John Karaplis

Internment

                I analyze the tray in front of my face and consider the best angle of approach. A blueberry muffin sits in the left corner closest to me while a small plastic carafe holds an unassuming half cup of cranberry juice. In the middle a bowl caresses the most depressing box of corn flakes I’ve ever seen in my life. A smiling kangaroo adorns the side of the box, maniacal and bloodthirsty. His pallid yellow skin perfectly complements the drab walls of this place. His eyes are fixed on me, like he’s already anticipating how amusing I’ll look trying to eat what he’s hiding.

                What’s funny is I ordered scrambled eggs, pancakes, and coffee- all of which are decidedly absent from this lovely tray of crud.

                “Can I get you anything else?” the boy in the green shirt asks. He’s the one that brought this here, carrying it in on one hand while he wiped his nose on the opposite shoulder.  His hair is greasy and his stubble announces that he hasn’t shaved in a week.

Typical hospital dietary worker.

“There’s no milk on this plate,” I tell him. How the hell do they expect me to eat this shit without milk?

“You’d like some milk?” he echoes like some genius parrot.

“Milk would be lovely.”

“Skim or 2%?” he asks.

“Whatever you’ve got will be fine. 2% will be fine.” Like I care what he brings me. I don’t know why this kid didn’t bring milk with my cereal in the first place, but it wasn’t like I was expecting five star service here anyway.

“I’ll bring you some 2% then,” he answers. I smile against my better judgment and give a tiny nod to signify he’s finally hit the mark. My eyes flit side to side as he stands there and stares at me holding that terribly fake smile for almost a full ten seconds.

“Just get the goddamn milk,” my husband says, rising from his bed. I can hear the boy gulp as he turns and leaves, startled by my husband’s charm.

About time.

“You didn’t have to talk to him like that,” I say. “The boy was only doing his job.”

“His job isn’t to stare at my wife like she’s some kind of freak show.”

“It’s alright. He’s probably just not used to seeing women dressed like I am out and about in a place like this.” That was probably true. I was wearing a see-through nightie and a pair of baggy shorts, with nothing underneath either.

“How do you think that makes me feel?” my husband asks.

He was an oaf. I married him out of necessity. Since the accident he’s had to come into the hospital every few months to have his heart shocked back into its rhythm.

We are bound by our history, our lives irreversibly linked.

“Just lie back down. Don’t wear yourself out. I’m in this because it’s comfortable. You never had any objections until now.”

He does just as I tell him, though afterwards he sports a rather nasty look.

I begin at my muffin. My stomach has finally given in and I can’t wait any longer.

When the boy walks back in he looks first at me, then at my husband, and then at me again. I am face-down in my muffin, and the paper wrapping around its bottom half is giving me far more trouble than the cardboard-tasting abomination is worth. I look at the boy without even turning my head. I must look like some gnarled up old woman, fallen on the ground, craning my neck in some unnatural plea for help.

“Your milk,” the boy says, walking towards me. He places it down and then hesitates as he pulls his arm away. I continue to stare, lapping at the crumbs dotting the tray like a starving dog.

“I’ll pour it for you,” the boy says. Damn right you will, I think.

“God bless you,” I tell him. My husband is drilling a hole into the back of the boy’s head with a vicious stare. I smile a bit at the sight of it. My husband is jealous he doesn’t get to pour my milk.

The boy smiles an awkward smile, starts to walk away, and then asks, “Do you need your spoon, or would you like me to get that out of your way?”

At this I raise my head and laugh, sprinkling bits of muffin onto my lap as they are shaken from the shudder of my chin.

“He’ll feed me,” I say, tilting my head in the direction of my husband’s bed. The oaf smiles a little bit, narrowing his eyes toward the boy like he’s been in some twisted way justified by my three words.

The boy looks at him, nods a fractured nod, and walks away.

“The service here is terrible,” my husband mutters before the boy is out of earshot.

I stand, walk around to the opposite end of my table, and use my shoulder to push the bowl of cereal towards where I was sitting. I smile, noticing I didn’t spill a single precious drop.

“They’re just doing their best,” I tell my husband. I try and act nice; I try to act innocent as much as I can. People with disabilities are scorned when they’re bitter. I’m bitter- I’m very fucking bitter- but I act like some kind of twisted Mother Teresa, some kind of mutilated martyr. My husband takes care of everything I need out of his sense of guilt and regret. He was driving when we got in the accident. We weren’t married then. We knew each other; we’d dated, but weren’t very close. When I lost my right arm I told him I forgave him. In my heart I hated every inch of him. He stayed with me while I was recovering.

When they took my left arm I forced myself to cry and told him I’d be fine, I’d somehow find a way to live my life. God had given me another chance, I told him, and I’d do my best to make something of it. That’s when he told me he wanted to marry me, to take care of me after what he’d done. And despite my “you-don’t-have-to-you-really-don’t-have-to’s,” that’s exactly what I wanted. To be the angel and make him the endless sinner and have him bound to me through his guilt and obligation. To make his life almost the hell that he’d made mine.

If only he’d been watching the road, he wouldn’t be here. If only he’d seen the semi as we were heading down the on ramp I’d still be able to wear something besides nighties and loose fitting shorts. I’d be able to actually put on a shirt instead of having to position myself under a hanger and force my body to hold up fabric with nothing to anchor it but shoulder and collarbone. I wouldn’t have fractured every bone in my upper body or seen the joints of my elbows stick out through threads of my skin like I was a goddamn marionette. I wouldn’t have to lap up my cereal like a fucking animal.

He got out of it with little more than some scratches and a few bruised ribs. His heart was damaged and I’d hoped he’d die, but through the power of medicine he’s here, alive and well. It’s his fault, and I know it, and he thinks I think he’s a saint. That bastard.

I grimace and almost choke on my hate, and then sit back down and suck a little milk from the bowl.

“They’re just doing their best. God bless them,” I tell him again. “God bless them,” I say.