“The time is now.” It was all he could do not to grab her wrist and give it a shake, to emphasize that he was serious. He’d always been a little claustrophobic, blessed or cursed with a lot of energy. That much he did remember. Being confined in a hospital was definitely not his thing.
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
She gave him an “I’ve heard it all before” look that, he supposed, was meant to shut him up. It didn’t.
“Mr. Cahill—”
“James. It’s James,” he said, not interested in any kind of formality.
“I’ll talk to the doctor, James.”
He felt a sharp prick as she adjusted the needle, but he didn’t wince, didn’t want to appear to be a damned wuss.
“He’ll get you out of here as soon as he thinks you’re ready.” She shook her head. “Trust me, these days we don’t keep patients a second longer than absolutely necessary.” Stepping away from the bed, she asked, “So, how’s your pain?”
“It’s fine.”
“On a register of one to ten, ten being the highest-intensity pain?” She motioned toward the wall, where a chart had been tacked. The chart was a display of cartoon faces, everything from a pleasant, pain-free grin under the number 0 to a contorted, red-faced grimace at 10. “When you say you’re ‘fine,’ is it fine as in here?” She indicated a calm, happy-looking face under the number 2. “Or?” She moved along the row of ever-increasing unhappy faces. “Here?” She tapped a gloved finger at a sweating, frowning image at 8.
Shifting on the bed, he felt a sharp jab in his shoulder. Blast. “I’m okay.”
“Uh-huh.” Disbelief.
“I said, ‘I’m okay.’ ”
“That might be up for debate.” Her eyebrows elevated. “So? Your pain level?”
“Maybe a five. Or . . . a seven. Yeah, a seven.” It actually was much higher, but he couldn’t bear looking as weak as he felt. He always struggled when he wasn’t in control.
“Mmm.” She wasn’t buying it, had probably seen it all before. “No reason to be a hero.”
“That, I’m not,” he assured her. No lie there. It was one of the things he did know about himself, one bit of insight he recalled. And about the only thing. At least as far as recent history went.
“I’ll get you something to make it a little more tolerable,” she promised as she stripped her gloves at the door and tossed them into a wastebasket.
“Wait,” he said as she started to leave. “What day is it?”
“The date? The fourth.” When he didn’t respond, she clarified, “Of December.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to do the math, but had no real starting point. “So I’ve been here . . . what? Two days?”
“It’s Sunday. You were brought in Thursday night.”
“The first.” He’d been here three damned days? And in that time, he remembered only glimpses of people coming in and out of the room, bothering him, not allowing him to sleep, always asking how he was feeling or poking or prodding him; he’d had no awareness of time passing.
Until today. A digital clock mounted over the door told him it was a little after two in the afternoon, the gray sky outside confirming that dusk was still a few hours off.
“I’ll talk to Dr. Monroe,” the nurse said. “He’s on duty this weekend.” She stepped out of the room.
Two and a half days of his life gone. Lost in the black hole of his memory. How had it happened? James had no inkling why he was here, though he was sure he’d been told. In the haze of the last few days, he recalled seeing the doctor, though it was vague, and he couldn’t call up the guy’s name or what the doc had said was wrong with him. If they’d even had that conversation. If so, he couldn’t call it up.
Obviously, he’d screwed up his shoulder. It hurt like hell, no matter what he’d told the nurse. And his chest ached, sharp pain cutting through it when he shifted—bruised or broken ribs, he figured. Then there was that ominous bandage over half his head. And when he rubbed his jaw, it hurt.
He glanced around.
The hospital room was small, with only the bed, a TV mounted on the wall, and a vinyl chair placed near the heat register that was tucked beneath a single window. The view wasn’t that great; it overlooked a parking lot a story or two below. A few cars were scattered throughout the lot, all collecting snow that was continuing to fall, the asphalt covered with a white blanket showing few tire tracks.
Had he been in a car wreck? A bar fight? Fallen? What? He moved on the bed, winced, trying to remember. But it was a no go. Whatever information had been imparted had floated away on a wave of pain and/or medication, which, right now, wasn’t working.
Didn’t really matter.
He needed to get out of here. Get back home. He had a ranch and a hotel on the property, along with a Christmas-tree farm and a tiny-house construction business, all on acres outside of town.
He rubbed his eyes.
Felt as if he were clear-headed since . . . since . . . God, why couldn’t he remember? Pushing a button on the bed frame, he raised his bed high enough that he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror mounted over the sink. “Jesus,” he whispered, barely recognizing himself in the reflection. His usual tan had faded, and he appeared gaunt beneath at least a three days’ growth of beard shadow. His eyes were sunken deep in their sockets, his brown hair unruly where it was visible, the bandage wrapped over his crown. Down the left side of his face, deep gouges—like claw marks—were visible. As if he’d been on the losing side of a takedown
