Third Writing Prize Winner –
WINTER 2023 – 2024
is Becka Free
of Benicia, California – USA
FORGETTABLE
By Becka Free
A heavy pouch full of warm liquid is affixed to my leg with a Velcro band. The fibers of which are tugging at the curly hairs on my calf. Mornings are when I am the most cognizant of where I am. My mind hasn’t yet been overstimulated from the various human interactions that will occur throughout the day.
The room feels comfortably lived in with bedding that hasn’t been changed in a few days and generic home goods meticulously placed throughout the space, despite all of the machines and constant murmuring of a few nurses stationed outside my door. I must be in a long-term care facility and not a hospital. The color has faded on the framed painting of elephants that is hung on the wall across from my bed. The person responsible for selecting the room wall art went with the cheapest option they could find at a local flea market or garage sale. Either way, this room is most definitely not that painting’s first home. Each of the other rooms probably has something similarly drab, like a basket of fruit or a sunset over the ocean.
The rest of the room is void of any personal decorations; no family photos on my bedside table next to the digital alarm clock that looks to be from the 90s, placed there for the few remaining people without access to cell phones.
The reason I am here, well, that remains consistently fuzzy.
Entering abruptly without knocking, is a young woman wearing crisp white scrubs and matching white sneakers without a drop of human excrement on them. Either she is new here or she’s impeccably careful, as this job likely comes with its fair share of bodily fluids. Although, it is her hair with these wild, unkempt red curls that strike me.
The people I meet don’t seem to mind my forgetfulness. Dealing with people unable to remember meeting them is what they signed up for. It would still be in my best interest to at least pretend that I recognize the nurse who will be changing my catheter.
Her name tag says “Deborah.” So, I take a chance and thank “Debbie” for handling my mess. There is no way of knowing if she loves or hates being called Debbie, but the woman is responsible for my excrement, Therefore, I think that has put us on a nickname basis.
Page1
“It’s no problem, Dale, happy to be of service,” she shares with a wink.
I guess my name is Dale.
Learn something new every day.
“Is Dale really my name, or are you pulling my leg?” It would have been a creative tactic for her to check my state of mind today.
“Well, Dale is the name you gave me on my first day here, so whether or not it is your real name, it’s the only one I’ve got.”
She is funny. I like that about her. I wish I could remember that I like her when I see her next.
Occasionally I am gifted with the feint shadow of what might have been a memory, such as when my body recognizes a song playing and I can hum along. Or my stomach recoils at the smell of the dinner they bring me on a plastic tray, and I know that the same dish probably made me sick at one point in my life.
There is a chess set on a small table across the room, pieces unmoved from their starting position. It seems like a cruel joke to leave a two-person game for someone who spends his time alone. Even with Debbie in the room, I am all too aware that she is only here because it is her job. I feel the loneliness that comes from realizing I haven’t had any visitors, except those who are paid to do so.
“Debbie, may I call you that?”
“Sure thing, Dale, you can call me Debbie.”
Her tone is not of annoyance. She seems to let me know that we are acquainted. I have probably asked her this, many times before.
“Would you like to play some chess?”
She looks at the chess set a few feet away from my bed and when she turns her face back, it’s one I remember well. I used to receive the same polite expression from women looking to turn me down softly. A mixture of sympathy, but also a hint of feminine concern which I might have a temper at their rejection.
“Oh, Dale, you know I wish I could, but I have a lot of other rooms to get to this morning. People don’t like it when I leave their pans sitting out too long in the morning, you know? But maybe we can play a game later this evening.”
I will have forgotten that I asked by the evening, but she knows this.
Page 2
“That sounds great, Debbie. It’s a date.” I offer with a wink to alleviate any guilt she might be feeling. Her returned smile is more withdrawn as she quietly returns to her checklist to complete before moving on to the next patient.
I consider turning on the television only to have some noise fill the quiet room. Daytime is the best time to watch tv since there are so many commercials. The actual shows are too long and I inevitably forget where the story began before it ends.
As I look around the room for a remote control, a strange woman with wild red hair moves to the side of my bed, and begins fluffing the pillows underneath my head.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” I must have been especially drunk last night because I don’t recall inviting a woman home with me. But she seems comfortable leaning over my bed to adjust my pillow, pressing her breasts against my shoulder.
“My wife could come home at any moment, you have to get out,” I try to make my voice stern without being rude.
“Shhh, it’s okay Dale, I am just going to finish taking your vitals,” the strange woman replies, as she starts to wrap a blood pressure cuff around my arm.
“Look, darlin’, I am sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, but you should leave now.” Moisture is building up in my palms. Pressure from the armband is tightening with each pump of her hand on the adjacent ball. Jerking my arm away, I feel the pinch of a metal bracket around my wrist.
“What the fuck? Take this off!” I am yanking at the handcuffs that connect my arm to the side of the bed, ratting the metal together.
“Dale, if you don’t calm down, I will bring in security, and you know they will be less gentle with you than I am being now.” She takes a step back to create some distance between us. Her demeanor remains calm, but a pulsing vein in her neck gives her away. My fingers flex with the desire to wrap my hand around her small throat.
Having heard the commotion, a large man in a security uniform enters the room. Without acknowledging me, he turns to the woman and asks, “You good, Deb?”
She looks at me and tilts her head questioningly as if the question is as much for me to respond to as it is for her.
I nod in response.
Page 3
“Yeah, all good.”
He doesn’t leave.
“Dale, I need you to take a deep breath and listen. I am your nurse; my name is Deborah. You call me Debbie. You are at the Pacific Head & Neurological Trauma Center. Do you understand what I am saying?”
The guard has now placed his hand on the gun at his hip. While he stares me down, he is giving me a warning, though I have no idea for what.
Again, I nod.
“Okay, then. I will let you rest and shall return in a few hours to finish checking your vitals.”
The burly security guard lingers a few seconds longer while staring me down before following her into the hall. His face is meant to be a threat. But a corner of his lip lifts just enough to reveal how he would like nothing more than for me to step out of line, and give him a reason.
Left alone in the room, I tried piecing together why I was there. However, I was distracted by the throbbing pain above my right ear, making it difficult to focus on anything.
The clock to my right reads 3:14 pm, and my stomach gurgles with hunger pangs.
It is completely dark outside the small window encased with metal bars. Looking back to my right, the alarm clock reads 7:48 pm. My stomach feels full and I have the lingering taste of meatloaf on my tongue, though I don’t remember eating anything today.
I wonder if whoever bought me food stayed for a while. I hope we shared a laugh.
“Sit up, Dale. Take these,” a nurse with curly red hair abruptly yanks me from my sleep with impatience. Her name tag reads “Deborah”.
“Sure, Debbie, anything for you,” I try to offer her my friendliest grin. It does nothing to remove the scowl on her face. I wonder if she hates the nickname.
“I apologize, do you not like being called Debbie?”
“You can call me as Nurse Deborah.”
“Of course. Nurse Deborah.” I try my most charming grin on her but she seems to be intentionally avoiding my line of sight. She must be uncomfortable around sick people. Not a very good quality in a nurse.
Page 4
“I apologize, if I have said something to offend you. I would be more specific in my apology if I could…”
“Just let me do my job, okay Dale?” she interrupts.
She removes the bag from my calf to empty in the bathroom, leaving behind a tray with an assortment of medical items meticulously placed; syringes, extra gloves, and nearly hidden in the corner is a folded newspaper that looks worn, like it is a few weeks old.
The only visible headline for my line of sight reads:
Man kills wife and children before turning gun on himself; remains in critical condition.
Learn something new every day, I think to myself.
Using my left hand, as my right is handcuffed to the bed, I push the newspaper off her tray so that it falls onto the floor and out of sight. By tomorrow, I will have forgotten it was ever there.
# # #
About the author:
My journey with writing began at age 10 when I submitted a handwritten poem by mail to a writing competition and won. I mostly enjoy writing fiction and also find joy in any opportunity to put pen to paper. I have a Bachelor’s degree in English and History and a Master’s in English Literature. I have spent time professionally with a Shakespeare theater and taught college-level English Composition before transitioning into my current work in the nonprofit space.
Professionally, I am the CEO of a nationally recognized nonprofit that serves people experiencing homelessness. I have been honored as a top 40 under 40 Person in San Francisco and have received recognition from the Mayor of San Francisco and the Governor of California.
I run an online support community for people who are coping with infertility and pregnancy loss.
I enjoy hiking, puzzling, baking, and traveling. While my favorite place in the world is London, my second favorite place is in my reading chair next to my dog, Tonks. ~Becka Free
