Read Online Translator by Nina Schuyler - Free Book Online Page A

nine. She’d have spent a good hour in the tub reading, her whole body submerged, just the orb of her face and the hand holding the book exposed. Now Hanne tries to sit up to see, inching her back on the soft pillow, carefully.
    She hears not a woman’s voice, but a man’s. The man is speaking Polish. Not just one man. Now a woman. Have they been here the entire time? The room smells of barbecue chicken.
    Tomas takes up his position as guardian and inquisitor of those who dare approach. He can stay as long as she likes, he tells her. All his work has been assigned to other attorneys. Anne and the kids are coming in a couple days. He thought it might raise her spirits to see her grandchildren.
    He pauses. “Do you understand?”
    She nods, looking at the knife crease of his trousers, and he squeezes her limp hand.
    When a nurse comes into the room, he leaps out of his chair. “Is everything being done for her?”
    The nurse with puffy eyelids assures him she is receiving the best care.
    He leans over Hanne, as if he’s preparing to kiss her cheek. “Why is she black and blue around her eyes? Those big scoops of color.”
    The nurse explains it’s from her broken nose.
    When she leaves, Tomas sits again and adjusts her blankets. The TV blares from the other side of the room. The room erupts in awful canned laughter. A grunt from behind the curtain, the Polish woman’s voice, angry, loud. The man answers in turn, louder. Now that Tomas is here, she’s listening more closely, as if she, too, has just entered the room. She realizes the Poles have been here the entire time; she just blocked them out by lumping them together with the dreadful drone of the TV. Tomas’s jaw flares. “How can you stand this?” he says.
    He charges out of the room.
    How can she stand this? The same way you stand anything that isn’t under your dominion to change—you accept it and move on.
    But does she really accept any of this? No! She feels a fresh wave of fury. The couple behind the curtain is arguing. Tomas returns stern-faced with a new nurse in tow, who isn’t smiling. Tomas gathers her few belongings from the narrow closet. A hefty man appears with a gurney. A private room, her son tells her. He’s paying for it, whatever it costs, he doesn’t care. She wishes she could hug him and say “Thank you. Thank you. God bless you.”
    â€œDon’t cry, Mom,” he says, wiping her face with a tissue.
    She’s moved to the south wing and the new room is four times as large, with shiny wood floors, big windows, a view of the city, white and gold lights twinkling, as if showing off for her. The other side of the hospital, from where she just came, is an impoverished country, on the verge of anarchy and revolution. Here, there’s beauty and peace and a stunning view. Even marigolds on a table by the window. And a private bathroom.
    In the morning, another MRI is taken. The result reveals less swelling. “We should see improvement soon,” says the doctor.
    We. As if somehow they’re in this together. The doctor is up and about, and here she lies like a rotting log, speechless. She knows she’s in a gloomy mood. He’s doing all he can for her; she must not yield to her dark feelings. Patience. This will change. It will have to change. Jiro’s words, she recognizes them, spoken right before his wife crashed into the garage, right before his life did, indeed, change.
    She reminds herself that there has been improvement. She can now move her hands and legs. And here is her son bringing her orange juice, blueberries, and a newspaper. But the words on the front page keep moving on top of each other, then floating around, blurry, as if they are caught in a heat wave. How will she work again? More than anything she wants her old life back. She pushes the paper away. With a shaky hand she writes Please call school. Tell them what happened.