“Connie, have you lost your mind? Do you think Id invite you to live with me for money? I just feel sorry for you, thats all.”
Connie sat in his wheelchair, staring through the grimy hospital window. He hadnt been luckyhis room overlooked the inner courtyard, where a quiet garden with benches and flowerbeds lay empty. It was winter, and patients rarely ventured outside anymore. Hed been alone in the ward for a week since his roommate, Jake Thompson, had been discharged.
Jake had been lively, quick with a joke, and knew a million stories, acting them out like a proper thespianbecause he was one, a third-year drama student. In short, boredom was impossible around him. Besides, Jakes mum visited daily, bringing homemade cakes, fruit, and sweets, which he always shared.
With Jake gone, the room felt colder, and Connie had never been lonelier.
His gloomy thoughts were interrupted when Nurse Wilkins entered. His heart sank. It wasnt the cheerful young nurse Daisy but stern, perpetually scowling Lydia Wilkins. In two months here, hed never seen her smile. Her voice matched her expressionsharp, rough, unpleasant.
“Well? Stop lounging. Get to bed!” she barked, syringe in hand.
Connie sighed, turned his chair, and wheeled himself to the bed. Lydia briskly helped him lie down and flipped him onto his stomach.
“Trousers off,” she ordered. He obeyedand felt nothing. Lydia was skilled with needles, and for that, he silently thanked her.
*How old is she?* he wondered, watching her trace the vein on his thin arm. *Probably past retirement. Small pension, forced to workno wonder shes bitter.*
The needle pricked his pale blue vein, making him wince slightly.
“Done. Has the doctor been by?” she asked, packing up.
“No, not yet,” Connie murmured. “Might come later.”
“Wait, then. And dont sit by the windowyoull catch a chill. Skinny as a rake.” She left without another word.
He wanted to be offended but couldnt. Beneath her roughness, there was something almost tender. Not that hed knowConnie was an orphan. His parents had died when he was four. A fire had torn through their cottage, and hed been the only survivor.
The scar on his shoulder and wristbadly healedwas his reminder. His mother, in her last moments, had thrown him through a window into the snow. The roof collapsed seconds later, burying his family. Relatives existed, but none had wanted him.
From his mother, hed inherited a gentle, dreamy nature and bright green eyes. From his father, his height, long stride, and knack for maths. His memories were fragmentsa village fair, his mother laughing, riding on his fathers shoulders in the summer breeze. And a ginger cat, named Tiger or Whiskers
No photos survived.
No one visited him in hospitalthere was no one. At eighteen, the council gave him a bright room in a shared house, fourth floor with no lift. He liked the solitude, but sometimes the loneliness crushed him.
Then came college. Hed wanted university, but his grades fell short. The technical college suited him, though. His classmates didntquiet and bookish, he was invisible to them. Girls? His shyness made him forgettable.
Two months ago, rushing to class, hed slipped on icy pavement in the underpass. Both legs broken, complex fractures. Recovery was slow and painful, but lately, hed improved.
Now, Dr. Abramovich, the orthopaedic surgeon, delivered the verdict:
“Good news, Conrad. The bones are finally healing. A few more weeks on crutches. No need to stayoutpatient care from now. Someone picking you up?”
Connie nodded silently.
“Excellent. Nurse Wilkins will help you pack.”
Panic set in. His flat had no lift, no ramps. How would he manage?
Lydia returned, tossing his rucksack onto the bed. “Well? Get packing.”
She eyed him. “Why lie to the doctor? No ones coming, is there?”
“Ill manage,” he muttered.
“You wont. You cant walk yet. How will you live?”
“Im not a child.”
She sat beside him. “Connie, this isnt my business, but youll need help. You cant do this alone.”
“Ill figure it out.”
“You wont. Ive been in medicine twenty years. Stop being stubborn.”
“Whats it to you?”
She hesitated. “Stay with me. Ive a spare room. My husbands gone, no kids. When youre back on your feet, you can leave.”
He stared. Live with her? A stranger?
“Well?” she pressed.
“Its awkward.”
“More awkward than being stuck in a wheelchair alone?” she snapped. “Yes or no?”
He wavered. Then it hit himall those months, her rough care had been kindness. *”Eat your pudding!” “Close the window!” “Cheesecalcium, good for you.”*
“Alright,” he said. “But Ive no money. Student loans not till next month.”
She glared. “Connie, are you daft? You think Id charge you? I *feel* for you, thats all.”
Lydias cottage was small, cosy. The first days, he barely left his room, too shy to ask for anything.
“Stop moping,” she scolded. “Ask when you need something.”
He grew to love itsnow outside, the crackling fireplace, her cooking. It felt like home.
Weeks passed. The wheelchair went, then the crutches. Time to return to the city.
After a clinic visit, limping, he shared his plans: “Exams soon. So much lost time.”
“Take a gap year,” she said. “Your legs come first.”
Theyd grown close. He didnt want to leave.
Packing the next day, he turnedLydia stood in the doorway, crying. He hugged her tight.
“Stay, Connie,” she whispered.
He did. Years later, she sat as mother of the groom at his wedding. A year after that, she cradled her granddaughterLydia.
