IN SICKNESS AND IN HEALTH…

By James Blakey

Beep!

Bill opens his eyes. Strapped to his face is something resembling a scuba mask, but covering his nose and mouth.

Beep!

It’s like the right side of his skull is in a vise. Bill tries to lift his hand, but his arm won’t respond.

Beep!

Bill turns his head. He’s in a bed, but not his.

Beep!

A man in a white coat stands next to him. “Mr. Royster, can you understand me? You’re in the hospital. You’ve suffered a stroke.”

***

The nurse took his mask off this morning. Was it morning?

Bill can’t swallow. Mouth drier than a Baptist preacher’s kitchen. “Can I get a drink of water?”

“Not yet. We’re still worried about aspiration.” The nurse slips what looks like a wet sponge on a popsicle stick into Bill’s mouth.

He sucks it dry. “Thanks.”

***

“Do you know today’s date?” asks Dr. Collier, the neurologist.

Bill pauses. He’s so damn tired. Literally hurts to think.

The doctor scribbles on his tablet. “Let’s start with the year.”

Bill fights the fog. “2025.”

“Actually, it’s 2050. November eighth, to be precise.” Collier holds up the tablet, open to the calendar app. “Time disorientation is common in the aftermath of a stroke. Do you know where you are?”

“Last thing I recall is a French embassy party in Minsk.”

“You’re in the Greeneville Regional Medical Center. That’s South Carolina.” Collier consults his tablet. “You were having dinner with your wife at Morrison’s when you fell out of your chair. An EMT at the next table recognized your symptoms and called an ambulance. You got the clot buster within twenty minutes. The QRI of your brain doesn’t show any tissue damage or pooling of blood.”

“QRI?”

“Quantum Resonance Imaging,” Collier says. “You’re a very lucky man.”

***

With effort and focus, Bill can lift his left hand. The pain has subsided, mostly. Age spots on his forearm. Twenty-five years gone.

A woman, pale blonde, early fifties, enters his room. Not a health care worker—she’s in a blouse and slacks.

“Hi, Bill.” Her words are soft, tentative. Like she’s holding her breath.

Bill stares at her. “Who are you?”

The woman’s lip quivers. She grabs the bedrail as if to steel herself. Words choke in her throat. “I’m Ava, your wife.”

She leans close, caresses his cheek, holds his hand.

“Water?” he asks.

She looks at the nurse sitting in the corner, who nods.

Ava grabs a covered plastic cup with a straw from the bedside table. The cup rattles with ice. She guides the drink, so the straw reaches his mouth. His shaky hand clasps the cup. Their fingers touch. Her blue eyes filled with empathy.

Blue?

“You’re not my wife!” Bill throws the cup on the floor, seizes her hand.

Ava breaks free of his grasp. The nurse races over, presses the call button.

Bill thrashes in bed. “My wife has green eyes. Get that imposter out of here!”

A nurse in purple scrubs and holding a syringe rushes in, injects a sedative into the port on Bill’s IV line.

Crying, Ava runs from the room.

***

“Bill.” Ava’s at the door.

“Go away.”

She walks to his bed, bites her lip, reaches for him. “I know it’s scary. I know you’re confused.”

Bill pulls his hand back. “Leave me alone, whoever you are.”

“I’m your wife.”

With all his effort, Bill turns his head. “My wife’s eyes are gr—” Eyes green as the twelfth hole at Augusta stare back at him.

“Bill?” She holds his hand.

Nothing makes any sense. Will it ever not hurt to think?

Ava leans close, kisses him on the cheek. He remembers the flowery scent of her perfume.

The dam bursts under the frustration, the helplessness, and the fear. Tears stream down his face.

She whispers, “Everything is going to be okay.”

***

“Good morning, Ava.” Bill has a tray of scrambled eggs, bacon, and coffee. “The speech pathologist cleared me for solid food. Any word when I’m getting out of here?”

“A couple more days. I’m arranging a place for you to rehab.”

“Rehab?”

“Yes, rehab. You need to work on getting stronger, being able to get around on your own, dressing and washing yourself.”

Bill nods. “And my memory, too.”

“I have an idea.” Ava holds up her phone, a picture of a brunette in a coffee shop. “This is Leah.”

“Our daughter? But she’s only eleven…”

“Nope. All grown up. Teaches Archaeology at the University of Western Australia. After she married Peter, they emigrated. Remember?”

Bill shrugs. “I’m trying.”

“That’s okay. How about the house?” She scrolls through photos of a three-story Southern Colonial. “We live on a golf course, like we always talked about. The fourteenth fairway is off our deck.”

Does he remember? Bill wants to. “Media room with theater seating?”

“That’s right.” She squeezes his hand. “How about this?” Ava pulls a photo array from her purse and hands it to Bill.

His motor function skills are improving. He holds the sixpack line-up with no trouble.

“Recognize anyone?”

Bill scans the black-and-white non-smiling faces. Like DMV photos. Short dark hair. Darker eyes. Eastern Europeans? Something familiar about the guy on the top left.

“Dmitry Su—no, Sidirov. He works—worked in the Belarus Intelligence Directorate. I ran him when I was Assistant Station Chief. Feels like yesterday. Sidirov was the key to…”

“What’s wrong?” Ava asks.

Bill yawns. “I’m tired all of a sudden.”

“Take a nap.” Ava pats his hand. “I’ll be back later.”

***

“Ava” stands in front of the one-way mirror watching a sleeping Bill. “Do you think he suspects?”

“If he does, we’ll give him another shot of jumble juice,” her supervisor says. “That will scramble his brain, erase any doubts. In the meantime, I’ve dispatched K-Unit to arrest Sidirov. Good work.”

Ava’s lips curl into a cruel smile. “I look forward to what secrets Assistant CIA Station Chief William Royster will reveal next.”