“Y-Yeah. Sure.”
Again and for the first time.
Again turned out to be later in the afternoon, in the rec room. She was bent over a drawing, markers spread all over the table and a ballpoint in her hand. No doubt making her word chains. I swept the floor and kept my eyes on my work.
“Damn.” Thea shook her pen hard, put it back to the paper, then frowned. She gave it another shake then abruptly froze. Her reset hit. Her hand trembled and she glanced around, confused.
We were short-handed as usual. Only the duty nurse was at the station. I had to do something before her panic took hold. I put down the broom and strode over. I nearly asked if she was all right before catching myself.
“Hi,” popped out instead.
“Hi,” she said, looking relieved. “How long has it been?”
“Two years, Miss Hughes.”
She took a steadying breath and a faltering smile touched her lips. “That’s a long time to be away, but the doctors are going to tell me what’s wrong with me.” Her eyes found my nametag. “Jim? I’m Thea Hughes.”
That’s six, I thought. Cut it out.
“Is your pen out of ink?” I asked, redirecting like Alonzo instructed.
Thea frowned and put her pen to paper. It scratched alongside the pyramid constructed out of words, but nothing came out. “How did you know?”
“I’ll get you a new one.”
I went to the storage supply closet and unlocked the door. Inside, I yanked the chain and the light bulb came on, illuminating racks of jigsaw puzzles, board games, magazines, and old books. I found reams of paper, boxes of ballpoint pens and Magic Markers. All the art supplies Thea had.
“That’s it? Pens and paper?”
I jumped back as a rat scuttled across the closet’s rear wall. Crouching on my heels, I found a crack in the drywall, revealing a sliver of daylight. I made a mental note to tell Alonzo about it, then shook a ballpoint pen from a box and hurried back to Thea. She was still trying her empty pen on her paper.
“Here you go,” I said.
“Thanks, Jim,” she said, taking the new pen. “You’re a pal.”
Amnesia or not, Thea was inherently friendly and cheerful to everyone she met. Buoyant. I’d bet good money she was effortlessly popular in school. The kind of beautiful, talented girl you wanted to hate but never could.
“Jim?”
“Y-Yes?”
“You’re staring.” She fluttered her eyelashes at me. “What are you thinking about?”
“You.” Something about her directness demanded the truth in return. “I was wondering if you were as good of an artist in high school.”
“I was an Egyptologist,” she said with a nod at her drawing.
“An Egyptologist?” I said. “Not an etymologist?”
Her face scrunched up. “A what?”
“Oh. N-N-Nothing. Rita said…”
“Who’s Rita?”
Shit. Fuck. Redirect.
“You studied Egypt?” I said and gestured at her drawing.