Hand Me Down by Rosy Adams (Lucent Dreaming Issue 12)

My old surgery no longer exists. Now I have to visit a multi-entranced brick sprawl, where I’m never quite sure where to go. The chairs are comfortable, I will say that. But I refuse to acknowledge the check-in device they expect me to use on arrival. For as long as they have a real person on the desk, I shall announce myself to them, as I’ve always done.
The doctor is kind. It’s a one-size-fits-all sort of kindness. I could be any one of those septuagenarians, slowly desiccating in the waiting room.
“How long have you been experiencing these absent moments, Mrs Green?” she asks.
I shrug.
“I’m not really sure. A couple of weeks, perhaps.”
She tip-taps at her keyboard.
“And how long would you say they last? A few minutes? Or a bit longer?”
“I’m not in the habit of timing them, I’m afraid. Probably due to not knowing in advance when they’re going to happen.” I realise I’m being obstructive. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to tell, really. Sometimes I’m in exactly the same place and position but it’s a different time of day. Other times…I’ll find myself in another room, or in different clothes,” I stop, unsure what to say. I don’t want to get shut away in a home for mad old bints.
“I’d like to run a few tests,” she says.
*
Outside, I take a deep breath of sap-scented spring air. That’s what I really hate about the place. It smells dead inside.
*
I’m at my desk with my notebook open in front of me. I look back at what I’ve written and I can see the words melting mid-sentence into a stumbling line like a toddler’s attempt at grown-up writing. It goes on for a number of pages, formless but somehow intentional. In places, the paper is torn from the force of the pen.
I close it, shoving it in a drawer out of sight. I can’t face any more writing today so I
*
try to open my eyes. They feel dry, and my eyelashes are all stuck together. I try to raise my hands to rub them, but I can’t seem to persuade my arms to move. What was I doing yesterday? I’d gone to the doctor’s, after giving in to Toby’s nagging. Then I did some shopping. I went home, put the shopping away, did a little writing, made myself a cup of tea then… what?
I try opening my eyes again. This time, I feel a bit of moisture as they start to water. I squeeze my eyelids together then stretch them apart until I can see a blurry white expanse. As my eyes focus I realise that I’m lying on my back, looking up at a featureless ceiling. Strange. I never sleep on my back. I try to sit up but my muscles only twitch and tremble.
When did I get so weak?
I roll my eyes to the left. I see a chair. A door. Neither of which I recognise. I look to the right. There is a tall apparatus with a bag of clear liquid dangling from it. A drip? Yes, I think so, with a tube descending from it to a cannula on the back of my hand.
But it is not my hand. This hand is golden-soft and elegant. It is delicate, with perfect nails, each one buffed and shaped into a pale oval, like slivers of mother of pearl.
I don’t know how long I lie there, staring at the strange hand. Eventually, I must fall asleep because
*
when I wake up again there is someone in the room with me. I know this because the person is holding the hand that is not my hand. I don’t open my eyes but I must have shown some kind of consciousness because the person gives a little gasp. The sound you make when you’re startled, but not sure whether the surprise is going to be good or bad. My strange hand is squeezed tight by large knuckly fingers.
“Faith?”
Is he calling me Faith?
My name is Jane. Plain Jane Green.
I don’t want to talk. What would I say? Perhaps I could pretend to be amnesiac. It isn’t far from the truth, after all.
I try opening my eyes a tiny fraction, so I can peek at the owner of the voice without having to talk to him, but he must have been watching me intently for signs of life.
“You’re awake!”
I give up pretending and open my eyes properly so I can have a good look at him. Not what I’m expecting. The voice sounds like it should belong to someone big and workmanlike, with stubble, and chunky black boots spattered with mud or concrete or some such. He is big, yes. No stubble though. Or work boots. A beautifully (and expensively) cut suit. Same for the haircut. He looks like he’s about to cry. He bows his head, putting a hand over his eyes.
“I didn’t think you were going to wake up.”
Well, there is one question I can ask, at least.
“Wh-wha…” I have to stop and clear my throat. My voice is a scratchy whisper, and each word feels like it’s a shard of glass in my throat. “What…?” I try to finish the sentence but I can feel myself slipping away. He grips my hand as if he’s trying to anchor me, but it’s no use.
*
This time, I can remember. After that strange little interlude I woke up in my own bed. And now, here I am. I sit at my dressing table, looking at myself in the mirror.
Where were you last night?
My reflection is mute. Who is she, anyway? Where was she last night when I (whoever ‘I’ am) was lying in a hospital bed, staring at a stranger’s hands. Moving the fingers, feeling the shape of the bones which were not my bones in the hand which was not mine. But here I am again, looking at my old familiar face in the mirror.
Does someone else put it on when I’m gone? Would anyone have noticed? Or would this stranger have pretended to be me? After all, that’s exactly what I did last night. I peer at myself, so close that my breath makes a fuzzy circle on the glass. Is she hiding something from me? She looks secretive. Close-mouthed and blank-eyed, she gives nothing away. But perhaps that’s the way I always appear to others.
*
It’s a good day for the garden. My bulbs are bursting with new growth. The first of a joyous cascade of greenery which will flow through the best part of the year. I’m clearing the dead matter from last year so they’ll have space to thrive
“Faith.”
Strange. I thought I heard someone say my name. No. Not my name. Her name. I look up but I’m alone. Of course. Who would call me by that name here. I am Jane. Remember.
I bend my back and tend to my plants, digging my fingers into the dark, damp soil. That helps. I’m Jane, the gardener.
“Faith!”
Yes. I can definitely hear that. I try to ignore it but the voice is insistent.
“Faith. Wake up!”
I want to say “I am awake!”
I want to say “My name is Jane,” but my mouth won’t work. My tongue feels huge and woolly and when I look around the garden everything seems distorted by a strong heat haze. I try to move but I can’t control my muscles. I fall, but before I hit the ground I am somewhere else. My body jerks, expecting the impact that doesn’t happen. I feel cold things on my bare chest (Why is it bare?). They disappear and I can hear a high-pitched whine. I can smell antiseptic. There are lots of voices, mostly incomprehensible, shouting numbers at each other, and one that I can understand saying over and over again:
“Faith.”
A large knuckly hand holds mine as the clamour dies down.
Time passes. I float in an opiate haze. From far away I think I hear someone saying “Jane, can you hear me? Stay with me Jane!” and I want to say “I’m right here,” but somehow the words won’t come, and the voice fades, so I hold on to that hand as if my life depends on it.


Rosy Adams lives in West Wales. She is part of the 2022/23 cohort of writers on the Representing Wales writer development program for under-represented writers. Her stories, poetry and articles have been published by The Lampeter Review, Writing Magazine, Muswell Press, Grim & Gilded, and Ceredigion Council’s Carer’s Magazine.
T: @rosycadams

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