3. Polina
Polina
I wake up warm.
The air smells of lavender and clean cotton, not of the bucket I use for a toilet in the corner of my concrete cell.
I feel actual sheets beneath me, a pillow under my head, and a mattress that’s like a cloud.
Either I’ve been moved or I died.
Something tugs at my left hand. I crack one eye. An IV line runs up to a bag of clear fluid on a stand.
I’m trying to figure out what’s going on when a woman's voice says, gently, “Hello. You’re safe here.”
She's middle-aged, silver threading through dark hair, reading glasses on a chain. A doctor's coat over a cardigan. Kind eyes — though I've been fooled by kind eyes before.
"My name is Dr. Rossi. May I check your vitals?"
I stare at her.
Not because the question is complicated. Because she's standing there with her stethoscope, waiting—actually waiting—for my answer, as though I might say no, as though no is a word that exists for me.
"Um," I say, brilliantly. "Yes?"
She narrates everything as she works—pressure cuff now, little squeeze; cold stethoscope, sorry. I’m still a bit groggy, but I make out a few things. Portable X-ray. Fluids. Dehydration. Malnutrition. Rest.
I don't completely trust her, but I want to cry from how nice she is. I don’t, because I am extremely well-trained.
Where am I? Somewhere expensive.
My memory comes back in torn pieces—a lock giving way, a large shape filling the whole doorway of my cell. A deep, unhurried voice telling me I’m safe.
Him. I remember him.
Something in my belly flows like warm honey at the memory, a sweet ache. I have no idea why, because men have never once meant anything good for me.
My body, however, seems not to care.
I have so many questions.
Did he buy me? Does he own me now? When does he collect?
“The man who brought me here,” I ask with a voice still worn down to almost nothing, "what does he... That is, what will he expect from me? As payment?”
Dr. Rossi's hands go still on the blood pressure cuff. A look passes over her face. Anger?
"You are here to heal," she says. It sounds like an order. "Nothing is expected of you. Nothing will be. On that, you can trust me.”
When she sees the skepticism in my face, she adds, “If you’re not able to trust me yet, simply watch and see."
Watch and see.
She removes the IV and helps me into the shower.
The water runs gray at first, then clear, and I stand under the hot spray for a long time. When I emerge, I notice the bed has been stripped and remade, and there's a nightgown laid out. Silk. In my size.
Freshly showered for the first time in over a week, I slip between the clean sheets.
Vigilance is important.
I’ll should stay awake until I know it's safe…
I’m asleep before I finish the thought.