— Thanks to the exercises these past few weeks, we were able to confirm that he has full mobility in his upper body and limbs, but he has difficulty walking.
— That's right, doctor — my aunt replies.
— Today's exercise will focus on strengthening your legs. What do you think? — the doctor says, still looking at his chart.
— I'm ready — I say. The nurse proceeds to take my wheelchair to a pair of railings at one side of the room, which has various exercise machines and equipment.
— Please stand up — Yudy says — Slowly.
I extend my arms to push off the railings and begin to lift my torso, leaning forward more forcefully until I'm standing upright.
— Very good, now, please proceed with one foot in front of the other — the doctor says. It's a little difficult at first to bring my right foot forward, but I manage to take the first step. It's strange; it's as if with each step, my calves and thighs burn intensely.
— That's a great improvement. Do you think you can manage the walk back? — the doctor asks. I nod, but as soon as I take the first step in the opposite direction, I collapse.
— Are you okay? — my aunt asks, trying to help me.
— Don't worry — I say, raising my hand to stop her from grabbing me. I manage to stand up again and walk to the end of the railing where the chair is. — The fact that you can stand up shows that you still have a lot of strength in your legs, so we¿re going to work on knee bends and light weights to make walking easier — the doctor says.
After the exercises, the nurse leaves me in my room, and my aunt says goodnight because she has some work to do. My eyes are closed, but hunger keeps me from falling asleep. I want at least one sleep after being so exhausted. The burning in my stomach intensifies with the unexpected scent approaching; it's that woman. She quickens her pace and gently closes the door. I suppose she thinks I'm asleep. — Oh, you're awake — she says when I open my eyes — How are your therapies going?
— I was able to walk today — I say. She gives me a quick kiss and opens my lunchbox on the examination table, as she usually does.
— This time it's pasta with meatballs, thank you very much.
She just smiles and closes the small backpack without a word until I finish eating and hand the container back to her. "There's something inside me that can't be satisfied no matter how much I eat," I say.
— I'll bring more — she replies — I can only stay a few minutes, I'm sorry.
— That's okay, just be careful.
She glances back at me before leaving as if she wants to say something, but instead, she waves goodbye and walks away.
Tonight, I decide to practice standing up a bit more, so I move to the edge of the gurney and lower my legs. When I sit in the wheelchair, I position myself against the wall for support and start walking to the door. It makes me think that maybe that woman's food gave me the strength I needed.
I walk out into the hallway, where I'm greeted by the cool breeze scented with the jasmine trees in the courtyard directly across from the private rooms. I look up to see the doctors passing by on the walkway that connects the two wings of the hospital. I walk to the front, until I can feel the grass beneath my feet, and I remember that cruel silence. The dampness of the grass reminds me of that moment when I was conscious, trying to call out to my grandparents, but my vision had turned red, and I couldn't even hear my own voice.
— Are you good? —I hear a male voice behind me and turn to look at him — You should return to your room, please.
— Yes — I say. The nurse notices that I'm having a little trouble walking, so he puts my arm over his shoulder and supports me by the side.
— Try not to leave your room; just press the button if you need anything — he says.
— Thank you.
{} {} One week later {} {}
— This one's really funny — she says, laughing softly. This woman has her head resting on my shoulder as we look at photos on her tablet.
There are pictures from restaurants, the town's public pool, the plaza, and a video of me making her laugh at the supermarket. She seems to be quite a cheerful girl because I don't say anything particularly funny. I realize we've spent hours looking at photos of people who appear to be friends from my school and videos of parties or casual get-togethers around a campfire, or at someone's house, but it all seems so foreign to me.
— Do you remember the time we went to the waterfalls? — she asks, lifting her body to look me in the face.
— No, I don't remember that either — I say. She seems a little disappointed by my answer and leans back against me — Then tell me, how was that trip?
— We swam until we were exhausted and roasted lamb over a campfire before heading home.
— That sounds fun — I say, tracing circles with my fingers above her head — Would you like to recreate that?
— There'll never be another time like the first — she says.
— They'll discharge me next week — I say after a short silence — Only if I stop using crutches.
— I thought you'd be discharged by now — she says.
— My mother says there isn't a place as good as this one in the city near town to transfer me to. So they won't discharge me until I finish therapy.
— I'll come back next week — she says, getting off the stretcher.
— Are you upset? — I ask as I reach for her hand to stop her from moving away.
— I need to get ahead on work if I want to find another weekend to visit you.
— I understand.
This time she refuses to kiss me, which gives me the feeling that she has realized I don't remember her. Today's photos confirmed my suspicions that we are a couple. She seems quite attached to me, which maybe means we hadn't broken up.
— Mom.
— Yes? — she says, still looking at her book. She's sitting in an armchair next to me, the one near the bedroom window.
— My girlfriend — I say, and she looks up — What's her name?"
— Mirian, her name is Mirian.
— And what can you tell me about her?
— I don't know, I didn't meet her until shortly before the accident — Yolanda says — She seemed like a very shy girl... quiet I'd say.
— Did I tell you how long we had been together when I did it?
— I can't remember that right now. It's not like I had kept in much contact with her.
— She didn't ask about me during that whole year?
— Yes — she says — I mean, we never had any conversations beyond your health. She seems very closed off.
— Really?
— Well, I don't blame her — I came to stay in one of the rooms in the hospital residences, so we've only seen each other when she comes to visit you.