This is the first short story that we have had to write for my creative writing class. There were only three requirements: It must be a maximum of three pages, it must involve two main characters and it must include a shitty job. So this is my first draft that will be butchered by peer edit groups come tomorrow afternoon.

FORGET ME NOT

I left the house late, a quarter to five and the sun was just rising. I opened the old Ford pick-up’s peeling dusk blue handle and swung one leg inside the truck. Using the steering wheel as a balance, I hoisted my other leg into the cab and just sat for a moment, eyes closed, air leaving my lungs heavy. I could remember her sitting next to me. Pale yellow sundress, red bow in her hair, a supple smile turned towards me. The glitter of her laugh touched me as if raindrops were kissing my balding head. Harsh wind blew into the cab from the still opened door, whisking her away too. I opened my slow, tired eyes without rush and sighed deeply, turning the key in the ignition.

As I drove I felt her next to me again. I could feel her long hair tickling my neck as it swirled around her face, strewn about by the wind pouring through the empty windows. Her head lay nuzzled somewhere between my shoulder and neck. My mind hardly knew where I was driving, but my body took control of the wheel. I was caught up in the rich aroma of her sweet, succulent perfume that seemed to linger on the air as I paused at every stop sign.

I had swooped into my parking space some minutes earlier, but the truck was still rumbling. It took me a few moments before realizing that I had arrived. Shaking myself out of my reverie, I turned the keys, quieting the engine and, again sat, eyes closed, waiting. Time seemed to drift between wanderlust and fantasy as I felt her soft lips graze my cheek. Eyes still closed I chocked out a stumbled whisper, “Miss you, Ev.” One of her small fingers traced my jaw line and I sighed, my breath fluttering her out the open window.

                Hand still resting on the door handle, I pushed it open and stepped outside. The thick, sweet summer air tickled my nose, the heat clinging to my skin. It was barely day yet and mirages were already dancing above the pavement. I walked up the short path with different shades of greenery lining the sides to the entrance of the hospital. The sliding glass doors rushed open when I approached; the familiar feeling of death entered my soul as sickness cloaked my heart.  My body went through the paces of finding the elevator, my mind in a different realm. I joined the morning shift cue that waited for the large metal doors to open with a soft “ding.” Most of us got off on the third floor, heading for the locker room. I nodded a ‘good morning’ to the few other doctors already changing from their street clothes into blue scrubs. With a still numb mind, I wound my combination lock, feeling the click and opened the locker door. I took off my regular clothes and replaced them with the periwinkle scrubs. I felt my motions quickening, it was now almost 6:45, I had a few minutes before I needed to do inventory. By the time my leathery, nobbled knuckles had finished a sloppy job of tying my black tennis shoes I could feel my breath quickening.

                I slipped out the locker room door, with the agility of a younger man and headed for the elevators. This time when I entered, I was alone; I reached for the wall of buttons, my fingers finding the embossed number 5.  When the doors slid open, the large metal sign that alerted new visitors of their whereabouts was positioned halfway up the crème wall opposite the elevator. In bold, red print, ALZHIMER’S WARD was etched. This time my body followed my heart as it led us down the hallway to the left. The horrid feeling of death that had followed me from the downstairs levels mingled with a sense of confusion and fear.

                I reached room 526 where a small plate below the room number read EVELYN MARLOW and pushed down on the handle, walking into the room. The nurse was just setting breakfast down on the side table when she looked up at me. She was roughly my age, somewhere in her seventies, with close-cropped grey hair, “Hey Charlie, she’s doing well this morning.”

I nodded and she left the room. I walked to the side of the hospital bed, eyes fixed on the shrunken figure covered by a pink and yellow patchwork quilt from home. I began to stroke her white hair with my left hand, remembering her once thick black hair. Her green eyes, once bright and alive, looked up into mine, a subtle smile turning up the corners of her lips. “Hey there, Ev,” I whispered.

                “Darling, I’ve been waiting for you,” her voice was rushed and she was almost panicky, “the nurse said you were probably just running late. Oh, but I was worried.”

                Evelyn’s eyes searched my face for some comfort, “It’s alright, it’s alright, I was just running late,” I said softly, trying to soothe her.

                She still seemed unsure that I was alright, so I lay down in the bed next her both of us on our backs, her right hand in my left and I began to sing, “Tall and tan and young and lovely, the girl from Ipanema was walking.” Evelyn let her head sink onto my chest and I hugged her close, as I butchered the tune she whispered, “I’ve just been so scared, Charlie.”

                “I know, babe, I know. I’m here now though, right here.”

                Evelyn lifted her head an inch turning so that her lips were inches from mine and she whispered softly, “Forget me not, Charlie. Whatever I forget, don’t you forget too. Forget me not.”

                I cupped her head with my left hand, holding her close to me, wiped tears away with my right, “Never, Ev, you’re always with me.” She fell asleep with her head resting on my chest and I snuck out, scared she would wake up and I would be another doctor in scrubs not her husband.

                I stood in the elevator for a few moments, without pushing buttons or thinking much at all. Finally, I pushed for level A, where my rounds were to take place. When the elevator doors opened into the morgue, the rush of loneliness, death and disparity greeted me as I began my Monday morning shift of tagging the freshly dead bodies of the previous night.

More to come!

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit