A Polish nanny who didn't know English, the first to see through my secret hidden in the food.-14
I Cry
Marta walks over while I'm trembling staring into the soup bowl. Says nothing. Just takes the spoon. Places it on the wooden table: thud. Then covers my shaking hand with hers. Steady pressure. Her hand drier than mine, skin creased, but warm. Not a light touch – a firm grip that stops the tremors. Tears still flow, silent now, unstoppable. She holds on. Half a minute? Longer? The shaking ebbs. Slowly loses force until finally still. She releases my hand. Pulls out the chair beside me. Sits. Still silent. Looks at the soup. We sit. The wall clock ticks. Five minutes? Ten? Then: "Eat soup." Flat statement of fact. No inflection. Pick up the spoon again. Hand steady now. Ladle soup. Drink. Slightly sour. Still warm. Feel it slide down, land in my stomach.
Her Response
Watch Marta clear the bowl and spoon. I sit unmoving at the table; skin tight where tears dried. She walks back, Sits. Pulls the old book from her apron pocket. Slides it over. Page open to the hand-drawn plant, the little yellow flower. Points first at the picture, then at me. Limited English: "Polish… doctor." Pause. "Use this." I look at her, silent. She shakes her head: "Not medicine." Points towards my clenched direction – though I hold nothing – mimics holding a pill bottle: "Not that." Points back to the flower in the book: "This… help… slow." Makes a slow, rolling gesture with her hand. "Body… self… learn sleep." I inhale, voice raspy: "I need to see a doctor. A proper doctor." Marta nods instantly: "Good." Certainty in her tone. "You go?" "I come." Points at herself, gestures walking towards the door.
The Clinic
Tuesday afternoon. Marta accompanies me to the clinic. Elevator: we stand diagonally opposite. Waiting room: six blue plastic chairs, We pick the wall-side ones. She sits, takes her gardening book from her bag. Opens it, but doesn't read. I know she just needs something in her hands. Nurse gives me forms. Medication history section densely filled. Ballpoint pen skips. Press hard; paper threatens to tear.
Nurse calls my name. Marta looks up, I jerk my chin towards the consulting room, she nods. Inside, the doctor asks: When taken? How much? What happens without? I tell him everything. No omissions. He types into the computer. Paper emerges. "Switch to this," he says, handing it over. "Morning dose. Not a sleeping pill. Helps reset your body clock." Take the paper. Thank him. Exit. Marta still seated. Book closed on her lap. She looks at me. "New one," I say. Fold the prescription slip, tuck it into my coat pocket. She stands. Puts book away. "Go." We leave the clinic. Door shuts behind us. Silence. At the first crossing, she speaks. Voice low: "Doctor say… confident?" Eyes ahead. "See."
NEXT >>
Marta walks over while I'm trembling staring into the soup bowl. Says nothing. Just takes the spoon. Places it on the wooden table: thud. Then covers my shaking hand with hers. Steady pressure. Her hand drier than mine, skin creased, but warm. Not a light touch – a firm grip that stops the tremors. Tears still flow, silent now, unstoppable. She holds on. Half a minute? Longer? The shaking ebbs. Slowly loses force until finally still. She releases my hand. Pulls out the chair beside me. Sits. Still silent. Looks at the soup. We sit. The wall clock ticks. Five minutes? Ten? Then: "Eat soup." Flat statement of fact. No inflection. Pick up the spoon again. Hand steady now. Ladle soup. Drink. Slightly sour. Still warm. Feel it slide down, land in my stomach.
Her Response
Watch Marta clear the bowl and spoon. I sit unmoving at the table; skin tight where tears dried. She walks back, Sits. Pulls the old book from her apron pocket. Slides it over. Page open to the hand-drawn plant, the little yellow flower. Points first at the picture, then at me. Limited English: "Polish… doctor." Pause. "Use this." I look at her, silent. She shakes her head: "Not medicine." Points towards my clenched direction – though I hold nothing – mimics holding a pill bottle: "Not that." Points back to the flower in the book: "This… help… slow." Makes a slow, rolling gesture with her hand. "Body… self… learn sleep." I inhale, voice raspy: "I need to see a doctor. A proper doctor." Marta nods instantly: "Good." Certainty in her tone. "You go?" "I come." Points at herself, gestures walking towards the door.
The Clinic
Tuesday afternoon. Marta accompanies me to the clinic. Elevator: we stand diagonally opposite. Waiting room: six blue plastic chairs, We pick the wall-side ones. She sits, takes her gardening book from her bag. Opens it, but doesn't read. I know she just needs something in her hands. Nurse gives me forms. Medication history section densely filled. Ballpoint pen skips. Press hard; paper threatens to tear.
Nurse calls my name. Marta looks up, I jerk my chin towards the consulting room, she nods. Inside, the doctor asks: When taken? How much? What happens without? I tell him everything. No omissions. He types into the computer. Paper emerges. "Switch to this," he says, handing it over. "Morning dose. Not a sleeping pill. Helps reset your body clock." Take the paper. Thank him. Exit. Marta still seated. Book closed on her lap. She looks at me. "New one," I say. Fold the prescription slip, tuck it into my coat pocket. She stands. Puts book away. "Go." We leave the clinic. Door shuts behind us. Silence. At the first crossing, she speaks. Voice low: "Doctor say… confident?" Eyes ahead. "See."
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