Eye of the Storm (Hudson 3)

office. I'll bring it all around by the end of the week.

How's that?"

"Fine," I said.

"Okay. I'm going to go talk with Mrs. Bogart to

make sure she understands what's expected of her. I

don't want the upstairs to go to pot just because you're not using it," she said. "I'll check on you again

tomorrow,"

She gave me a flashbulb smile and left. I

finished my sandwich and sat back, my mind flooding

with regrets. I wanted to defy everything in this room:

the mechanized bed, the equipment, the railings, all

that reaffirmed my state of invalidism, but whatever

rebellion was left in me was muted and cowering in

some dark corner of my tired heart.

Instead. I reached for the television remote and

like a good veteran of hospital wars. I turned on the

set and let the screen light up with distractions,

images and words, music and stories to keep me from

thinking about myself, video Valium to ease the pain

of reality and welcome me to some cloudlike

existence in the Land of Forget.

My first day at home was close to being over.

Netted like some wild bird. I was now left to perch in

my cage and look out at the world through bars,

wondering what I had left to look forward to and how

I would ever retrieve the song that had once come so

easily from my now silent tongue.

Mrs. Bogart had a way of keeping me aware of

her proximity. From time to time. I could hear her

moving things about in other rooms, clanking dishes and silverware as if we had just finished serving a houseful of guests, vacuuming, polishing and dusting. Even when she was upstairs. I could hear her feet thumping into the rugs and on the wood. Furniture squealed when she moved it. Drawers were banged so