out the door, 'and you'll know what bad means.'
33
I sat still as the nurse sewed my hand back together. After sinking the blade into my flesh, the man had traced every finger, carving a gruesome glove on my palm. He hadn't severed any tendons, and he'd missed or purposefully ignored the major blood vessels in my wrist. He wanted me hurt. Not dead.
Curt Sheffield sat on a stool next to me, watching as the black threads closed the wounds. He winced every time the needle pierced my skin, which was slightly disconcerting since between the novocaine numbing my hand and the extrastrength aspirin for my head, I wouldn't have felt it if someone hit me with a two-by-four.
'Glad to know the boys in blue get squeamish at the sight of blood,' I said to Curt.
'Blood? Uh-uh. I'm just wincing in sympathy 'cause you're gonna have one ugly-ass hand once those stitches come out.' Curt looked at me, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
'Least I still have my looks.'
'Yeah, right. I'd say you look like hell, but I don't want to hurt hell's feelings.'
'Mmph,' I replied, as another nurse placed an ice pack on my head and secured it with an Ace bandage.
'You're lucky Amanda came home when she did,' Sheffield added. 'Docs said if you lost any more blood they might have had to amputate the hand.'
'They didn't really say that,' I said. 'Did they?'
'Nah, just jerking your chain.'
'Please, just go away. I bet there are some strangers in the waiting room who'd find you just hilarious.'
But Curt was right. Amanda had come home to try and make things right, only to find me passed out on the floor, my hand flayed open, blood everywhere. I couldn't bear to think what it must have felt like for her to see me like that. Because
I knew how I would feel if the tables were turned.
'Where is Amanda?' I asked. 'Curt, is she here? Excuse me, Nurse? Are you sure you can't give me any more novocaine? I think it's wearing off.' The look the nurse gave me confirmed that if she gave me any more novocaine I wouldn't feel anything for a long time. She kept on sewing.
'Amanda's waiting outside,' Curt said. 'Girl's all broken up, crying like she sprung a leak. Docs asked her to wait outside while they finished upholstering you.'
'Christ,' I muttered. There was a dull throbbing in my head, and my hand was stiff as a plank of wood. I watched as the stitches were sewn in, knowing they would undoubtedly leave one hell of an ugly scar.
'In the meantime,' Curt said, 'we have a security escort looking after Agnes Trimble. Our guy would have to be crazy or stupid to go after her now.'
'He's definitely crazy,' I said, 'but not stupid. And he's not going to touch her. That was just a threat. He's killing people for a reason, and that doesn't involve spite.'
'Nothing more dangerous in this world than a fool with a cause.'
Prior to being loaded with painkiller, I'd managed to give a sketch artist the best description I could of my assailant. Of course, due to my being knocked silly and his bandanna, it could have been any tan young white guy in New York City.
The nurse began laying strips of adhesive tape over the sutures. I watched with detached curiosity, like it was somebody else's hand being sewn up. From the corner of my eye I saw Curt playing with a spool of stitching. He was threading it between his hands and wrapping it around his fingers.
'Those are absorbable stitches,' the nurse said to Sheffield.
'What's that mean?'
'They're made from specially prepared beef and sheep intestine.'
Curt smiled and gently placed the spool back on the table.
Once the nurse finished taping me up, she said, 'Keep it dry and clean for twenty-four hours. You can bathe again in forty-eight hours, unless the wounds begin to bleed or you notice a discharge leaking through the adhesive. The tape should fall off on its own in about five days. You need to come back in ten days to have the sutures removed, unless you break a stitch during that time. But try not to. You also have a grade one concussion. You'll have a bad headache for a few days, but nothing that some extra-strength Tylenol shouldn't help.
If you still feel dizzy or disoriented after a week, or you find you can't remember certain things, come back immediately.'
Sheffield looked concerned. 'Gonna be awful hard to type with all that junk in your hand. Not to mention your brain floating around in your head.' The nurse shot him a look.
'I think that was the idea,' I said. 'Make my job a little harder.'
'I heard they've made some really good advances in voice recognition software,' Curt added. 'Or maybe you can hire a helper monkey or something.'
'I think I'll manage.' The nurse gave me a gentle pat on the arm to let me know she was finished. I stood up tentatively.
My equilibrium was still off, and I had to lean on Curt for support. 'You think this kind of thing ever happened to
Woodward?'
'Not unless Bernstein got frisky with a tire iron. Besides, shadowy parking lots are much safer than the gutters you go digging in. But, hey, Amanda's waiting for you outside,' he said. 'I swear, that girl gains Hulk-like strength when she needs it. They practically had to handcuff her to the bench to keep her in the waiting room.'
'I don't know if I can see her,' I said. 'Not like this.'
'Shut the hell up,' Curt snapped. 'You still have your hand
'cause of that girl. That shit happened to me I'd be writing parking tickets with a hook. Get your ass out there. Give her a hug. Let her know her big stupid boyfriend appreciates the fact that in a few weeks he'll be able to cop a feel with both hands.'
'I got it, now give me a hand.'
I wrapped an arm around Curt's shoulder as he led me through the bright white corridors, navigating me around corners and blue-robed doctors until we reached the waiting room.
'I can stand,' I said. Curt moved away, then opened the door.
Amanda was sitting in the waiting room, tucked into a beige chair, her feet tapping relentlessly. As soon as she saw me she leapt up, ran over and threw her arms around me. I winced as the blood flowed to my head, but I wrapped my good arm around her and squeezed as hard as I could.
'I'm tired of you being unconscious,' she whispered into my ear. I could hear the pain and relief in her voice. I wanted to find the man who'd done this, who made Amanda feel this way.
'I'm okay,' I said. 'A little banged up. And I might need you to open my soda cans for a few weeks.'
'Not a problem,' she said. Amanda unwrapped herself and stepped back, wiping her face with her sleeve. Her eyes were red, a clump of tissues falling from her hand. 'Let's go home.'
I said goodbye to Curt and thanked him for his help. He told me he'd give me a call in a few hours to make sure my brain hadn't started leaking out of my ears. Nothing like a good friend to help cheer you up when you're in pain.
We hailed a cab outside the emergency room of New
York/Columbia Presbyterian hospital. Amanda helped me inside, as I made sure not to grip anything with my maimed appendage. When we pulled up to our apartment, Amanda again held the door and pulled me out of the cab. She paid and all but carried me upstairs.
I fell into the couch as Amanda took off her coat and hung it up. I took deep, slow breaths, closed my eyes, smelled something sweet. There was a mess of dried blood congealed by the radiator along with the twine Amanda had cut from my wrists. She saw what I was looking at and said, 'I didn't have time to clean up. I called an ambulance as soon as I found you.'
She was standing over me, her face a mess of confusion, fear and relief. 'That's the second time you saved
