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Someone came in here.
Was it Ronan?
Could that be the reason I was dreaming about him, because he was here?
I stretch to pull the cart closer and try not to stare at the cover to see my reflection.
My second day here.
That’s progress.
I made it through twenty-four hours without plucking my eyes out from boredom, so that’s something. Maybe that’s why I’m getting my favorite soup for a late breakfast as a reward.
I smile at the gazpacho served in a medium-sized gold bowl. My smile spreads across my face as I pick it up and scoot into the bed to rest my back against the headrest.
I missed this soup.
I haven’t made it in years and for a good reason.
I always looked forward to it every Sunday evening because my Abuela never failed to make me some. She never got taught me her secret recipe because she said she would only give it to me after I got married and gave her a grandchild.
She was so sure she would be around to witness that. I was so sure she would be too.
How could I have known that death would come for her so quickly, not even giving me a chance to say goodbye? Never giving me a chance at closure.
I miss her. I miss our little talks around our wooden kitchen island. I miss the scent of her homemade marinade. I miss the scent of her freshly made mixed spices. I miss how she always encouraged me to eat to my heart’s desire.
As the spicy mix of vegetables touches my tongue, it prickles with goodness.
Whoever made this meal is good. It is not as good as my Abuela’s but way better than any I have had the pleasure of trying out after her death.
Maybe I should do this when I leave this place. I should make this meal over and over until I find the missing secret ingredient and get it to taste the same way as she used to make it.
I should.
I should live a little more than I used to. I should do everything I never did because I let my focus narrow down to just my career. While I love what I do, I shouldn’t let it stop me from experiencing life as fully as I could. As fully as my granny would have wanted me to.
I scoop again, and this time, I’m humming, swinging my head from side to side as the soup evokes long-forgotten waves of laughter from Sunday evening dinners. I picture her wearing herfaded, stained apron, no matter how many times she washedit.
I can see her and see myself staring at her from across the kitchen island as I help out slicing the onions, sniffling from the assault, knowing without a pinch of a doubt that I want to do this for life. I want to cook, just like her.
I scoop again, and this time, I bless the hands that made the meal.
Delicious. Spicy. Just how she used to make it. I smile harder and scoop again.
It seems like I swallowed a bit too quickly because I immediately feel a burning sensation in my throat that spreads to my chest. I coughit out, give it a little time, and then carry on eating.
Still, the burn doesn't go away, so I figure I should use the water glass on the cart.
I can't stop coughing. My heart beats fast. With unsteady hands, I drink morewaterbefore it escapes my grasp, causing my vision to go blurry and my windpipe to close. This is not normal. There must be something wrong with the gazpacho.
“Help,” I shriek with all I’ve got, standing on wobbling legs to run to the door. “Ronan!” I holler. Ro…” I try to call out again, but my system slows, and I feel the disconnect between my organs and my brain.
I can’t move my mouth.
I can’t move my body.
I can’t…
