“I’ve been in the library studying up on knee-replacement surgery.”
“Really?” Charu questioned, with a tone that suggested doubt.
“Really,” Samira echoed, trying to sound forceful.
Charu eyed Samira with a look of disbelief but didn’t voice it. Instead, she added, “Mrs. Benfatti is visiting.”
“Will she be leaving soon? I wanted to ask Mr. Benfatti a few questions about symptoms.”
Charu merely shrugged before pushing past Samira.
Samira watched her as she headed in the direction of the desk. Samira was in a quandary about what to do. She couldn’t hang around the floor waiting for Mrs. Benfatti to leave, yet if she returned to the library, she wouldn’t know when the wife departed. On top of that, she wondered if running into Charu meant she should abort the effort altogether. Of course, the trouble with doing that was that it might be a week before she had another American patient with some kind of history of heart trouble who would make an appropriate target. By then the benefits of competing with Veena probably wouldn’t accrue.
Samira was still debating the issue when she was surprised yet again. This time it was Mrs. Lucinda Benfatti, who was a moderately tall, heavyset woman in her mid-fifties with tightly permed hair. Having met Samira that day, she recognized her immediately. “My word, you do put in a long day.”
“Sometimes,” Samira stammered. Her mission during which she was to avoid being seen was devolving into a bad joke.
“What time do you work until?”
“It varies,” Samira lied. “But I’ll be heading home shortly. How is the patient doing? I wanted to stop by and check.”
“Well, aren’t you a dear! He’s doing reasonably well, but he’s not good with pain, and he’s having a lot of pain. The nurse who was just in here gave him an additional pain shot. I hope it works. Why don’t you go in and say hello. I’m sure he’d be glad to see you.”
“I’m not sure that’s appropriate, since he just had a pain shot. I don’t want to bother him.”
“It’ll be no bother. Come on!” Mrs. Benfatti took Samira by the elbow and walked her into her husband’s room. The lights had been dimmed, but the overall level of illumination was reasonably bright, since the large, flat- screen TV was on and tuned to the BBC. Mr. Benfatti was propped up in a semi-recumbent position. His left leg was encased in a device that was slowly but constantly flexing the knee joint thirty degrees several times a minute.
“Herbert, dear,” Mrs. Benfatti called out over the sound of the TV. “Look who’s here.”
Mr. Benfatti lowered the TV’s volume with the remote and looked over at Samira. He recognized her and, like his wife, commented on the impressive length of Samira’s workday.
Before Samira could comment, Mrs. Benfatti intervened. “I don’t know about the rest of you people, but I’m exhausted. I’m going back to the hotel and collapse. Good night again, dear,” she said, kissing Herbert’s broad forehead. “Hope you sleep well.”
Mr. Benfatti’s right hand waved weakly. His left hand, with the IV going into his arm remained perfectly still. Mrs. Benfatti said good-bye to Samira and departed.
Samira found herself in an awkward predicament. She wasn’t interested in getting into a conversation with the man if she was going to go through with her plan, yet she couldn’t just stand there. Plus, having run into Mrs. Benfatti, was there more reason to cancel? The only thing that was for certain was what she’d thought was going to be so simple was turning out to be anything but. Unable to make up her mind, Samira just dumbly remained rooted to her spot.
Mr. Benfatti waited for a moment before inquiring: “Is there something I can do for you, like run down to the kitchen and rustle you up a snack?” He chucked briefly at his own attempt at humor.
“How is your knee feeling?” Samira questioned, while she tried to organize her thoughts.
“Oh, great,” Mr. Benfatti scoffed. “I’m ready to go for a jog.”
Unconsciously, Samira’s hand slipped into her pocket, and her fingers encountered the full syringe. With a start, she was reminded why she was there.
While Mr. Benfatti carried on about the details of the pain he’d been suffering, Samira struggled with what to do. Recognizing there was no rational way to make a decision short of the crystal ball she didn’t have, she opted for the more simple choice of acknowledging her impetuosity and just proceeding as planned. The deciding factor was the realization that Mr. Benfatti would not be discovered for hours maybe, since his wife had just left and the nurse had just given him a shot. What that meant was that Samira would have lots of time to be far from the scene when he was discovered. She pulled the syringe from its hiding place. Using her teeth to remove the needle cap, she reached for the IV port below the millepore filter.
Mr. Benfatti had seen Samira suddenly approach the bed, had caught sight of the syringe, and had stopped his diatribe about pain. “What’s this?” he questioned. When Samira ignored him and raised the needle up to the IV port to inject, he reached out with his right hand and grasped Samira’s right wrist. In the next instant, their eyes locked. “What am I getting?”
“It’s something for your pain,” Samira nervously improvised. The fact that Mr. Benfatti was holding her terrorized her. For a second, she irrationally worried that what she was about to give Mr. Benfatti would pass into her from the contact.
“I just got a pain shot two seconds ago. Isn’t this overdoing it?”
“The doctor ordered another. This is more, to get you to sleep longer.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Samira repeated, reminding her of the unpleasant conversation she’d just had with Charu. She looked down at Mr. Benfatti tightly gripping her wrist. The man was strong, and although she wasn’t yet experiencing pain, it was close. He was restricting her blood flow.
“Is the doctor here?”
“No, he’s gone for the day. He called this in.”
Mr. Benfatti maintained his grip for several more seconds and then suddenly released it.
Samira let out a silent sigh of relief. The very tips of her fingers had begun to tingle. Without wasting another moment, she struggled to get the needle inside the port, being especially careful in her haste not to prick herself. With succinylcholine, even a small amount could create problems. Without delay, Samira emptied the syringe. A second later a cry began to issue from Mr. Benfatti’s lips, causing Samira to clamp a free hand over the man’s mouth.
Mr. Benfatti responded by reaching for the nurses’ call button clasped to the edge of his pillow, but Samira was able to yank it out of reach with the hand holding the syringe. Almost immediately, she felt the resistance she’d had against her hand cupped over the man’s mouth melt away. Taking her hand away, Samira noticed a kind of wriggling under the man’s skin, as if suddenly his face had been infiltrated by worms. At the same time, his arms and even his free leg began to briefly and uncontrollably jerk. The next second, the twitching stopped. In its place was a darkening of his skin that was particularly apparent due to the white light from the TV. It had started slowly, then picked up speed until all of Mr. Benfatti’s exposed skin was an ominous dark purple.
Although Samira had purposely avoided looking into the man’s eyes while he’d gone through his rapid death throes, she did now. The lids were only half open and the pupils blank. Backing up toward the door, Samira collided with a chair and grabbed it to keep it from falling over. The last thing she wanted was for someone to appear, questioning a crashing noise. Taking one last look at Benfatti from the doorway, Samira was momentarily hypnotized by the fact that the man’s leg was still rhythmically being mechanically flexed and extended as if he were still alive.
Turning around, Samira fled from the room but then forced herself to slow to a walk by sheer will to keep from attracting attention. Maintaining her eye on the nurses’ station, where she could see all four nurses, Samira made her way to the stairwell. Only when she was inside did she allow herself to breathe, surprised that she’d been holding her breath. She’d been totally unaware.
After picking up the books and turning out the light in the library, Samira descended to the lobby floor. She appreciated that the lobby was empty and appreciated even more that the doormen had gone off duty. Out on the street Samira caught an auto rickshaw, and as they pulled away, she glanced back at the Queen Victoria Hospital. It looked dark, shadowy, and, most important, quiet.
During the ride home, Samira felt progressively better at what she had accomplished, and the fear, anxiety,
