Glowing an unearthly shade of violet and blue, the lavender fields of Provence carpet a lush valley, stretching far into the distance until they disappear into mist.
* * *
“Hey, Olivia.”
With an expression like he’s attending his best friend’s funeral, Chris stands in the doorway to my room. His blond hair is greasy and disheveled. There’s a food stain on the front of his T-shirt, just below the Budweiser logo. He’s wearing threadbare jeans and a pair of ratty Converse sneakers that look as if he’s had them since college.
He’s also short and paunchy, with the red nose and sallow skin tone one acquires through years of hard drinking.
When I smile, thinking how funny it is that I’d made him so much more handsome and sophisticated in my hallucination, his eyes narrow.
He doesn’t like me smiling at him. Interesting.
“Can I come in?”
I try to gesture toward the ugly metal chair Kelly sat in earlier, but can’t. So far, no one at the hospital has been willing to tell me what’s wrong with my body. I’m guessing they think it would be too much for me to handle, considering I’ve only just returned from my trip to La La Land.
But I’ll bet I’m about to find out from dear hubby, here.
“Have a seat.”
Chris glances at the chair, but apparently decides he won’t be staying that long, because he remains standing. He edges a few feet closer to my bed. “So you’re awake.”
And you’re not the US ambassador to the UN. A hysterical laugh threatens to break from my lips, but I fight it back. I can’t have the natives thinking I’m a total whack job, or I’ll never get out of this place.
“I’m awake.” I watch him shift his weight from foot to foot. His gaze darts all around the room but refuses to stay on me for more than a second.
I wonder why he’s so unsettled. Obviously, having your spouse wake up unexpectedly from a catatonic episode would be a tad startling for anyone, but there are no hugs or tears, no I’ve missed you so much, darling. He’s bothered by something else.
My memories surrounding our relationship are murky, almost as if my brain is willfully trying to block them out.
The memories or him.
He says, “You still…?” With his index finger, he makes a loopy motion next to one of his ears.
Charming. Biting back a smartass reply, I try to be polite. “I’m feeling good, thank you.”
“Huh. Well, that’s great. That’s just great.”
He’s got the best-friend-funeral expression again. Apparently my unexpected return from comaville isn’t exactly cause for a party.
“How are you, Chris?”
He’d been staring at my claw-shaped hands resting in my lap with faint distaste, but now his gaze flashes up to mine. He snaps, “That supposed to be fuckin’ funny or something?”
Ah. So the baggage between us is hefty and full of dismembered bodies.
“No. I’m sorry. I’m having trouble with my memory. Are we…” There’s no delicate way to say it. And you’ve literally got nothing left to lose. Full steam ahead. “Are we estranged?”
He snorts as if I’ve said something extremely funny. “Estranged? More like strangers. After what happened to Emmie, you totally checked out.”
What happened to Emmie.
Suddenly, my head is flooded with images—images too horrible to bear.
I’m in the car, backing out of our driveway. It’s a big car, Chris’s car, an older model SUV. I never liked it, but my sporty little Honda had been rear-ended the week before and was in the shop. So it was the loud, hulking Bronco I was taking to the grocery store that day.
The Bronco that didn’t have a back up camera.
Or back up sensors.