“Connie, have you lost your marbles? You think I’m inviting you to live with me for money? I just feel sorry for you, that’s all.”
Connie sat in his wheelchair, staring through the grimy hospital window at the empty courtyard below. The view was bleaka small, tidy garden with benches and flowerbeds, but no people. Winter had settled in, and patients rarely ventured outside. For the past week, hed been alone in the ward. His roommate, Jake Timson, had been discharged, and without him, the place felt hollow.
Jake had been lively, full of jokes, and could spin a story like a proper actorwhich he was, studying drama at university. With him around, boredom was impossible. Worse still, Jakes mum visited daily, bringing homemade cakes and sweets, which he always shared. Without him, the ward lost its warmth, and Connie had never felt more alone.
His gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a nursenot the sweet young Daisy he liked, but the perpetually scowling Edith Harper. In two months at the hospital, Connie had never seen her smile. Her voice matched her expression: sharp, rough, unpleasant.
“Stop lazing about. Into bed!” she barked, gripping a syringe.
Connie sighed, wheeled himself over, and let her maneuver him onto the mattress. Edith flipped him onto his stomach with practiced efficiency.
“Trousers down,” she ordered. He obeyed and feltnothing. Edith gave painless injections, at least.
“Wonder how old she is?” he mused, watching her trace the veins in his thin arm. “Retirement age, surely. Probably working still because the pensions rubbish. No wonder shes always cross.”
The needle slipped in with only a slight sting.
“All done. Seen the doctor today?” she asked, already gathering her things.
“Not yet,” Connie muttered. “Might come later.”
“Then wait. And dont sit by the windowyoull catch a chill. Skinny as a rake.”
She left before he could bristle. There was something almost caring beneath her gruffnessnot that hed know.
Connie was an orphan. His parents had died when he was foura fire in their countryside cottage. He was the only survivor, left with a badly healed burn on his shoulder and wrist where his mother, in her last act, had thrown him through a window into the snow. The roof collapsed moments later, burying everyone else.
He remembered little of themjust fragments. His mothers softness, her dreamy green eyes. His fathers height, his long strides, his knack for numbers. Sometimes, memories surfaced like flickers of an old film: a village fair, waving a flag, sitting on his fathers shoulders in the summer breeze. Thered been a ginger cat, tooMarmalade? He couldnt recall. The fire had taken everything, even the photo albums.
At eighteen, the state gave him a room in a student dormitory. He liked the solitudeuntil loneliness gnawed at him like a starving thing. Watching families in parks or shops twisted something inside him.
After school, hed hoped for university but fell short. College was better, though. He liked his course. But his quiet nature left him friendlessbooks and journals more appealing than nights out or video games. Girls preferred louder, bolder boys. At eighteen, he still looked sixteen.
Two months ago, rushing to class, hed slipped in an icy underpass. Both legs broke. The fractures were bad, healing slowly. But now, finally, he was being discharged.
Dr. Abramsonthe orthopedistdelivered the news: “Your bones are mending, lad. A few more weeks on crutches, then youll walk. No sense staying hereoutpatient care now. Someone meeting you?”
Connie nodded.
“Good. Edithll help pack. Stay out of trouble.”
The moment the door shut, panic set in. His dorm had no lift, no ramps. How would he manage?
Edith returned, tossing him his rucksack. “Well? Pack up.”
She caught his hesitation. “Whyd you lie to the doctor? No ones coming.”
“Ill manage,” he mumbled.
“Dont be daft. You cant walk yet.”
“Its fine.”
She sat beside him, voice softening. “Connie, you need help. Lets not pretend.”
He bristled. “Why do you care?”
“Because I do. Stay with me. Ive a spare room. Country housetwo steps to the porch. No fuss.”
He blinked. Live with her? They were strangers.
“Youre hesitating why?” she pressed.
“Its… awkward.”
“More awkward than being stranded in a wheelchair? Yes or no?”
He wavered. She wasnt so bad, really. All these months, beneath the sharpness, shed looked out for him”Eat your pudding, its got calcium,” “Close the window, youll catch cold.” Now, she was the only one offering help.
“Alright,” he whispered. “But Ive no moneystudent loans not due yet.”
She stiffened. “Connie, you think Id charge you? Im not running a B&B!”
“I didnt mean”
“Enough. Well leave when my shift ends.”
Her cottage was small, cozy. Two rooms, one his. At first, he barely left it, too shy to ask for anything.
“Stop moping,” she snapped. “Youre not a guest.”
He grew to love itsnowdrifts outside, the crackle of the fireplace, the smell of her cooking. It felt like home.
Weeks passed. The wheelchair went, then the crutches. Time to return to the city.
After a check-up, limping beside her, he fretted about exams. “Ive lost so much time.”
“Take a gap year,” she said. “Bones heal slower if you rush.”
Theyd grown close. Too close. The thought of leaving ached.
The next day, packing, he caught her crying in his doorway. Without thinking, he hugged her.
“Stay,” she whispered.
He did. Years later, she sat as mother of the groom at his wedding. A year after that, she cradled his newborn daughternamed Edith.
