards the hallway. As the figure of her body slowly vanishes into the hallway, I glance around the room, searching. Beige linoleum tiles line every inch of the floor, bland metal blinds are hung halfway above the window to my left, a white trolley sits at the foot of my bed, a small chair rests beneath the window but close to me, while teal curtains wrap around the vicinity of the bed. There’s a small television set just above my eyesight and multiple remotes resting on the bedside table next to my head. In the hall, the rattle of wheels cackle against the tile, hiccuping every three steps. The noise crescendos and creeps into my ear. Louder, louder, and louder. My arms, which were lounging peacefully at my sides, begin to seize towards my ears as my fingers attempt to block out the pounding. My fingers, thrashing and shivering rapidly, extends and shrinks to cover my ears. Noticing my episode, the nice girl lets go of the cart she was pushing and rushes to my side. As she brushes my shoulder and smooths my hair, she softly recites into my ear, “Alice, you are safe. There is nothing to worry about.” My hands drift away from my ear, floating into my lap with trembles in between the graceful downfall. She hands me a glass of water, “Careful,” she reminds me. I slowly put the glass to my mouth. Some water misses my mouth and trickles down to my chin.

“Where am I?”

“You’re at Oak Tree Center for Health and Rehabilitation.”

“I’m in a home?”

“Yes, a very nice one.”

“Why’d they put me in a home?”

“Well, you’re having some problems with your memory. But, we do take very good care of you,” the girl said. Right after her last word, there was a slow knock on the open door. “I’ll be right back,” the girl says, gently patting my hands. As she stands up, I get a glimpse of the figure hunched over, leaning on the doorway. The man is only a bit taller than she is, around 5’5 or 5’6. He’s wearing a pink shirt with a grey cardigan sagging across his shoulders. His pants are abnormally big for his thin legs and are strung up by a massive black belt. The nurse walks up to the door frame and ushers the figure out of my line of sight. I struggle to get another peek at him. To no avail, I lie back down on my pillow, sinking into the mattress. I close my eyes and listen to the sounds of the environment. Outside, little birds chirp to their beat, sirens ring in the distance, laughter, and tears fill the garden with noise, and wind gushes, rattling the windows. On my right, I hear beeping monitors and hushed voices, as if the voices bear omens that don’t appeal to the patients’ favor. Decisions about the lives of the patients are made in the hallways, retaining a stringent tension in the air.

My observations are severed by the nurse’s entrance, she, gradually making her way to my bed, says, “Anna, someone would like to see you. Is that okay?”

“Who is it?”

“Lucas.”

“I don’t know a ‘Lucas’.”

“Let him talk to you for some clarity,” she winks, shuffling out of the room while waving the man in. The man, slightly wrinkled and slouching, to my surprise, still has most of his white hair. He stumbles to my bed, holding on to the grey plastic footboard for support.

“Hi, Anna. I’m gonna talk to you today,” the man says, his eyes sparkling.

“How do I know you?”

“We’re good friends,” he replies, propping himself up on a chair and scooting closer to me. As he sits, I notice a small bluebird resting on the windowsill. He looks at me and follows my eyes, also regarding the bird, he says, “Ah, a bluebird.” There was a fleeting moment of reminiscence in his eyes. He continues, “Anna, do you know who you are?”

“Not really, I know I have memory issues.”

“They’re just little problems here and there. How ‘bout you ask me some questions about yourself? Let me answer them for you.” A look of desire discloses in his eyes.

“What was my career?”

“Well, Anna, you were a scientist. The kind that studies the brain. A neuroscientist to be precise.”

“A neuroscientist. I seem smart.” The man smiles, softly laughing.

“Yes, you are incredibly intelligent. You’ve saved many lives with your research,” he affirms.

“Wow.”

“Wow is right. Apart from being a scientist, you also liked to garden. I remember your favorite flower was always the daisy.” He looks off into the distance just as the sunlight begins to hit his skin, making him glow.

“Daisies are very pretty. What did I look like when I was younger?

“Anna, you were very pretty. You had this bright red hair and deep hazel eyes. You could make anyone laugh and had this wild spirit.”

"What’s my favorite color then?” As I anticipate his reply, I gradually sit up, leaning toward his chair.

“I think it was yellow.”

“You do know me.” With this confirmed, I lie back down on my bed. I think of all the things I could ask him. Finally, an important one hit me. On my back, I turn my head to face him, “Do I have a family?”

His mouth turned up, he bit his lip, and his gaze fixed on mine, “You have two beautiful daughters with your husband and five grandchildren.”

“Grandchildren! That’s amazing. What are their names?”

“Well the oldest, Greta, is twelve, Majorie is ten, Marcus is ten, Will is eight and Annabeth is five.”

“Annabeth. That’s my name!”

“Yes, one of your daughters named her daughter after you. You’ll never be forgotten.” His eyes twinkle like the stars on a clear night sky.

“How about my parents?”

Tears well up in his eyes but he smiles through it, “they’re long gone. Both of them passed away, one after another, due to old age twenty years ago. You have a brother.”

“What happened to him?”

“He had epilepsy.”

…

His body, a fragile porcelain doll, remained motionless under the dusk sky. His eyes had faded to black, charred like coal on Christmas morning. The palpitations in my chest rang in my ears, a constant throbbing against his cold touch. The evening winds commenced their routines, blowing thick strands of sweat-drenched hair across my face. Little trembles and shivers proliferated into different parts of my body, forcing my teeth to jitter and clank against each other. I, once again, reached for his arm, lightly pressing his smooth, sallow skin. His skin was ghastly but looked almost purple. It was like memory foam, slowly returning to its original mold. I hastened to reach his face, rapidly tapping it for some sign of consciousness. His eyes stirred and flickered, like the stubborn candle on the birthday cake, refusing to be blown out.

…

The man glances at the window, a single tear falling down his cheeks. The bluebird stares at him for a moment, then turns abruptly and flies off. He wipes the tear away and pulls his mouth into a smile.

“You know, I once had red hair, too,” he forced, breaking into segmented tears. In my shriveled brain, wires fuse, creating a detonation of epiphany. Years of searching for the last piece and finally, fitting it into the puzzle. A teardrop gradually falls down my cheek as I sit up. It paints my face with a solemn color that I recognize. He takes my hand and runs his fingers over my coarse skin.

“Luke?”