Thirty-Seven

Clara Addas






The wind whistles through the open crack of the window. Nee-na. Nee-na. Nee-na. Nee-na. Nee-na. Nee-na. Ambulance.
And much closer, the beeping sound of machines surround me. My eyebrows pull down in confusion.
Hospital?
My head spins sickeningly.
In my right hand, something odd and cold extends along the side of my arm. My gaze focuses on the nurse changing my I.V bag, the needle propels discomfort under my skin, attached to it by a clear tape.
The nurse, female, wears all white. From the button down dress of her uniform to her pantyhose to her platforms. Her head is covered in a curly wig. Black and in midlife crisis years, her face is the epitome of kindness. She spots two thick, white, hairs on the left part of the chin. Right in the edge.
A nagging clear mask covers the bottom half of my face, and a small tube makes its way into my mouth and down my throat. Shit. Shit. Shit.
The machine monitoring my heart beat increases its beeping as my eyes finally meet Dahab's.
Her head shakes. A slow movement, almost as if in disbelief, her mouth falls open in surprise. "It's a miracle," she's speaking to herself. Smiling. Amazed. "How does this coma thing work? Can she see me? Can she even hear me? Is she sane?" She asks. Zealous. To the nurse now.
"Be very sensitive what you say. She might still not remember everything. But she's sane. She can see and hear you... just perfectly."
"Aw... now that's embarrassing." Like her brother, Papa, she gets embarrassed easily.
The nurse chuckles. Thump-sized dimples appear. "I'd say."
And then she strides out. When she walks it becomes apparent that one of her legs is shorter than the other.
"You're awake then?" Dahab states, her face all business like.
I stare at the elegantly dressed woman in confusion. Her blue but sparkling hijab brings out the colour of her blue eyes. Contacts. This is another thing she and her brother(my father) had in common. Bad vision. Aunt Dahab never wears make-up. She doesn't even allow me to wear a touch of make up. She insists it is something only women like the ones who live in the (suspected) whore house at the end of our street should wear. Daniel often cheats; has a bottle of liquid foundation hidden in his underwear drawer (the only place Aunt Dahab would never dare touch).
I am not innocent though. Own a natural-looking, flirty red shade of lipstick. Nothing Aunt Dahab would raise eyebrows at but something the boys at school definitely appreciate. Or at least it seems that way.
"Daniel! Ali!" she screams. "She's awake! Ah' Allah, may peace be upon him, thank you. Thank you."
I groan and gulp. My throat is dry. Did I just swallow a spoon full —not a table spoon but the big dishing spoon — of sand? It sure feels like it.
"Here's some water..." Dahab helps position my mouth over the glass.
"Oh dear..." she gasps. "I don't think it'll be possible with the tube in your mouth."
"Thanks," I croak. Rather breathless. I try to sit up and pain shoots through me. "Aw."
Dahab narrows her eyes while pushing me back against the comfortable white bed. "Careful, sweetheart. You haven't recovered yet."
I clear my throat. "Recovered?"
“Don’t you remember?” she asks, astonished. “You probably don’t. Your doctor did say you might have short term memory loss.”
“What happened?”
“Um… well… you were sick, I was so worried. Your lungs were paralysed amongst other respiratory disorders but... A few specialist are working your case and they are very optimistic. Daniel was really worried.”
“Daniel?” my brother. Now it's my turn to worry. My heart rate accelerates. I hold my breath. "How is he?"
"He's coming... I'm sure. He was answering a few questions the detectives had."
I exhale. Not in relief. It was uncomfortable not breathing. "The police?" I glance at Dahab. Panic takes over. Daniel can't afford to be in the hot seat. Again. No. No. No. Noooo.
Dahab sighs and glances warily at the ajar door. I know her well. She wants to say something. Something huge. Something I won't like.
"Did you want to talk?" it's clearly a rhetorical question. "Close the door. Daniel will have to knock before coming in."
"Look..." She bites her lip. Wavers. "You don't deserve what happened to you."
Uh-oh. I sense this is one conversation I should avoid.
"Okay." It comes out sounding like a question.
"So..." she hesitates, throwing a quick glance at the door. "That boy loves you in a way I never thought I'd witness in this lifetime, at least not from the Daniel I know."
"But—?"
She raises her wrinkly hand to stop me. "Now I love that boy. I love him like he were my own. He's my nephew. But Daniel is in trouble — I think. Honey... Someone tried to kill you. And the police think it's him."
I purse my lips, but don't answer.
"That's precisely what I want us to discuss."
"Just don't tell me you believe them," I beg her. "Daniel would never hurt me, at least not deliberately."
"Have you been listening to a word I've been saying?" Dahab frowns, glancing at the heart monitor in panic and then the worry disappears completely from her face as immediate understanding lightens her eyes.
"I'm under the suspicion that you believe he's innocent?"
"You have no idea how much."
"Hmm.." she mumbles thoughtfully, hesitating, watching me with vacant eyes. "How odd. This won't be easy."
I freeze at her words. An awkward silence follows but I refuse to break it.
"Let's get something straight," Dahab says suddenly, her voice anxious. "If Daniel is innocent, I will support him. But Clara, you were poisoned with thallium. A very dangerous poison. The police found evidence that it was in the soup Daniel made for you."