He knows this face. The dark eyes are round and large like a doll's and the broad brown face framed by short hair. There is a trace of lipstick on the mouth that struggles against smiling, then gives up the fight as the Filipina lady's face becomes smiling, golden and beatific.
"You are feeling much better, Mr. Douglas?" She reaches out her hand to support him. He accepts, but takes care to lean on his cane.
"How did I get here?" he asks sinking back onto the bed. "What is your name again?"
"Esperanza."
"Esperanza. That is a nice name." Without assistance he shifts against the squashed creased pillows. "Very nice name."
She doesn't leave, but sits at the foot of the bed, looking first at the window, clearly struggling to begin a sentence.
"You had a stroke. That's what your son has said."
"Why am I here?"
"They were afraid of moving you.
"Moving me where? To hospital?"
"I guess so. I brought up some Ensure for you to drink." She passes him the opened can. She has put a straw in it. A pink straw. "Here this is going to help you get stronger."
"How long have I been here?" He sucks gently through the straw. Then almost gulps it down.
"Since before Christmas. You must be very hungry."
"They've been starving me."
His son is a doctor. He didn't see him for thirty? Forty years. Not since he was in med school. Six months and some days ago he tracked him down to this address. Without phoning he knocked on the door of this big ostentatious house. Esperanza opened the door. He introduced himself, asked to see his son, who didn't believe him at first, not till, in the small reception room, his poor broken father told him everything that only a father could know about the little boy he was. Inquiries were made, blood tests, DNA tests and there was no denying the obvious. Mr. Douglas was homeless and staying in a shelter and his son reluctantly let him in. That night in the room where he woke this morning he lost consciousness.
to be continued
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