Can You Hear Me?

Evelyn feels invisible. She may as well be.

I’m in the middle of a good dream. I push myself down into my warm covers, wanting to make it last. Something’s bothering me. What is it? Something hot, and bright. I slowly open my eyes. It’s sunlight, flooding in through a six-inch gap between the flowered pink drapes in my room. Someone didn’t bother to pull them all the way shut on their way out the door last night.

What day is it? Sunday, I think. If it’s Sunday, I want my New York Times.

I’m stiff. I try to move my legs under layers of blankets. One leg moves. The other is numb. I must have slept on it wrong. I squint, trying to see the clock, but it’s too small and too far away. I’m guessing, though, it’s too early to get up yet. Maybe I’ll just —

“Evelyn! Evelyn! Good morning!” Someone sing-songs. “It’s time to get up!”

Two young nurse’s aides burst into the room, bringing the scent of eggs and toast in with them. But I don’t want to get up. I don’t have to get up. Do I?

Abruptly, one of the aides grasps the top panel of the cotton blanket covering me and pulls it back with a matador-like flourish. I cringe involuntarily as cold air hits my bare stomach. Why is it so cold? I look down to see my nightgown, twisted like a snake around my body during the night, bunched up under my armpit…