The parking lot was nearly deserted now. Small amber bulbs in grilled cases hung from the concrete ceiling, casting a hard-focus glow on
every other parking slot. The remaining spaces were totally dark, creating a zebra-stripe effect. As I walked to the stairs I felt as if someone were watching me. When I looked back, I was alone.
The lobby was empty, too, the marble floors mirrors of nothing.
One woman sat behind the Information window, methodically handstamping some papers. The page operator was getting paid for showing up. A clock ticked loudly. The smell of adhesive tape and a faint but definite sweat- spoor lingered, remembrances of stress gone by.
Something else I'd forgotten: Hospitals are different at night.
The place was as spooky as the streets.
I took the elevator up to Five and walked through the ward, unnoticed.
The doors to most of the rooms were closed; handwritten signs provided occasional distraction: Protective Isolation, Injection Watch/No Visitors.. The few doors that were open emitted TV sounds and the cricket-clicks of metered I.V's. I passed sleeping children and others entranced by the cathode ray. Parents sat, stiff as plaster.
Waiting.
Chappy Ward's teak doors vacuum-sucked me into dead silence.
No one was at the desk.
I walked over to 505 and rapped very softly. No answer. I opened the door and looked in.
Cassie's side rails were raised. She slept, guarded by stainless steel.
Cindy slept, too, on the sofa bed, positioned so that her head was close to Cassie's feet. One of her hands extended through the bars, touching Cassie's sheet.
I closed the door softly.
A voice behind me said, 'They're sleeping.'
I turned.
Vicki Bottomley glared at me, hands on meaty hips.
Another double shift?' I said.
She rolled her eyes and began walking off.
'Hold on,' I said. The sharpness in my voice surprised both of us.
She stopped, turned slowly. 'What?'
'What's the problem, Vicki?'
'There is no problem.'
'I think there is.'
'You're entitled.' She started to leave again.
'Hold it.' The empty corridor amplified my voice. Or maybe I really was that angry.
She said, 'I've got work to do.'
'So do I, Vicki. Same patient, as a matter of fact.'
She stretched one arm toward the chart rack. 'Be my guest.
