"Hold my hand,"
he breathed.
The sagging skin on my forearm flapped as I raised
the claw Time left me. Blotchy flesh looked worse against the
hospital bedsheet. My thin voice stung my ears, so I whispered. "I
don't have a hand. I just have wrinkles."
His eyes glistened.
"You have a beautiful hand," he choked. "That hand
saved lives."
"And struck children, and broke wedding
vows, and--" Whine, whine. Instead of my sonorous alto I heard a
demoness, accusations rising to a screech. Everything trembled, and
my heart-beat pounded in my ears. "And let babies die, and--"
This is a panic
attack. I catalogued the fact. That was all I could do. The demon
went on.
"I don't want to die!" The scream ended in
hacking sobs, but dried-out eyes can't make tears. I hate this self.
I catalogued that, too.
"Please hold my hand," he
croaked.
"I don't have a hand!"
"I do."
I looked at his hand, sprawling oversized on his forearm
like a cartoon character's. I remembered his muscles used to flex,
round and fertile like South America, but I couldn't remember his
name. 60 years, but no name. Pathetic. My chest ached; I finally felt
tears. My nose ran--I knew he could see.
"It's okay,
Jen."
"My wrinkles, he won't take these wrinkles...and I
forgot again," I squeaked.
"I'm Brian. I'll hold your
wrinkles."
I exhaled. "Brian."
"Can I hold
your pretty hand now?"
I nodded.
He took my hand.