Watch the Flowers (standard:other, 2575 words)
Author: Jen	Added: Mar 22 2006	Views/Reads: 2862/2016	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Eleanor finds herself at the brink of insanity as she discovers herself wounded in the middle of a deserted field and no memory of the cause. Charlie, a shady homely man, comes to her rescue mysteriously...

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

“That's a beautiful name, Eleanor.” 

“Thank you.” They were moving along a rural country road now. Fields
spread out as far as the eye could see. The dirt road coated her lungs 
with dust they kicked up, it billowed around them. 

“Where... are...we going?” Eleanor asked. 

“Trying to find a phone, or a car, or a house,” he answered, breathing
heavily from supporting her weight. 

“My head ... it hurts,” she said in monotone. 

“We're going to take care of you alright,” he soothed. She smiled. The
sun was beginning to peak over the horizon, solitary beams of light 
kissed upon the silent earth. The grey of morning seeped beneath the 
dirt. Pebbles crunched beneath their sluggish steps. Her head hurt, her 
arms, and legs hurt, her mind hurt. What happened? Where was I? Who is 
this man? 

“Who...what's...I mean...your name..." she asked, stumbling over her
tongue. 

“Charlie, Charlie Eads.” 

“Eads..." she tried out. 

“Yeah, it's Scottish.” 

“Kilts...Braveheart..." He smiled at her. Dust billowed in the distance.
The roaring of an engine echoed in the distance, carousing hope in the 
depths of both Charlie and Eleanor. The car drew nearer. 

“Hey! Over here!” shouted Charlie, waving one of his free arms. The car
slowed and stopped several feet in front of them. Charlie hurried them 
both to the driver's window. A man of about fifty poked his head out 
and gaped at the pair. His hair was combed back and slicked with 
grease. His forehead was shiny, she could make out her reflection. 

“Jesus! What happened to her head?” the driver exclaimed. 

“I have no idea, we need to get her to a hospital,” said Charlie,
stumbling under her weight. The car's exhaust choked her. The clouds 
passed slowly overhead. 

“Christ, the nearest one is about an hour from here,” said the driver. 

“Could you take us?” 

“I dunno, I got work and all,” the elderly man scratched his head. 

“Fuck work! She's going to die!” Charlie shouted. Eleanor watched this
all in a state neither here nor there. She was calm. The pain in her 
head was somehow separated from her body. She felt at peace, no 
urgency, just a desperate need to sleep. The driver jumped out of the 
car and opened the back door for the two. Charlie laid Eleanor across 
the backseat and ran around to the passenger's side. The door slammed. 
She felt newspapers and some odd hard objects beneath her. But all of 
her knowledge was of the familiar indifference. Indifference to life or 
death, to the outcome, to the next moment. Floating, high on and above 
the clouds, weightlessness. Extreme freedom. Radical elation. 
Blackness. 

“Shit, she's out again!” Charlie yelled. 

White...everywhere. White sheets, white curtains, white walls, white
clothes, white shoes, white floors. It was so bright, so sickening, she 
wanted to tear the whiteness apart. Shred it, make it feel the intense 
pain she suffered now. Eleanor's long mahogany hair sprawled out over 
the sheets, contrasting greatly with the white. She tried to move 
again, she couldn't. An IV was attached to her arm, needles made her 
nervous. She felt as if the long tube paralyzed her. Her fetters. Her 
chains. 

“Miss Gardner?” said a nurse clad in white. More white. She wanted to
kill it. . She rolled over towards the nurse, her brittle frame 
threatened to break. 

“Yes?” her voice belonged to someone else, to a sick person, to a cancer
patient, not her own. 

“How do you feel?” the nurse asked cheerfully, like she was expecting
Eleanor to answer in the same manner. The nurse had her silver hair 
tied neatly in a bun. She wore vibrant makeup. Perhaps she was sick of 
the white too. 

“Confused and shitty,” Eleanor answered tonelessly. 

“Oh, poor dear, we'll have the doctor come in soon, you'll have to tell
him what happened. The young man that brought you in didn't know...” 

"It's not...I...I...can't remember!" she exclaimed, everything that had
happened flowed into her mind, like an opened dam. Charlie, the grey 
eyes, the grass and dirt, the man in the car, Charlie's warm hands... 

“Ah, wait just a moment,” said the nurse and moved to walk out. 

“Wait!” The nurse turned around, “The man that brought me. Is he...still
here?” 

“In the waiting area...” the nurse nodded, “been there all of the six
hours you've slept.” 

“...shit...” she breathed. The nurse walked out. Eleanor laid back in
the bed. Time washed over her. Hospital sounds echoed through the hall 
and into her room. Busy footsteps, cries of pain, shuffling of papers, 
a orchestra of beeping noises, a vending machine's buzzing. She had to 
pee. But she couldn't move. She was suspended by the IV, this 
immobilizing manacle. She heard footsteps, slapping against the 
linoleum floor. A doctor cloaked in white walked in. He moved around 
the curtain that quarantined her, with a clipboard permanently attached 
to his hand. His shadow loomed over her, casting a certain final 
darkness over the white sheets. He moved close to her face. 

“Miss Gardner?” he asked. His breath stunk of old coffee. The name on
his coat read: Dr. Heland Begals mD. She nodded. Sleep threatened to 
take over, she could feel dark circles forming beneath her lower lids. 
“Could I ask you a few questions?” 

“Only if you have some answers,” she replied. 

“What is your full name?” he asked, not looking at her, but at the
clipboard. 

“Eleanor Elaine Gardner.” 

“What is your date of birth?” 

“August second, nineteen-eighty-five.” 

“Husband, any children we should notify of your whereabouts?” 

“No,” she answered softly. 

“Your mother and father's name?” 

“David and Lily Gardner. My mother passed not too long ago.” 

“Sorry to hear,” he said in a voice that did not sound sorry at all.
This coming from a man who was surrounded by death and illness at every 
moment, didn't faze her. He was numb, he probably was the kind of man 
that got absorbed in work and neglected his family. Maybe his wife had 
left him. “What was the cause of death?” he continued. 

“Suicide. She threw herself off their apartment complex.” Dr. Begals
looked up. 

“Oh..." he regained his composure, clearing his throat. "Any history of
illness, disease? Heart attack, stroke?” 

“Not that I know of.” 

“Any allergies we should be aware of?” 

“Bee stings...amoxicillin.” 

“Ok,” he scribbled all this down on his clipboard, “Now, tell me what
happened.” 

“How about you tell me what happened.” 

“Don't you remember?” More questions, she'd been through all this. No,
she couldn't fucking remember! Nothing, not one thing, of how she ended 
up in some random field in the middle of nowhere. 

“No.” She answered simply, an overwhelming fatigue gripped at her. The
reluctance to explain nearly choked all other emotion. She felt sick. 
Sick and Tired. Sick and unwilling. Stubborn. 

“Well, let's start off with the injuries.” 

“Ok.” 

“You have had massive trauma to the head, brought on by a blow around
the upper left-hand-side.” She reached up and touched the same spot as 
before. Her fingers contacted a bandage she hadn't noticed before. The 
gauzy material seemed to constrict her thoughts. 

“I...” 

“And several bruises on your forearms,” the doctor finished. She reached
over, the IV gave a slight jerk, she retracted and felt the needle 
inside of her. 

“You can move with the IV,” said the doctor, sensing her difficulty. 

“Yeah,” she moved slowly, and pulled up her sleeve. And there were
slightly yellowed and black and blue markings, in the shape of fingers, 
lacing up her pale arms. 

“God...” she breathed. 

“Yes. So tell me what you remember.” The sick feeling returned. What if
she couldn't? What if she refused? What if the world just ended right 
then? The story came spilling out of mouth without warning. 

“I drove to my father's house in West Chester yesterday afternoon, from
my apartment in Paoli. I go to Immaculata.” The doctor nodded. 

“He called that morning and said he missed me, that I didn't come by
enough. So I made plans to drive down that afternoon, and when I got 
there, my dad let me in and we had coffee and talked. I told him about 
school, but he wasn't really listening. I could tell, he never really 
listens to anything anymore. I don't think he's gotten over Mom's 
death.” The doctor's eyes were cold and unyielding. She didn't want to 
tell. She didn't want to confess. If there was anything to confess. She 
continued. 

“And so, it was getting in the late afternoon, and I had to get home,
but my dad said he wanted to show me something. He went back into his 
room. I switched on the TV...and that's all I remember.” The doctor 
nodded some more, and jotted some things down on the clipboard. She 
left out the footsteps behind her. How they seemed heavier than her 
father's. She left out the way she felt the breath of fear down her 
neck. The way the silence and fuzz of the TV seemed misplaced. How she 
didn't scream, even when she wanted to so desperately. 

“Alright, and do you have your father's number? We should give him a
call, perhaps it could be arranged for him to pick you up.” 

“Yes,” she gave him the number. The doctor retreated out the threshold,
his steps slapping away on the linoleum floor. She wanted to sleep, so 
badly. She wanted to remember. Perhaps in a dream, she could. Yes, that 
was the compromise between the two wants. Some form of rest encumbered 
her. A knock...she awakened with a start. Dizziness set in. Her head 
spun, the chair and the sink and the whiteness of the room blurred into 
one shape. 

“Eleanor?” came a soft voice like strong black espresso, his voice
stabilized her. 

“Charlie?” she called back. 

“Yeah, can I come in?” 

“Yeah.” He walked through the door, clad in the same brown button down
that she had worn earlier. He sat down in the chair across from her. 

“How are you?” he asked. 

“Better, thanks.” 

“Yep. Do you know...” 

“No.” 

“I see, the nurse said they were calling your father?” 

“Yes, he's going to come pick me up.” 

“Oh.” 

“Listen, thank you for what you did.” 

“I...” 

“No, really, there was no reason for you to help me. You...I guess you
saved my life.” 

“Any time.” He shuffled his feet and they seemed to capture his
interest. He looked nervous, which was complete contrast from the way 
he had confidently taken care of her. She surveyed his features more 
carefully. There was a scruff on his face, he looked dirty and worn. 
His jeans were tattered and dusty. And his eyes, the eyes of an angel. 
The first sight she saw as she woke up. A shadowy, gaunt, haunted look 
about them made her shiver and burn in unison. 

“Hey Charlie, why were you walking along a deserted road in Lancaster?”
she asked suddenly, surprising herself. 

“I'm a floater...I move from place to place,” he said, looking up. She
saw fear flicker behind his stare. Like he had been figured out. Like 
his secret was exposed. 

“And you just saw me lying in the middle of a field?” 

“Yes.” The doctor interrupted them, he looked very grave. More grave
than a normal ER doctor would look. He trembled slightly. His clipboard 
forgotten. His features set in stone. She wanted to take a chisel to 
him. 

“Eleanor...” he started. Charlie made a move to get up, she grabbed his
hand. He sat back down. 

“Yes? My father...” 

“We called and he...I'm sorry to say,” he took a deep breath and grouped
his courage, “Police answered. I...You...you're father's body has been 
found...in a field in Lancaster.” 


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