“Ms. Protich, would you like some chicken soup? I just heated it up. It’s perfect to drink now. You haven’t eaten anything this afternoon; you must be hungry. Eating something will make you feel better.”
Ms. Protich still held her phone, glancing at the chicken soup in the caretaker’s hand. “But I can’t drink it.”
“You should still try to drink it. Your body needs nutrition. Not eating anything is bad for your health.”
“I know.” She had said similar things when she was taking care of Winifred Dawson in the hospital. She never thought that a month later, she would be the one hearing these words.
The caretaker poured out the soup and offered to feed her, but Ms. Protich wasn’t used to it.
“Just leave the soup here; I’ll drink it myself.”
“Alright.”
The caretaker slowly raised the bed, and Ms. Protich sat up, leaning against a pillow. A board was placed on the bed rail to act as a table, with the bowl of soup on it.
Luckily, the IV was in her left hand, so her right hand was free to eat, making things more convenient.
Ms. Protich sipped the soup absent-mindedly. She could tell from the taste that it was bought from outside; it tasted good, but no matter how delicious it was, everything tasted like wax in her mouth now.
After finishing a bowl of soup and forcing down a few bites of soft chicken, Ms. Protich couldn’t eat anymore.
“Can’t eat anymore?”
Ms. Protich nodded.
The caretaker didn’t push her. Patients who just woke up often had poor appetites; eating a few bites was already good enough. After cleaning up, the caretaker pulled up a chair and sat by the bed to watch TV with her.
The caretaker had been curious about what had happened during that brief period that made Ms. Protich so emotional. She cried so hard, as if all the air had been sucked out of her lungs.
The caretaker glanced at her cautiously. Even now, Ms. Protich hadn’t recovered emotionally. Though she stared at the TV, her attention wasn’t on it at all; she looked like a lifeless puppet.
At ten o’clock at night, it was time to sleep.
The caretaker reminded her, “Ms. Protich, it’s time to sleep.”
Ms. Protich had slept too long in the afternoon and couldn’t fall asleep now. Every time she closed her eyes, images of Winifred Dawson’s accident appeared in her mind.
“Should I turn off the TV?” The caretaker asked tentatively.
“Go ahead.”
With the TV off, the room became dark and quiet. The caretaker heard rustling sounds from the bed and guessed that Ms. Protich was still awake.
She couldn’t help but ask, “Ms. Protich, did something happen around eight o’clock? Do you want to talk about it? It might make you feel better.”
Ms. Protich also wanted to unburden herself but didn’t know where to start. It felt like there was a bitter pill stuck in her throat that she couldn’t swallow or spit out.
The caretaker sighed; she couldn’t force Ms. Protich to talk if she didn’t want to. Some things needed to be processed internally; no amount of external concern could change that.
Around three in the morning, Ms. Protich finally drifted off into a fitful sleep and dreamed of Winifred Dawson.
In her dream, Winifred floated on the sea’s surface, her beautiful face swollen and pale from water immersion, her body slowly decaying as fish swam towards her and nibbled at her tender flesh.
Ms. Protich woke up from this nightmare with a scream of “Late Autumn,” startling the caretaker next door awake.
The caretaker groggily opened her eyes, disoriented: “What’s wrong?”
She got up and walked over to Ms. Protich’s side: “Did you have a nightmare?”
“She died! I dreamed she drowned in cold seawater with so many wounds on her body! The saltwater must have hurt so much! Fish were eating her flesh; I couldn’t chase them away! She was so beautiful when alive but looked ghastly after drowning…”
Listening to this vivid description made the caretaker break into a cold sweat; she tried not to imagine it but couldn’t help herself.
Ms. Protich was also terrified but more worried about Winifred Dawson becoming like what she saw in her dream.
Covering her eyes, Ms. Protich started crying again.
Trying to change the topic, the caretaker asked: “Who is this Winifred Dawson?”
“Someone I knew… She was such a good girl… I took care of her for over three months… She loved my cooking… She even said she wished I were her mother… Why wasn’t I? I regret not stopping her when she left… Not making more good food for her… Not accepting her as my daughter… She was so obedient and sensible…”
To Leland Burns, Winifred Dawson might have seemed selfish and ungrateful, but not to Ms. Protich.
To Ms. Protich, Winifred Dawson was the best girl in the world.
Sobbing uncontrollably, Ms. Protich spoke disjointedly about whatever came to mind while the caretaker listened carefully.
“And where is she now?”
“I don’t know… She said she wanted to see more of the world… I saw her off when she boarded that ship… Then no news… Calls unanswered… Texts ignored… Mr. James said she died at sea… I don’t believe it! The news listed victims’ names; hers was there too… But I still don’t believe it! She was fine when she left; how could she suddenly die?”
Desperately pulling out her phone, Ms. Protich scrolled through Winifred Dawson’s messages from start to finish: “Look! She said flowers were blooming beautifully in South City… That autumn would bring osmanthus flowers… We planned for me to make osmanthus cake and wine for her return… And big meat buns… She fed seagulls by the sea…”
She showed the last message: “Don’t worry; all is well.”
Pointing at this message for confirmation from the caretaker: “She said all is well! So nothing could have happened to her, right?”
That was hard to say for sure; people often deceived themselves when facing difficult situations or hopelessness.
If Winifred Dawson’s name appeared on an official list of casualties reported by reliable news sources following an accident at sea-where survival chances were slim-it meant surviving such an ordeal would be nearly impossible given vast oceanic expanses where even strong swimmers wouldn’t last long before succumbing without reaching any island like scenes depicted only in fiction-not reality.