Read Online Translator by Nina Schuyler - Free Book Online

cocooned in the white tube, will orbit the earth forever, for why should she take up any more room on the planet? What use is she?
    Suddenly she is surrounded by pounding. A perfectly designed punishment, given her keen hearing. And why must she suffer this way? There is no reason. And just as quickly, the pounding stops. She hears herself breathing. Rapidly. Panting. As soon as she thinks the torture is over, the pounding begins again. Stops. Again. Again.
    â€œHanne Schubert.”
    The four syllables float above her, then slowly fall, like raindrops. Their texture feels familiar, both mellifluous and hard. A puff of air, a hush, a full-voiced stop. Her mind runs over and over the sounds, finding them immensely pleasurable. She’s always believed words to be music and her name, she thinks now, is evidence of that.
    The gray-haired doctor says the ambulance driver had had enough smarts to pick up her purse. And what luck, inside they found her driver’s license and an address book. Her name is Hanne Schubert. “We’ve contacted your son. He’ll be here later today.”
    She has been named, words bonded to the subject. She has a name. She’s half listening—“head trauma, left frontal lobe,” busy running the four syllables of her name through her mind, like stroking smooth silk. “Confusion, impaired motor functions, aphasia, all quite normal. Your brain is likely swollen.” Han ne Shu bert. “—watch for intracranial hemorrhaging, but so far, a scan—as a precaution,” Han ne “—inserting a small tube—a fifteen-minute procedure.” A name, a beautiful name. “—relieve the pressure by removing spinal fluid.” Her eyes are watery, she is weeping. Hanne. “As the brain finds its normal shape—faculties return, most likely.” Something about pain medication, a speech language pathologist. Her mother had had the good sense not to christen her with a name hurtful to the ear. Like her mother’s name, Dorca. Hanne Schubert. Han ne. Her mother had met a Swedish woman by the name of Hanne, a woman full of poise, intelligence, charm, and something else. A quick smile? No, Dorca wouldn’t care about that. From the chaotic clutter of her mind comes this memory; her name has a meaning. “Grace,” unmerited divine assistance. If there is a God, she thinks, now would be a fine time to make an appearance and bring to fruition the full meaning of her name.
    For the first time, the doctor smiles. A dimple in his right cheek. In his earlier years, before he witnessed over and over the tragedy of the human body, he must have been quite handsome. He rests his hand on her shoulder. “There, there, it’ll be all right, Hanne Schubert.”
    Thank you. She may or may not have said that out loud. But she says it again. Thank you.
    It’s late when her son rushes into her room. Prior to his arrival, she remembers being rolled into a bright white room and out again. The doctor came and went, telling her they had relieved some of the pressure. “So now we’re in the wait-and-see mode,” he said.
    Tomas’s face is white as paper, and with the lines of worry on his forehead, around his tired eyes, he’s aged ten years. What is she doing to her son? He pulls up a chair and takes her hand in his. “Mom, what can I get you? What do you need?” His voice sounds like hard shoes racing over cobblestones. When was the last time she walked on cobblestones? Prague? She can’t remember. You cannot rush on cobblestones.
    She senses that someone else is in the room. Brigitte? She thinks she smells Brigitte’s hair, or what used to be the scent of her shampoo—lavender. An image comes to her: Hanne on her knees in the bathroom, soaping Brigitte’s long black hair with shampoo, Brigitte’s face tilted to the ceiling so the suds didn’t run into her eyes. She must have been eight or