A scent of rhubarb

Some days I wake up old, others I wake up young, and still others when I’m not really sure.

It’s not as poetic as it sounds. I mean, everyone sometimes wakes up without knowing the time, without knowing what the day it is. The difference is that I also don’t know the year. Which, let’s face it, complicates things a bit.

Today, I’m at my parents’ house, so I'm trying to go by clues. I have a list of them somewhere. Well, I think I had a list.

I go into the kitchen. A scent of rhubarb fills the whole house. Except that doesn’t really help me, because my mom has been making rhubarb pies every summer for as long as I can remember, which, in my case, helps even less.

I step forward to enter the room and find myself in the village square. It’s just a few steps from my parents’ house. This time, it’s more of a smell of blood that hang in the air.

I skate around the square while the others play soccer next to the monument. It suits them, because when the ball goes too far, I’m there. It’s faster than chasing it, and I don’t like soccer, which suits me too.

When I pass by the statue again, something’s wrong. Marvin is on the ground near the makeshift goal. He’s holding his knee and crying, which is rather surprising. I’ve always pictured him as Marv from Sin City. A tall, blond, muscular guy who charges headfirst without thinking of the consequences, and, in a surprising coincidence, they also share the same name. Marv.

I didn’t see exactly what happened, but I can imagine it well enough: Marv ran to stop the ball, jumped with one leg raised… and landed heavily. A branch from a bush, or maybe a point from the fence - I couldn’t say - pierced his knee.

There’s blood everywhere. He’s crying. There are also screams. I watch silently.

I hear the ambulance siren arriving. Some neighbors must have called.

One of the paramedics pulls out scissors.

“We’ll need to cut.”

“No! Don’t cut my leg!”

“Your pants. We need to cut your pants to reach the wound.”

I look at the wound curiously while the others look away. Then I clean it, take the thread, and begin to suture. The constant beeps of the machines in the room resonate.

Beeps. Beeps. Beeps.

I must be in one of the emergency rooms. I don’t know why I’m there, but the motion is mechanical. I wrap the thread twice around the needle holder, grab the end, and pull to tighten the knot. I’ve done this hundreds of times. Maybe thousands.

“How did you cut yourself?” someone asks me.

I’m unable to answer that question. I look down at the scar on my left wrist. The years have made it almost imperceptible.

A meal tray is placed in front of me. I look at what’s on it: a pastry, an apple, a coffee, and an apple-rhubarb juice. I bring the glass to my lips and take a sip of the juice.

The peculiar taste takes me back to the kitchen. My mother is bent over the countertop. She has just taken out the rhubarb pie she prepared for the snack. I think she makes it every summer. I’m not so sure.

I move toward her, but find myself on a village square. My friends are playing penalty kicks. Shouts ring out. Someone is on the ground, blood beginning to spread across the pavement. I’m fascinated. I wonder what, in a knee, can make so much blood flow. I push the needle into this man’s flesh. He’s blond, he reminds me of someone. The characteristic sounds ring out.

Beeps. Beeps. Beeps.

The white walls of the room appear before me. I blink. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, a meal tray in front of me. The lady in white asks:

“How did you cut yourself?”

“With a scal… a scal… with a knife.”

The details of this event are blurry, but the emotions return. I take a sip of the juice.

I’m in a kitchen. There’s a scent of rhubarb. A woman with her back turned is busy at the counter. My mother, I think. Well… I’m not sure. It could be someone else. I can’t see her face, so I move forward. I find myself on a square, someone crying near the monument. A statue with names engraved in stone. Soldiers, probably, but I couldn’t say from which war. I hear a siren, then the beeps, beeps, beeps. The white walls of a hospital corridor rise around me. I worked here. Maybe I still work here. I look down at my hands, they seem more wrinkled than usual. Much more. My movements are less sure than before.

Someone speaks to me.

“How did you cut yourself?”

I angrily overturn my meal tray. The rhubarb juice spills everywhere. Tears run down my cheeks.

I’m in a kitchen. A woman is making a pie; the scent is strong. I know this scent, but I don’t recognize this woman. I step forward to see her face, but I find myself on a square. A ball rolls at the foot of a statue. Names are engraved on it. Maybe my patients. But there’s something I can’t grasp.

Beeps. Beeps. Beeps.

My heart races. I should be at work at this hour.

The lady in white asks me to lie down. My eyes fall on my left wrist; a thin white line is there. It comes back to me. My stomach tightens. This line is far too straight.

I close my eyes. I wake up, it’s dark. I’m in a hospital room. I must be on night duty. I head to the salle de garde to ask… what was I supposed to ask them?

They lay me back down. I close my eyes.

A scent of rhubarb seeps into my sinuses.

I find myself in a kitchen. I don’t know why I’m there. So I look for clues. I think I had a list. It was for… I’m not sure.