Free Burying Water by K. A. Tucker Page B

Ginny.
    The confused nurse seems only too happy to spin on his heels and dart out.
    “You . . . you promised me!” Ginny stutters, her pointed finger stabbing the air in front of Dr. Alwood.
    “I know, Ginny. I’m sorry. We had to switch ORs and things got scrambled.” A pause. “Do you think you can still handle this surgery today?”
    Ginny’s chest puffs out and deflates with several deep breaths as her eyes shift between the door and her doctor, and back again. And then she tosses the crumpled quilt material onto her side table and mutters, “I’m not coming back again, so let’s get this over with.”
    Amber rolls the gurney next to Ginny’s bed. Before they can help their neighbor out of her bed and onto it, Ginny’s finger comes up again. “But if I see that man in there . . . ”
    “It’s an all-female staff, just like I promised, Ginny.” Dr. Alwood’s eyes drift to mine. “Hi, Jane. How are you feeling today?”
    I glance over at their patient, who’s scowling as Amber adjusts the bedsheet draped over her body and begins pushing her gurney toward the door. “Curious.”
    Dr. Alwood laughs. “I’ll bet. Well, I suspect your roommate won’t be nearly as pleasant post-op.”
    Now Ginny shoots a scathing glare at the back of Dr. Alwood’s head.
    Great.
    With that, they wheel the cantankerous woman into the hall, leaving me with plenty of questions.
    And all alone. Again.

    “You touched my stuff, girl.”
    The groggy accusation cuts through the darkness, startling me. Ginny hasn’t spoken since Amber wheeled her back into our room several hours ago.
    “I thought maybe if I stuck that square in a heavy book, it’d flatten the pattern for you,” I explain, clearing my throat several times, suddenly nervous. I wait, staring at the parking lot light outside my window. I never draw my bed curtains fully at night. The space feels too small, too confining, and, with each creak of the door, a part of me fears the person who might enter my room.
    Finally, I hear a low mutter of, “I don’t like people touching my stuff. You can’t be doing that.”
    “I’m sorry. I was just trying to help.” I dare add in a light tone, “It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful quilt when it’s done.” Okay, I could be lying about that. I have no idea what that square was. All I could see were patches of red and orange and yellow. But her needlework is tidy and precise.
    The sound of metal rings scraping across a rod fills the dark hospital room, revealing the old woman from the chest up, her eyes narrowed to slits. “Is this an act?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “This memory thing of yours. Are you lying?” I can’t tell if she’s asking or accusing.
    “I wish I were,” I answer honestly.
    “Don’t wish that, silly girl,” she snaps. “You should be happy.”
    “Happy?” I burst out in shock. People have given me a lot of pieces of advice over these past few months. This has not been one of them.
    The way I must be glaring at her now doesn’t seem to dissuade her. “Yes, happy. Happy that you can spend the rest of your life in ignorant bliss. That you don’t have to lie in bed with your memories—the smell of his breath, the feel of his weight on you, the sound of his voice when he yells at you to stop crying. Because those memories are like demons. They’ll chase you, and when they grab on, they hold on tight. They break you. You get to relive them over and over and”—her voice drops to a hiss—“ over again.”
    “But what about . . .” My voice trails off. She’s not talking about forgetting my entire life.
    Just a very specific part of it.
    My stomach drops as understanding slams into me. It would explain her reaction to the male nurse today. “You were . . . it happened to you, too,” I stammer.
    “And I’ve spent almost fifty years wishing I could forget it. So be happy, girl, because if you ever wake up to your reality, I promise you’ll be wishin’ you could forget all