Frida's Bed

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THAT EARLY JULY MORNING FRIDA WOKE up in her bed at her parents’ house. A faint light was already creeping into the room. She had spent a restless night. With an effort, she turned over, propped herself up on the pillows and touched her face as if to make sure that it was still there. She lay there quite still for a while, looking at her arms on the bedcover, then ran her fingers through her hair — her face, her hair, her hands, they were all parts of what had once been a whole. She tried to get out of bed, but then gave up. She had no strength left. Her mind was troubled.

Last year when my leg was amputated it was my — what? — thirty-second operation? Frida tried to remember exactly, touching the scars on her back, her tummy, her leg. I can’t remember them all. I wonder if abortions count as operations. Even if I forget those that leave no visible scars I still can’t count them all. This counting is useless, she thought.

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