HOME | DD

Description
+++++
Day 0
+++++

It feels like it’s been so long since we took a vacation together. I travel a lot for work of course (whose flyer miles do you think are paying for this?) and Sam is busy with her own thing so it’s rare that we really get a lot of time in the same place.

So we picked something simple; resort, sun, it didn’t really matter exactly where, just some place to chill out. Reconnect.

Maybe it isn’t the best sign then that I feel trapped even on the bus from the airport. It’s getting late, a Friday night transfer, the dusty textures of the day giving way to evening tones, warm fingers of sunset highlighting scenes of this small Mediterranean island as we pass by.

In the small town just before the turning for the hotel something, someone outside catches my eye. She’s dressed like a tourist, her hair glowing gold in the red sunlight, but she’s negotiating the rough pavement in a wheelchair. Pauses as the coach squeezes past and I glance down from my window seat. Her gloved hands on the rims of the wheels, her abbreviated legs, gone above the knees, ends wrapped in folded up denim.

Perhaps I catch her green eyes for a second, it’s hard to tell. I pull back. I don’t need a distraction like that.

But she’s still on my mind after we disembark, after we’ve carried our bags to our room and started to think about dinner. She’s on my mind as I watch Sam carefree in her simple cotton dress, unwinding at last on the terrace bar. We clink bottles of the local lager together and find smiles in each other’s expressions but I wonder again, after I’ve told myself so often that I shouldn’t, what if it was me?

+++++
Day 1
+++++

A restless night. I don’t feel like I drank enough to warrant it, but we fell into bed together late, almost midnight, and I tossed and turned enough for both of us. My body and mind trying to let go of the stresses of the everyday, I guess.

I blink, feeling twisted in the sheets, and I feel Sam moving beside me.

”You’re awake,” she says, softly, kindly. “I suppose I’d better help you get up.”

I don’t feel like I drank enough to need that.

I mumble a response, kicking the covers off and twisting round to sit up. I feel Sam's hands on my shoulders, as if she's guiding me, and I force my eyes open. The wardrobe door across from the bed has a full length mirror on it. My hair is a mess and I'm wearing a grey vest and knickers and holy fucking shit.

My flinch is obvious. Sam's hands press more firmly on where my arms should be and she makes a shushing noise.

"It's okay, 'Manda. It's ok."

It's not okay.

Everything else about me looks exactly the same. Hair, eye colour. Slim, slightly muscular figure, reasonable sized breasts pushing at the vest top as I slump forward. Everything is the same except I don't have any arms.

In the mirror Sam looks exactly like what Sam looks like. Her expression is worry.

"I know sometimes you forget, honey," she says. "But it's been three months now. And I'm always here for you."

Three months? What the hell is going on?

Answers aren't forthcoming as Sam eases me to my feet. I'm embarrassed but she slides my nightwear off and we shower together in the suite's little tiled bathroom. That part is nice, although as the water runs over my face and I close my eyes, unable to wipe it away, my mind races back to that woman in her wheelchair that I saw from the coach. Seriously, what the hell is going on?

My lover towels my armless body dry and then dresses me in my own clothes; denim shorts over bikini briefs, cork-soled sandals with a bit of a wedge lift to them, and a halterneck top that leaves my empty shoulders bare. She talks about spending some time on the beach while we get acclimatised to the place, that we should find a spot near the bar since the trip is all-inclusive, and I'm half listening although somewhere in public is the last place I want to be.

Once Sam is done getting us both ready we leave the room and make our way to the restaurant for breakfast. The hotel is modern, clean. Our room is on the ground floor and the corridors are wide with smooth tiled floors. I quickly realise Sam is going to have to feed me, and for a second I'm about to make a fuss about it when I realise drawing attention to myself is the last thing I want to do.

Over the meal Sam discusses an appointment with my prosthetist scheduled for when we get back. About how great it will be for me to try out some options to give me back a little independence. I'm non-committal, trying to work out how I'm going to find an answer to all this. I get the feeling that if I tell Sam that yesterday I was perfectly intact, she'll just laugh and then look worried and talk about how I need to accept what happened and move on.

Who else can I talk to? This reality seems completely consistent with itself, except for my memories of what I should be.

We go out towards the private beach after breakfast. Sam seems to sort of shepherd me, as if I've lost the ability to control my direction as well, and I'm on the verge of snapping at her when we pass the golden haired woman in the wheelchair going in the opposite direction. She's wearing a dark-coloured swimsuit, her hair wet from the pool or the sea, and with each pull at her chair's wheels her short, bare stumps twitch against the seat. I feel a pulse of guilt for that momentary thought last night that I could be like her.

I realise, as my head turns to watch her pass, that the other hotel residents we've seen have barely paid attention to me, while on any street back home you might expect my body to attract stares and comments. Was someone else at breakfast on crutches? Were there particularly wide gangways between the tables?

"Amanda?"

Sam is calling my name and my focus snaps back to her.

"Isn't this place great?" She gestures around us. "Everything laid out so helpfully, so accessible."

I shrug my empty shoulders and stomp off towards the beach, showing Sam she doesn't have to worry about guiding me.

We spend most of the morning there. My frostiness loosens a little as Sam massages tanning lotion into my legs, my shoulders, her hands sliding under my top to treat and caress my breasts. Her hands on my skin feel good. I enjoy the display too as she applies her own lotion. She smiles and tells me she heard there's a naturist section to the beach a little further down, and then I frown as she suggests it would be a great way to work on my body confidence.

My body confidence was just fine until I woke up with 25% of it missing.

The rest of the day is lazy. I keep trying to find ways to confront Sam about what is happening to me, but it genuinely seems like her reality is that I lost my arms to some kind of accident three months ago and this vacation is part of our mutual rehab. Some time away without any pressures, to get to know each other again.

By dinner time I really need wine, although what I don't need is having to ask Sam to pour it for me and then lift the glass to my lips between the forkfuls of carbonara she is trying to feed me. It's the most effective way to get the wine in my mouth, though, and I ask if we can share another bottle after the meal.

+++++
Day 2
+++++

A restless night. I don’t feel like I drank enough to warrant it, but we fell into bed together late, almost midnight, and I tossed and turned enough for both of us. My body and mind trying to let go of the stresses of the everyday, I guess.

I blink, feeling twisted in the sheets, and I feel Sam moving beside me.

”You’re awake,” she says, softly, kindly. “I suppose I’d better help you get up.”

Didn't we already do this?

"I'm fine," I reply curtly, pulling the covers off and twisting round to sit up.

I feel something weird about my right thigh as it wobbles against my left and I force my eyes open. The wardrobe door across from the bed has a full length mirror on it. My hair is a mess and I'm wearing a grey vest and knickers and holy fucking shit.

My flinch is obvious. Sam's hand rests lightly on my right leg and she makes a shushing noise.

"It's okay, 'Manda. It's ok."

It's not okay.

Everything else about me looks exactly the same. Hair, eye colour. Slim, slightly muscular figure, toned arms, reasonable sized breasts pushing at the vest top as I slump forward. Everything is the same except my right leg ends in a stump above the knee, punctuated by a horizontal red scar.

In the mirror Sam looks exactly like what Sam looks like. Her expression is worry.

"I know sometimes you forget, honey," she says. "But it's been three months now. And I'm always here for you."

Three months? What the hell is going on? Why the hell is it going on differently to yesterday?

Sam brings me light, aluminium crutches and I spend a minute working out how to use them to get myself upright. I wobble for balance on my single foot, continuing to stare at my body in the mirror. She offers to shower with me but I brush her off, in need of some time on my own, time to think. I crutch awkwardly into the little tiled bathroom and push the door closed. After a moment I pull off my underwear, leaning against the sink counter so I can set the crutches to one side, and then stumble and hop into the shower cubicle and turn on the water.

The possibilities race through my mind. Neither today or yesterday can be real. It's impossible. I must be dreaming, or high. Or high and dreaming. There doesn't seem to be much I can do except to play through whatever this is until I wake up.

I towel myself dry and then crutch back into the bedroom to get dressed; denim shorts that leave my thigh stump exposed over bikini briefs, cork-soled sandals with a bit of a wedge lift to them, and a halterneck top. Sam talks about spending some time on the beach while we get acclimated to the place, that we should find a spot near the bar since the trip is all-inclusive, and I'm half listening although somewhere in public is the last place I want to be.

We make our way to the restaurant for breakfast. The hotel is modern, clean. Our room is on the ground floor and the corridors are wide with smooth tiled floors. The rubber tips of my crutches squeak on the tiles but I'm getting used to the balance and by the time we reach our table I can move around okay.

Over the meal Sam discusses an appointment with my prosthetist scheduled for when we get back. About how great it will be for me to try out options to give me back some more independence. I'm non-committal, still trying to work out how I'm going to find an answer to all this. I get the feeling that if I tell Sam that the day before yesterday I was perfectly intact, she'll just laugh and then look worried and talk about how I need to accept what happened and move on.

We go out towards the private beach after breakfast. Sam seems to sort of shepherd me, as if I've lost the ability to control my direction as well as my leg, and I'm on the verge of snapping at her when we pass the golden haired woman in the wheelchair going in the opposite direction. She's wearing a dark-coloured swimsuit, her hair wet from the pool or the sea, and with each pull at her chair's wheels her short, bare stumps twitch against the seat. I feel a pulse of resentment for that momentary thought on the coach that I could be like her, now that I'm halfway like her, as if somehow it's all connected.

I realise, as my head turns to watch her pass, that the other hotel residents we've seen have barely paid attention to me, while on any street back home you might expect my body to attract stares and comments. Was someone else at breakfast in a wheelchair? Were there particularly wide gangways between the tables? Is this place set up for people like her? People like me?

We spend most of the morning on the beach. It's harder work to crutch across the sand but it's nice to lay back and apply tanning lotion and just try to relax in the warmth and sun. Sam smiles as she tells me she heard there's a naturist section to the beach a little further down, and then I frown as she suggests it would be a great way to work on my body confidence.

I feel a little guilty for it but after lunch I give Sam the slip for a while, crutching away as quickly as I can while she's in the restaurant bathroom. I ignore the buzz of my phone in my handbag a few minutes later.

The resort is set in it's own grounds, down a long access drive, from a handout map in the reception area I reckon it would take me twenty minutes to walk up to the main road even with both my legs. I sit on a wall outside instead, the stones warm on my thighs, and try to make sense of... well... anything. But there's little sense to make. I'm NOT an amputee, I'm sure of it, and yet the evidence is right at the end of my shorts. And yesterday it was right at my empty shoulders. How can it be both, especially when it's neither?

There's a crunch on the gravel path off to my left. I glance over. It's the woman in the wheelchair. She's come outside to light a cigarette, shielding her lighter from the light breeze with her gloved hands. After a moment she notices I'm staring at her. She smiles and makes an offering gesture with the packet. I nod, pulling myself up on my crutches and moving over to her side to take one.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it. Takes some getting used to, huh?" Her accent is as English as my own.

I fumble with the lighter. Really I gave up years ago but, well, fuck it.

"Right, kind of an odd place," I respond.

"I meant the..." she says, gesturing with her cigarette wielding hand at my dangling, abbreviated thigh.

"Oh!" I blush. "Right. It was a surprise, I'll admit."

She nods, without offering further comment. We smoke in silence for a few moments.

"Say," I begin, but realise I don't know quite how to phrase my question. "Been here for a while?" I eventually manage.

LAME.

"About a week," she says. "Heading home Tuesday, back to work of course."

"Sure."

She pulls a little closed ashtray from her purse and screws the butt of her cigarette out in it.

"Well, better go," she says, glancing up at me, shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand. "Meant to be playing tennis later. I'm Mel, by the way."

I lean on one crutch and offer her my hand to shake.

"Amanda, nice to meet you."

This is so awkward.

"Um, have you thought about going up to the town?" I ask her just as she turns to leave.

"Yeah, I went last night. Bit of a trek, but they can call you an accessible taxi from reception. Just make sure you plan it and book the return, the car has to come from the airport."

Last night... but...

I find a smile. "Thanks. Enjoy your game."

By dinner time I really need wine, although what I don't need is Sam's interrogation about where I went in the afternoon between forkfuls of carbonara. I just tell her I needed a bit of time and space to think (technically accurate), and then I ask if we can share another bottle after the meal.

The whole evening what Mel said has been playing on my mind. She told me she went up to the town 'last night' but I saw her from the coach two nights ago. Nothing here makes any sense.

+++++
Day 3
+++++

A restless night. I don’t feel like I drank enough to warrant it, but we fell into bed together late, almost midnight, and I tossed and turned enough for both of us. My body and mind trying to let go of the stresses of the everyday, I guess.

I squirm, feeling twisted in the sheets, and I feel Sam moving beside me.

Then I feel her fingers tapping lightly on my chest.

I try to blink, try to open my eyes, but there's no response. I try to kick or pull off the covers, trying to sit up, but my body can't do that. I feel a sudden panic.

Sam's taps are in a pattern, like, like, a code? I can sense my body quivering, but I can't sense anything else. The pattern repeats, like she's trying to tell me something.

I feel like it should be enough to know that she's there, that I'm safe, but I can't stop shivering. Even my breaths feel short, as if I have less lung capacity or I'm breathing out of a tracheostomy, or... or...

The taps stop and instead I feel her hand laying flat on my skin. It seems to rest on my chest and my hip all at once. I don't understand how but I understand she is trying to calm me down.

It works, for the most part.

A little later she taps on my skin again. It must be a code? Morse code? I try to remember any of it. I feel angry at myself when I can't.

Sam is touching me in an unstructured way again. Her hands and arms sliding around my body, the sensations weird and disconnected. I think she's hugging me. I feel her shaking now too, a low vibration through my body. A splash of wetness on my... my... I don't even know.

I realise after a while. Sam is crying.

I really need wine.

+++++
Day 4
+++++

A restless night. I don’t feel like I drank enough to warrant it, but we fell into bed together late, almost midnight, and I tossed and turned enough for both of us. My body and mind trying to let go of the stresses of the everyday, I guess.

I blink, feeling twisted in the sheets, and I feel Sam moving beside me.

”You’re awake,” she says, softly, kindly. “I suppose I’d better help you get up.”

I'm almost certain we already did this.

"I'm fine," I reply curtly, pulling the covers off and twisting round to push myself up to a sitting position.

I feel something weird about my thighs as they press together and I force my eyes open. The wardrobe door across from the bed has a full length mirror on it. My hair is a mess and I'm wearing a grey vest and knickers and of course it happened again.

My flinch is obvious. Sam's hand rests lightly on my right leg and she makes a shushing noise.

"It's okay, 'Manda. It's ok."

It's not okay.

Everything else about me looks exactly the same. Hair, eye colour. Slim, slightly muscular figure, toned left arm, reasonable sized breasts pushing at the vest top as I slump forward. Everything is the same except my right arm is missing and both of my legs end in stumps above the knee, punctuated by horizontal red scars.

In the mirror Sam looks exactly like what Sam looks like. Her expression is worry.

"I know sometimes you forget, honey," she says. "But it's been three months now. And I'm always here for you."

Now I'm crying. I can't do this again. Not like this. Not with almost nothing left.

Sam looks down at me with concern. She gently wipes away my tears and then helps me get undressed for a shower. I'm embarrassed but without hesitation she slides my nightwear off and then she carries me to the little tiled bathroom. She supports me with a hand under my bottom and I use my arm, my only limb, to hold on around her neck. She kisses my cheek lightly, affectionately, as she stands under the water with me, washing us both with apparent experience of doing it like this.

My lover helps me to dry off and then to get dressed; denim shorts that expose my truncated thighs over bikini briefs, and a halterneck top that leaves my empty shoulders bare. She talks about spending some time on the beach while we get acclimated to the place, that we should find a spot near the bar since the trip is all-inclusive, and I'm half listening although somewhere in public is the last place I want to be.

Once Sam is done getting us both ready she brings a lightweight wheelchair over to the bed and helps me to transfer into it. It's set up with a grip ring on the left wheel so that I can propel myself with my single arm if I want to, but for now Sam pushes. We leave the room and make our way to the restaurant for breakfast. The hotel is modern, clean. Our room is on the ground floor and the corridors are wide with smooth tiled floors and automatic doors, it's easy to wheel me through to the restaurant, like the place is designed for it.

Over the meal Sam discusses an appointment with my prosthetist scheduled for when we get back. About how great it will be for me to try out options to give me back some more independence. I'm non-committal; while she talks I look around for Mel but there's no sign of her. Something tells me that she just doesn't have breakfast at this time. She had just been swimming when we saw her yesterday morning. No... not yesterday. The day before, and also the day before that. She must eat earlier.

Yesterday was... What the fuck was yesterday? What was I? If Sam was trying to 'speak' to me with Morse code am I going to need to learn that in case it happens again? How could I respond if I can't speak or even feel anything I can move?

We go out towards the private beach after breakfast, Sam pushing my chair through the resort complex. Mel approaches us, wearing her dark-coloured swimsuit, hair wet from the pool or the sea and with each pull at her chair's wheels her short, bare stumps twitch against the seat. I feel a pulse of resentment, now she has more than me, both arms. She can have some sort of independence.

Her daily route seems pretty set. I give her a smile as she passes but there's not even a flicker of a response, like she doesn't recognise me. I don't blame her, last time I saw her I was only missing one leg.

"Amanda?"

Sam is calling my name and my focus snaps back to her.

"Isn't this place great?" She gestures around us. "Everything laid out so helpfully, so accessible."

I shrug my shoulders and grab the ring on my wheelchair's left wheel with my hand, starting to propel myself off towards the beach, showing Sam she doesn't have to do everything for me. It's harder than it looks, without the ability to even up the forward motion on both sides. We can't take the chair on the beach anyway, so Sam has to pick me up and carry me the last of the way across the soft, white sand.

We spend most of the morning there. My frostiness loosens a little as Sam massages tanning lotion into my leg stumps, my arm and empty shoulder, her hands sliding under my top to treat and caress my breasts. Her hands on my skin feel good. I enjoy the display too as she applies her own lotion. She smiles and tells me she heard there's a naturist section to the beach a little further down, and then I frown as she suggests it would be a great way to work on my body confidence.

My body confidence was just fine until I woke up with 75% of it missing.

The rest of the day is lazy. I don't have a chance to get away from Sam, or to try and find Mel again, but while we relax on sun loungers by the pool I do spend some time on my phone looking up Morse code. Trying to memorise some key sequences, but it's hard to predict what Sam would be 'saying' to me if I wake up in THAT situation again. Then it hits me. I know exactly what she'll say.

You’re awake. I suppose I’d better help you get up.

I shiver, and only then think to check the date the phone is displaying. Saturday. How can it be Saturday? We arrived Friday. Then Saturday I had no arms, Sunday I had one leg. I met Mel, she said she was going home on Tuesday. Monday I was... I was... I don't like to think about what I was. That would make today Tuesday. But the phone says Saturday. I almost drop it in the pool.

No... no no no no... I've seen this film, it doesn't end well. Actually, correction. It doesn't end.

By dinner time I really need wine. When they come to take our order I ask for a bottle of red. Sam has been glancing over the menu without appearing to make a decision, and when the young waiter, who I notice has been staring at my empty shoulder the whole time, asks what we want to eat I just say we'll both have the carbonara. Sam looks over at me and smiles.

"You know I was just thinking that," she says, reaching across the table to squeeze my single hand.

"Funny," I reply, and immediately ask the waiter to make it two bottles.

+++++
Day 5
+++++

I blink, not sure whether or not the sheets are wrapped around me, and I sense Sam moving beside me.

”You’re awake,” she says, softly, kindly. “I suppose I’d better help you get up.”

There must be a way to break the cycle. There HAS to be. I promise I'll never imagine being an amputee again.

I try to kick or pull the covers off and move to a sitting position, but nothing happens. I force my eyes open. I know that the wardrobe across from the bed has a full length mirror on it but I'm laid on my back, staring at the ceiling. I can't move anything below my neck, and at that realisation I feel tears in my eyes.

Sam's hand brushes my cheek, and she makes a shushing noise as she moves to kneel beside me, looking down.

"It's okay, 'Manda. It's ok."

It's not okay. She reaches for something out of my sight and there's an electric whirring sound. My viewpoint changes as the head of the bed folds upwards to put me in a sitting position. I might as well be watching on a screen.

Now I can see the mirror. Hair, eye colour, the same. Slim figure, reasonable sized breasts pushing at my vest top as I stare at myself. My arms and legs present, although thin, wasting away. I have all my limbs. I just can't fucking use them.

Sam looks exactly like what Sam looks like. Her expression is worry.

"I know sometimes you forget, honey," she says. "But it's been three months now. And I'm always here for you."

I blink, my mouth moving to form a reply but only a hoarse outrush of breath escaping my lips.

"We're gonna get you fixed up with an eye tracker when we get home, remember?" Sam says, kindness and patience in her expression. "Your physio said you were ready for it, I can't wait to have conversations again!"

I blink some more and Sam smiles. Maybe I said something. I was certainly thinking something.

Wine. Put it in an IV drip or whatever. Please, just wine.

+++++
Day 6
+++++

I blink, feeling twisted in the sheets, and I feel Sam moving beside me.

”You’re awake,” she says, softly, kindly. “I suppose I’d better help you get up.”

"I'm fine," I reply curtly, pulling the covers off and twisting round to sit up.

I feel something weird about my left arm as it brushes against my ribs and I force my eyes open. The wardrobe door across from the bed has a full length mirror on it. My hair is a mess and I'm wearing a grey vest and knickers and there it is. My left arm is missing above the elbow, just a short, rounded stump remains that twitches with each movement.

My flinch is obvious. Sam's hand rests lightly on my right leg and she makes a shushing noise.

"It's okay, 'Manda. It's ok."

If it's okay, it must be Saturday. In the mirror Sam looks exactly like what Sam looks like. Her expression is worry.

"I know sometimes you forget, honey," she says. "But it's been three months now. And I'm always here for you."

"Thanks," I reply, calculating. "But I can take care of myself."

She seems put off by that. I ignore her, turning to reach for my phone on the bedside table with my left hand, swearing and twisting my upper body to grab it with my right instead. Definitely Saturday. After breakfast we'll meet Mel on her way back from her swim. Not today.

I stand, grabbing denim shorts from my holdall and pulling them on straight over my grey knickers. Sam asks if I'm actually okay, like it isn't obvious, and I tell her I just want to get down to the beach before it gets too hot. We should get acclimated to the place, I tell her. We should find a spot near the bar since the trip is all-inclusive. She smiles, seeming to agree and pulling on her own clothes while I swap my vest top for a halter neck one that leaves my shoulders bare. I slip on cork-soled sandals with a bit of a wedge lift to them.

Sam passes me a roll-on deodorant and I apply it to my armpits, twisting my intact arm around to reach under the same side without difficulty. Sam seems excited to be getting on; she piles our beach stuff into a canvas bag and then we make our way outside, skipping the restaurant.

I feel good about today. I feel like I'm going to find something out, something that's going to help.

I'm not sure how much earlier we are than the previous goes around. Perhaps thirty or forty minutes? I'm trying not to make it look like I'm really rushing it, although I feel a good measure of adrenaline as Mel doesn't appear on the path to the beach. I glance across to the main swimming pool and see a vacant wheelchair on the side, the water disturbed by a single swimmer. There's a coffee stand just there too...

"You go on ahead," I tell Sam, "gonna grab us some coffees, find a good spot and I'll catch you up."

She smiles, ducks back to kiss me, and then scampers away with some excitement. I feel almost like the Amanda I usually am, and I feel full of love for Sam again. Maybe I can make this work. Maybe that's the rule here, the way to break the cycle. I can manage without one hand, right?

I enter the poolside, picking up coffees and then lingering for a moment as I watch the pool's sole occupant. She swims with a confident breaststroke, her arms scything through the clear water, her golden hair tied back, her dark swimsuit glossy, her leg stumps kicking sympathetically although surely not adding much to her forward motion.

At the end of the length she stops, grabbing the edge of the pool and noticing me. I give her a smile.

"How's the water?"

LAME.

"A bit fresh," Mel says with a smile. "Although I prefer to come down here before it fills up."

"For sure. I'll have to remember that."

She gives a slight expression of puzzlement. My response would have made more sense if she had been telling me the pool was quieter before breakfast. But that isn't what I meant.

Mel pulls herself out of the water, the muscles in her arms and back rippling. I was fascinated. She twists in a smooth motion, sitting on the edge with the tips of her stumps overhanging. She gestures at a nearby sunlounger where a white hotel towel is piled in a heap.

"Would you mind?"

"Oh, sure."

I'm holding a cardboard cup carrier with a pair of coffees in my intact hand so I have to lean down and scoop up Mel's towel with my left arm stump, trapping it between the limb and my ribcage. I carry it over to her, dropping it slightly awkwardly but she catches it and immediately starts to work on drying herself off.

"Takes some getting used to, huh?"

I straighten up again. The coffee has sloshed out of the cup lids a little, and I lift the worst of the two to my lips to suck away the excess.

"Right, kind of an odd place," I respond.

"I meant the..." she says, gesturing with her towel at my dangling, abbreviated arm.

"Oh!" I blush. "Right. It was a surprise, I'll admit."

She nods, without offering further comment. She sets the towel down at her side and unties her ponytail, leaning over the pool to wring out some of the water.

"Say," I begin, but realise I don't know quite how to phrase my question. "Been here for a while?" I eventually manage.

LAME.

"About a week," she says. "Heading home Tuesday, back to work of course."

"Sure. Saturday today, right?"

"You lose track too, huh?" Mel smiles, and I nod.

"The days seem to blur into one."

"Well, better go," she says, glancing up at me, shielding her eyes from the morning sun with one hand. "Breakfast buffet isn't going to eat itself. I'm Mel, by the way."

I lean down again and offer her my hand to shake.

"Amanda, nice to meet you."

This is so awkward.

"Um, have you thought about going up to the town?" I ask her just as she turns towards her wheelchair. I picture what she's going to look like scooting over to it on her bottom.

"Yeah, I went last night. Bit of a trek, but they can call you an accessible taxi from reception. Just make sure you plan it and book the return, the car has to come from the airport."

I find a smile. "Thanks. Enjoy your game."

"Uh?"

"Enjoy your day."

Mel nods. She does, indeed, look wonderful pulling her legless body across the poolside and then up into her wheelchair. Her movements are so fluid, practised, she doesn't let her disability get in her way at all.

I wince inside. I'm going to hell. If, indeed, I'm not already there.

Description
+++++
Day 0
+++++

It feels like it’s been so long since we took a vacation together. I travel a lot for work of course (whose flyer miles do you think are paying for this?) and Sam is busy with her own thing so it’s rare that we really get a lot of time in the same place.

So we picked something simple; resort, sun, it didn’t really matter exactly where, just some place to chill out. Reconnect.

Maybe it isn’t the best sign then that I feel trapped even on the bus from the airport. It’s getting late, a Friday night transfer, the dusty textures of the day giving way to evening tones, warm fingers of sunset highlighting scenes of this small Mediterranean island as we pass by.

In the small town just before the turning for the hotel something, someone outside catches my eye. She’s dressed like a tourist, her hair glowing gold in the red sunlight, but she’s negotiating the rough pavement in a wheelchair. Pauses as the coach squeezes past and I glance down from my window seat. Her gloved hands on the rims of the wheels, her abbreviated legs, gone above the knees, ends wrapped in folded up denim.

Perhaps I catch her green eyes for a second, it’s hard to tell. I pull back. I don’t need a distraction like that.

But she’s still on my mind after we disembark, after we’ve carried our bags to our room and started to think about dinner. She’s on my mind as I watch Sam carefree in her simple cotton dress, unwinding at last on the terrace bar. We clink bottles of the local lager together and find smiles in each other’s expressions but I wonder again, after I’ve told myself so often that I shouldn’t, what if it was me?

+++++
Day 1
+++++

A restless night. I don’t feel like I drank enough to warrant it, but we fell into bed together late, almost midnight, and I tossed and turned enough for both of us. My body and mind trying to let go of the stresses of the everyday, I guess.

I blink, feeling twisted in the sheets, and I feel Sam moving beside me.

”You’re awake,” she says, softly, kindly. “I suppose I’d better help you get up.”

I don’t feel like I drank enough to need that.

I mumble a response, kicking the covers off and twisting round to sit up. I feel Sam's hands on my shoulders, as if she's guiding me, and I force my eyes open. The wardrobe door across from the bed has a full length mirror on it. My hair is a mess and I'm wearing a grey vest and knickers and holy fucking shit.

My flinch is obvious. Sam's hands press more firmly on where my arms should be and she makes a shushing noise.

"It's okay, 'Manda. It's ok."

It's not okay.

Everything else about me looks exactly the same. Hair, eye colour. Slim, slightly muscular figure, reasonable sized breasts pushing at the vest top as I slump forward. Everything is the same except I don't have any arms.

In the mirror Sam looks exactly like what Sam looks like. Her expression is worry.

"I know sometimes you forget, honey," she says. "But it's been three months now. And I'm always here for you."

Three months? What the hell is going on?

Answers aren't forthcoming as Sam eases me to my feet. I'm embarrassed but she slides my nightwear off and we shower together in the suite's little tiled bathroom. That part is nice, although as the water runs over my face and I close my eyes, unable to wipe it away, my mind races back to that woman in her wheelchair that I saw from the coach. Seriously, what the hell is going on?

My lover towels my armless body dry and then dresses me in my own clothes; denim shorts over bikini briefs, cork-soled sandals with a bit of a wedge lift to them, and a halterneck top that leaves my empty shoulders bare. She talks about spending some time on the beach while we get acclimatised to the place, that we should find a spot near the bar since the trip is all-inclusive, and I'm half listening although somewhere in public is the last place I want to be.

Once Sam is done getting us both ready we leave the room and make our way to the restaurant for breakfast. The hotel is modern, clean. Our room is on the ground floor and the corridors are wide with smooth tiled floors. I quickly realise Sam is going to have to feed me, and for a second I'm about to make a fuss about it when I realise drawing attention to myself is the last thing I want to do.

Over the meal Sam discusses an appointment with my prosthetist scheduled for when we get back. About how great it will be for me to try out some options to give me back a little independence. I'm non-committal, trying to work out how I'm going to find an answer to all this. I get the feeling that if I tell Sam that yesterday I was perfectly intact, she'll just laugh and then look worried and talk about how I need to accept what happened and move on.

Who else can I talk to? This reality seems completely consistent with itself, except for my memories of what I should be.

We go out towards the private beach after breakfast. Sam seems to sort of shepherd me, as if I've lost the ability to control my direction as well, and I'm on the verge of snapping at her when we pass the golden haired woman in the wheelchair going in the opposite direction. She's wearing a dark-coloured swimsuit, her hair wet from the pool or the sea, and with each pull at her chair's wheels her short, bare stumps twitch against the seat. I feel a pulse of guilt for that momentary thought last night that I could be like her.

I realise, as my head turns to watch her pass, that the other hotel residents we've seen have barely paid attention to me, while on any street back home you might expect my body to attract stares and comments. Was someone else at breakfast on crutches? Were there particularly wide gangways between the tables?

"Amanda?"

Sam is calling my name and my focus snaps back to her.

"Isn't this place great?" She gestures around us. "Everything laid out so helpfully, so accessible."

I shrug my empty shoulders and stomp off towards the beach, showing Sam she doesn't have to worry about guiding me.

We spend most of the morning there. My frostiness loosens a little as Sam massages tanning lotion into my legs, my shoulders, her hands sliding under my top to treat and caress my breasts. Her hands on my skin feel good. I enjoy the display too as she applies her own lotion. She smiles and tells me she heard there's a naturist section to the beach a little further down, and then I frown as she suggests it would be a great way to work on my body confidence.

My body confidence was just fine until I woke up with 25% of it missing.

The rest of the day is lazy. I keep trying to find ways to confront Sam about what is happening to me, but it genuinely seems like her reality is that I lost my arms to some kind of accident three months ago and this vacation is part of our mutual rehab. Some time away without any pressures, to get to know each other again.

By dinner time I really need wine, although what I don't need is having to ask Sam to pour it for me and then lift the glass to my lips between the forkfuls of carbonara she is trying to feed me. It's the most effective way to get the wine in my mouth, though, and I ask if we can share another bottle after the meal.

+++++
Day 2
+++++

A restless night. I don’t feel like I drank enough to warrant it, but we fell into bed together late, almost midnight, and I tossed and turned enough for both of us. My body and mind trying to let go of the stresses of the everyday, I guess.

I blink, feeling twisted in the sheets, and I feel Sam moving beside me.

”You’re awake,” she says, softly, kindly. “I suppose I’d better help you get up.”

Didn't we already do this?

"I'm fine," I reply curtly, pulling the covers off and twisting round to sit up.

I feel something weird about my right thigh as it wobbles against my left and I force my eyes open. The wardrobe door across from the bed has a full length mirror on it. My hair is a mess and I'm wearing a grey vest and knickers and holy fucking shit.

My flinch is obvious. Sam's hand rests lightly on my right leg and she makes a shushing noise.

"It's okay, 'Manda. It's ok."

It's not okay.

Everything else about me looks exactly the same. Hair, eye colour. Slim, slightly muscular figure, toned arms, reasonable sized breasts pushing at the vest top as I slump forward. Everything is the same except my right leg ends in a stump above the knee, punctuated by a horizontal red scar.

In the mirror Sam looks exactly like what Sam looks like. Her expression is worry.

"I know sometimes you forget, honey," she says. "But it's been three months now. And I'm always here for you."

Three months? What the hell is going on? Why the hell is it going on differently to yesterday?

Sam brings me light, aluminium crutches and I spend a minute working out how to use them to get myself upright. I wobble for balance on my single foot, continuing to stare at my body in the mirror. She offers to shower with me but I brush her off, in need of some time on my own, time to think. I crutch awkwardly into the little tiled bathroom and push the door closed. After a moment I pull off my underwear, leaning against the sink counter so I can set the crutches to one side, and then stumble and hop into the shower cubicle and turn on the water.

The possibilities race through my mind. Neither today or yesterday can be real. It's impossible. I must be dreaming, or high. Or high and dreaming. There doesn't seem to be much I can do except to play through whatever this is until I wake up.

I towel myself dry and then crutch back into the bedroom to get dressed; denim shorts that leave my thigh stump exposed over bikini briefs, cork-soled sandals with a bit of a wedge lift to them, and a halterneck top. Sam talks about spending some time on the beach while we get acclimated to the place, that we should find a spot near the bar since the trip is all-inclusive, and I'm half listening although somewhere in public is the last place I want to be.

We make our way to the restaurant for breakfast. The hotel is modern, clean. Our room is on the ground floor and the corridors are wide with smooth tiled floors. The rubber tips of my crutches squeak on the tiles but I'm getting used to the balance and by the time we reach our table I can move around okay.

Over the meal Sam discusses an appointment with my prosthetist scheduled for when we get back. About how great it will be for me to try out options to give me back some more independence. I'm non-committal, still trying to work out how I'm going to find an answer to all this. I get the feeling that if I tell Sam that the day before yesterday I was perfectly intact, she'll just laugh and then look worried and talk about how I need to accept what happened and move on.

We go out towards the private beach after breakfast. Sam seems to sort of shepherd me, as if I've lost the ability to control my direction as well as my leg, and I'm on the verge of snapping at her when we pass the golden haired woman in the wheelchair going in the opposite direction. She's wearing a dark-coloured swimsuit, her hair wet from the pool or the sea, and with each pull at her chair's wheels her short, bare stumps twitch against the seat. I feel a pulse of resentment for that momentary thought on the coach that I could be like her, now that I'm halfway like her, as if somehow it's all connected.

I realise, as my head turns to watch her pass, that the other hotel residents we've seen have barely paid attention to me, while on any street back home you might expect my body to attract stares and comments. Was someone else at breakfast in a wheelchair? Were there particularly wide gangways between the tables? Is this place set up for people like her? People like me?

We spend most of the morning on the beach. It's harder work to crutch across the sand but it's nice to lay back and apply tanning lotion and just try to relax in the warmth and sun. Sam smiles as she tells me she heard there's a naturist section to the beach a little further down, and then I frown as she suggests it would be a great way to work on my body confidence.

I feel a little guilty for it but after lunch I give Sam the slip for a while, crutching away as quickly as I can while she's in the restaurant bathroom. I ignore the buzz of my phone in my handbag a few minutes later.

The resort is set in it's own grounds, down a long access drive, from a handout map in the reception area I reckon it would take me twenty minutes to walk up to the main road even with both my legs. I sit on a wall outside instead, the stones warm on my thighs, and try to make sense of... well... anything. But there's little sense to make. I'm NOT an amputee, I'm sure of it, and yet the evidence is right at the end of my shorts. And yesterday it was right at my empty shoulders. How can it be both, especially when it's neither?

There's a crunch on the gravel path off to my left. I glance over. It's the woman in the wheelchair. She's come outside to light a cigarette, shielding her lighter from the light breeze with her gloved hands. After a moment she notices I'm staring at her. She smiles and makes an offering gesture with the packet. I nod, pulling myself up on my crutches and moving over to her side to take one.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it. Takes some getting used to, huh?" Her accent is as English as my own.

I fumble with the lighter. Really I gave up years ago but, well, fuck it.

"Right, kind of an odd place," I respond.

"I meant the..." she says, gesturing with her cigarette wielding hand at my dangling, abbreviated thigh.

"Oh!" I blush. "Right. It was a surprise, I'll admit."

She nods, without offering further comment. We smoke in silence for a few moments.

"Say," I begin, but realise I don't know quite how to phrase my question. "Been here for a while?" I eventually manage.

LAME.

"About a week," she says. "Heading home Tuesday, back to work of course."

"Sure."

She pulls a little closed ashtray from her purse and screws the butt of her cigarette out in it.

"Well, better go," she says, glancing up at me, shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand. "Meant to be playing tennis later. I'm Mel, by the way."

I lean on one crutch and offer her my hand to shake.

"Amanda, nice to meet you."

This is so awkward.

"Um, have you thought about going up to the town?" I ask her just as she turns to leave.

"Yeah, I went last night. Bit of a trek, but they can call you an accessible taxi from reception. Just make sure you plan it and book the return, the car has to come from the airport."

Last night... but...

I find a smile. "Thanks. Enjoy your game."

By dinner time I really need wine, although what I don't need is Sam's interrogation about where I went in the afternoon between forkfuls of carbonara. I just tell her I needed a bit of time and space to think (technically accurate), and then I ask if we can share another bottle after the meal.

The whole evening what Mel said has been playing on my mind. She told me she went up to the town 'last night' but I saw her from the coach two nights ago. Nothing here makes any sense.

+++++
Day 3
+++++

A restless night. I don’t feel like I drank enough to warrant it, but we fell into bed together late, almost midnight, and I tossed and turned enough for both of us. My body and mind trying to let go of the stresses of the everyday, I guess.

I squirm, feeling twisted in the sheets, and I feel Sam moving beside me.

Then I feel her fingers tapping lightly on my chest.

I try to blink, try to open my eyes, but there's no response. I try to kick or pull off the covers, trying to sit up, but my body can't do that. I feel a sudden panic.

Sam's taps are in a pattern, like, like, a code? I can sense my body quivering, but I can't sense anything else. The pattern repeats, like she's trying to tell me something.

I feel like it should be enough to know that she's there, that I'm safe, but I can't stop shivering. Even my breaths feel short, as if I have less lung capacity or I'm breathing out of a tracheostomy, or... or...

The taps stop and instead I feel her hand laying flat on my skin. It seems to rest on my chest and my hip all at once. I don't understand how but I understand she is trying to calm me down.

It works, for the most part.

A little later she taps on my skin again. It must be a code? Morse code? I try to remember any of it. I feel angry at myself when I can't.

Sam is touching me in an unstructured way again. Her hands and arms sliding around my body, the sensations weird and disconnected. I think she's hugging me. I feel her shaking now too, a low vibration through my body. A splash of wetness on my... my... I don't even know.

I realise after a while. Sam is crying.

I really need wine.

+++++
Day 4
+++++

A restless night. I don’t feel like I drank enough to warrant it, but we fell into bed together late, almost midnight, and I tossed and turned enough for both of us. My body and mind trying to let go of the stresses of the everyday, I guess.

I blink, feeling twisted in the sheets, and I feel Sam moving beside me.

”You’re awake,” she says, softly, kindly. “I suppose I’d better help you get up.”

I'm almost certain we already did this.

"I'm fine," I reply curtly, pulling the covers off and twisting round to push myself up to a sitting position.

I feel something weird about my thighs as they press together and I force my eyes open. The wardrobe door across from the bed has a full length mirror on it. My hair is a mess and I'm wearing a grey vest and knickers and of course it happened again.

My flinch is obvious. Sam's hand rests lightly on my right leg and she makes a shushing noise.

"It's okay, 'Manda. It's ok."

It's not okay.

Everything else about me looks exactly the same. Hair, eye colour. Slim, slightly muscular figure, toned left arm, reasonable sized breasts pushing at the vest top as I slump forward. Everything is the same except my right arm is missing and both of my legs end in stumps above the knee, punctuated by horizontal red scars.

In the mirror Sam looks exactly like what Sam looks like. Her expression is worry.

"I know sometimes you forget, honey," she says. "But it's been three months now. And I'm always here for you."

Now I'm crying. I can't do this again. Not like this. Not with almost nothing left.

Sam looks down at me with concern. She gently wipes away my tears and then helps me get undressed for a shower. I'm embarrassed but without hesitation she slides my nightwear off and then she carries me to the little tiled bathroom. She supports me with a hand under my bottom and I use my arm, my only limb, to hold on around her neck. She kisses my cheek lightly, affectionately, as she stands under the water with me, washing us both with apparent experience of doing it like this.

My lover helps me to dry off and then to get dressed; denim shorts that expose my truncated thighs over bikini briefs, and a halterneck top that leaves my empty shoulders bare. She talks about spending some time on the beach while we get acclimated to the place, that we should find a spot near the bar since the trip is all-inclusive, and I'm half listening although somewhere in public is the last place I want to be.

Once Sam is done getting us both ready she brings a lightweight wheelchair over to the bed and helps me to transfer into it. It's set up with a grip ring on the left wheel so that I can propel myself with my single arm if I want to, but for now Sam pushes. We leave the room and make our way to the restaurant for breakfast. The hotel is modern, clean. Our room is on the ground floor and the corridors are wide with smooth tiled floors and automatic doors, it's easy to wheel me through to the restaurant, like the place is designed for it.

Over the meal Sam discusses an appointment with my prosthetist scheduled for when we get back. About how great it will be for me to try out options to give me back some more independence. I'm non-committal; while she talks I look around for Mel but there's no sign of her. Something tells me that she just doesn't have breakfast at this time. She had just been swimming when we saw her yesterday morning. No... not yesterday. The day before, and also the day before that. She must eat earlier.

Yesterday was... What the fuck was yesterday? What was I? If Sam was trying to 'speak' to me with Morse code am I going to need to learn that in case it happens again? How could I respond if I can't speak or even feel anything I can move?

We go out towards the private beach after breakfast, Sam pushing my chair through the resort complex. Mel approaches us, wearing her dark-coloured swimsuit, hair wet from the pool or the sea and with each pull at her chair's wheels her short, bare stumps twitch against the seat. I feel a pulse of resentment, now she has more than me, both arms. She can have some sort of independence.

Her daily route seems pretty set. I give her a smile as she passes but there's not even a flicker of a response, like she doesn't recognise me. I don't blame her, last time I saw her I was only missing one leg.

"Amanda?"

Sam is calling my name and my focus snaps back to her.

"Isn't this place great?" She gestures around us. "Everything laid out so helpfully, so accessible."

I shrug my shoulders and grab the ring on my wheelchair's left wheel with my hand, starting to propel myself off towards the beach, showing Sam she doesn't have to do everything for me. It's harder than it looks, without the ability to even up the forward motion on both sides. We can't take the chair on the beach anyway, so Sam has to pick me up and carry me the last of the way across the soft, white sand.

We spend most of the morning there. My frostiness loosens a little as Sam massages tanning lotion into my leg stumps, my arm and empty shoulder, her hands sliding under my top to treat and caress my breasts. Her hands on my skin feel good. I enjoy the display too as she applies her own lotion. She smiles and tells me she heard there's a naturist section to the beach a little further down, and then I frown as she suggests it would be a great way to work on my body confidence.

My body confidence was just fine until I woke up with 75% of it missing.

The rest of the day is lazy. I don't have a chance to get away from Sam, or to try and find Mel again, but while we relax on sun loungers by the pool I do spend some time on my phone looking up Morse code. Trying to memorise some key sequences, but it's hard to predict what Sam would be 'saying' to me if I wake up in THAT situation again. Then it hits me. I know exactly what she'll say.

You’re awake. I suppose I’d better help you get up.

I shiver, and only then think to check the date the phone is displaying. Saturday. How can it be Saturday? We arrived Friday. Then Saturday I had no arms, Sunday I had one leg. I met Mel, she said she was going home on Tuesday. Monday I was... I was... I don't like to think about what I was. That would make today Tuesday. But the phone says Saturday. I almost drop it in the pool.

No... no no no no... I've seen this film, it doesn't end well. Actually, correction. It doesn't end.

By dinner time I really need wine. When they come to take our order I ask for a bottle of red. Sam has been glancing over the menu without appearing to make a decision, and when the young waiter, who I notice has been staring at my empty shoulder the whole time, asks what we want to eat I just say we'll both have the carbonara. Sam looks over at me and smiles.

"You know I was just thinking that," she says, reaching across the table to squeeze my single hand.

"Funny," I reply, and immediately ask the waiter to make it two bottles.

+++++
Day 5
+++++

I blink, not sure whether or not the sheets are wrapped around me, and I sense Sam moving beside me.

”You’re awake,” she says, softly, kindly. “I suppose I’d better help you get up.”

There must be a way to break the cycle. There HAS to be. I promise I'll never imagine being an amputee again.

I try to kick or pull the covers off and move to a sitting position, but nothing happens. I force my eyes open. I know that the wardrobe across from the bed has a full length mirror on it but I'm laid on my back, staring at the ceiling. I can't move anything below my neck, and at that realisation I feel tears in my eyes.

Sam's hand brushes my cheek, and she makes a shushing noise as she moves to kneel beside me, looking down.

"It's okay, 'Manda. It's ok."

It's not okay. She reaches for something out of my sight and there's an electric whirring sound. My viewpoint changes as the head of the bed folds upwards to put me in a sitting position. I might as well be watching on a screen.

Now I can see the mirror. Hair, eye colour, the same. Slim figure, reasonable sized breasts pushing at my vest top as I stare at myself. My arms and legs present, although thin, wasting away. I have all my limbs. I just can't fucking use them.

Sam looks exactly like what Sam looks like. Her expression is worry.

"I know sometimes you forget, honey," she says. "But it's been three months now. And I'm always here for you."

I blink, my mouth moving to form a reply but only a hoarse outrush of breath escaping my lips.

"We're gonna get you fixed up with an eye tracker when we get home, remember?" Sam says, kindness and patience in her expression. "Your physio said you were ready for it, I can't wait to have conversations again!"

I blink some more and Sam smiles. Maybe I said something. I was certainly thinking something.

Wine. Put it in an IV drip or whatever. Please, just wine.

+++++
Day 6
+++++

I blink, feeling twisted in the sheets, and I feel Sam moving beside me.

”You’re awake,” she says, softly, kindly. “I suppose I’d better help you get up.”

"I'm fine," I reply curtly, pulling the covers off and twisting round to sit up.

I feel something weird about my left arm as it brushes against my ribs and I force my eyes open. The wardrobe door across from the bed has a full length mirror on it. My hair is a mess and I'm wearing a grey vest and knickers and there it is. My left arm is missing above the elbow, just a short, rounded stump remains that twitches with each movement.

My flinch is obvious. Sam's hand rests lightly on my right leg and she makes a shushing noise.

"It's okay, 'Manda. It's ok."

If it's okay, it must be Saturday. In the mirror Sam looks exactly like what Sam looks like. Her expression is worry.

"I know sometimes you forget, honey," she says. "But it's been three months now. And I'm always here for you."

"Thanks," I reply, calculating. "But I can take care of myself."

She seems put off by that. I ignore her, turning to reach for my phone on the bedside table with my left hand, swearing and twisting my upper body to grab it with my right instead. Definitely Saturday. After breakfast we'll meet Mel on her way back from her swim. Not today.

I stand, grabbing denim shorts from my holdall and pulling them on straight over my grey knickers. Sam asks if I'm actually okay, like it isn't obvious, and I tell her I just want to get down to the beach before it gets too hot. We should get acclimated to the place, I tell her. We should find a spot near the bar since the trip is all-inclusive. She smiles, seeming to agree and pulling on her own clothes while I swap my vest top for a halter neck one that leaves my shoulders bare. I slip on cork-soled sandals with a bit of a wedge lift to them.

Sam passes me a roll-on deodorant and I apply it to my armpits, twisting my intact arm around to reach under the same side without difficulty. Sam seems excited to be getting on; she piles our beach stuff into a canvas bag and then we make our way outside, skipping the restaurant.

I feel good about today. I feel like I'm going to find something out, something that's going to help.

I'm not sure how much earlier we are than the previous goes around. Perhaps thirty or forty minutes? I'm trying not to make it look like I'm really rushing it, although I feel a good measure of adrenaline as Mel doesn't appear on the path to the beach. I glance across to the main swimming pool and see a vacant wheelchair on the side, the water disturbed by a single swimmer. There's a coffee stand just there too...

"You go on ahead," I tell Sam, "gonna grab us some coffees, find a good spot and I'll catch you up."

She smiles, ducks back to kiss me, and then scampers away with some excitement. I feel almost like the Amanda I usually am, and I feel full of love for Sam again. Maybe I can make this work. Maybe that's the rule here, the way to break the cycle. I can manage without one hand, right?

I enter the poolside, picking up coffees and then lingering for a moment as I watch the pool's sole occupant. She swims with a confident breaststroke, her arms scything through the clear water, her golden hair tied back, her dark swimsuit glossy, her leg stumps kicking sympathetically although surely not adding much to her forward motion.

At the end of the length she stops, grabbing the edge of the pool and noticing me. I give her a smile.

"How's the water?"

LAME.

"A bit fresh," Mel says with a smile. "Although I prefer to come down here before it fills up."

"For sure. I'll have to remember that."

She gives a slight expression of puzzlement. My response would have made more sense if she had been telling me the pool was quieter before breakfast. But that isn't what I meant.

Mel pulls herself out of the water, the muscles in her arms and back rippling. I was fascinated. She twists in a smooth motion, sitting on the edge with the tips of her stumps overhanging. She gestures at a nearby sunlounger where a white hotel towel is piled in a heap.

"Would you mind?"

"Oh, sure."

I'm holding a cardboard cup carrier with a pair of coffees in my intact hand so I have to lean down and scoop up Mel's towel with my left arm stump, trapping it between the limb and my ribcage. I carry it over to her, dropping it slightly awkwardly but she catches it and immediately starts to work on drying herself off.

"Takes some getting used to, huh?"

I straighten up again. The coffee has sloshed out of the cup lids a little, and I lift the worst of the two to my lips to suck away the excess.

"Right, kind of an odd place," I respond.

"I meant the..." she says, gesturing with her towel at my dangling, abbreviated arm.

"Oh!" I blush. "Right. It was a surprise, I'll admit."

She nods, without offering further comment. She sets the towel down at her side and unties her ponytail, leaning over the pool to wring out some of the water.

"Say," I begin, but realise I don't know quite how to phrase my question. "Been here for a while?" I eventually manage.

LAME.

"About a week," she says. "Heading home Tuesday, back to work of course."

"Sure. Saturday today, right?"

"You lose track too, huh?" Mel smiles, and I nod.

"The days seem to blur into one."

"Well, better go," she says, glancing up at me, shielding her eyes from the morning sun with one hand. "Breakfast buffet isn't going to eat itself. I'm Mel, by the way."

I lean down again and offer her my hand to shake.

"Amanda, nice to meet you."

This is so awkward.

"Um, have you thought about going up to the town?" I ask her just as she turns towards her wheelchair. I picture what she's going to look like scooting over to it on her bottom.

"Yeah, I went last night. Bit of a trek, but they can call you an accessible taxi from reception. Just make sure you plan it and book the return, the car has to come from the airport."

I find a smile. "Thanks. Enjoy your game."

"Uh?"

"Enjoy your day."

Mel nods. She does, indeed, look wonderful pulling her legless body across the poolside and then up into her wheelchair. Her movements are so fluid, practised, she doesn't let her disability get in her way at all.

I wince inside. I'm going to hell. If, indeed, I'm not already there.