Vivian In Red by Kristina Riggle Page A

pronounced it like a sentence of doom, and this makes me feel as cold as a corpse already.
    I leave my eyes closed so I can better remember what that—vision, apparition, whatever, said. What Vivian said.
    I just want to be heard.
    But she was heard by me, boy was she ever. They could hear her in Hoboken, that one.
    The nurse and Linda continue talking about my “care,” like I’m a finicky house pet.
    Why can’t I just get back to normal? I swear I’ll appreciate being able to get around without being watched, I’ll make good use of my voice and be nicer to everyone, tell my kids and grandkids I love them all day. If only I could rid myself of this Vivian-vision, and…
    What if? Now that’s the ticket. What if when I get my voice back, Vivian goes away? I only started going crazy in this particular way since the day I fell, the day I saw this impossible Vivian.
    I vow to myself to be nice to Marla when she comes by, and really look at her flashcards and things. I’ll try to sing along with her silly songs, and when she says “Cat and …” instead of looking at her like she thinks I’m an imbecile, I’ll actually try to say “dog.” I’ll be a good sport for the physical therapist trying to make my good arm work. I can come back from this, sure as hell I can.
    I open my eyes, then, and elbow myself up to sitting, feeling for my glasses on the side table. Linda rushes over. “Pop! There you are, oh, it’s so good to see you awake and alert. You gave us quite a scare. What were you doing up? Oh, I’m sorry, I know you can’t say. I don’t mean to…”
    The nurse I can now see is a gray-haired lady with tortoiseshell glasses and the severe shape of an arrow: all straight up and down. She interjects, “No, it’s good to keep talking with him, asking him things. Don’t treat him like a child. He will answer if he can, when he can, in what way he can, right, Milo?”
    I nod, but I’m biting back a grimace. People these days are so familiar, right off. I can’t get used to how people who barely know me, people half my age, use my first name like it’s nothing. But I know this is one of the many ways the world has moved on without me.
    I point to her and tilt my head, squinting my eyes a bit. The arrow lady gets me.
    “I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Caroline Bates, and I’m with Companions Home Health, the agency providing the care for you now. You won’t often see me, you’ll see our care workers, but I promise they are all attentive and professional. The very best in the city. And we won’t have another lapse like tonight.”
    “And you won’t unclip the alarm and go traveling at night, will you?” Linda asks. The two ladies are like sentries, the boss with the glasses and Linda with her erect dancer’s posture, which seems, impossibly, even taller and straighter than usual. “We’d hate to have you in a nursing home, but if that’s what it takes to keep you safe…”
    How dare she! This… girl, not even my own blood. I decide she’s bluffing. No one wants to do that to me. She’s trying to threaten me, like with her kids.
    Still, it’s safer, no doubt, if I play along. At least until all this is over.
    Linda goes on, “I don’t know why you were headed upstairs anyway, Pop. There’s a bathroom on this floor, and you’ve got a little buzzer there if you need help and…”
    I shoot a gaze up the staircase, trying to evoke longing, sadness. I never was much of an actor but I’ve sure seen enough stage people hamming it up to make like a copycat. It feels a little ridiculous, truth be told.
    “Oh!” Linda says. “Oh, you miss your own bed, don’t you?”
    I nod, again with the sad face, though maybe laying it on a bit thick.
    Linda says, more to herself than to Ms. Bates, “I wonder if we could get some movers to bring his bed down here? Could that alarm thing be used on his bed? We’d have to move things around, it’s a narrow room here… Or hell, just walk