The nurse bit her lip, glanced down at the gold shield once more, then nodded. “For just a minute though, and don’t try to talk to him. He might be able to feel he has company, even if he can’t say anything. It might be a comfort to him. He doesn’t have much family.”
Keeping her steps light so that her shoes didn’t ring against the sparkling clean floor, Mel went to the enclosure, then slid open the glass door that offered no privacy. There was a curtain, but it was currently pulled open and she couldn’t very well close it with the nurse watching.
Folding her hands in front of her, Mel stopped near the bed and looked at the patient. His face wasn’t pale. It had left pale behind and gone well into gray territory. The skin around his ears and eyelids carried a bluish cast. He was breathing on his own, but an oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth. She thought she could see more blue through the plastic between breaths, in that brief moment during which the fog of his exhalations cleared.
His hands were at his sides, rolled up washcloths keeping the hands curved at a comfortable angle. He looked nothing like the man she’d passed in the hallway. This man was a wraith.
She looked through the glass at the nurse, then mimed her request to touch the doctor’s hand. The nurse thought for a second, then nodded. Mel touched his hand, then wrapped hers around his when he didn’t stir. She wasn’t sure why she wanted to do that, but she did. Then she remembered his claim about a burn and discreetly turned his hand to look. No burn. No discoloration of any kind other than a distinct blue-ish cast to his fingernails. She was certain this was the hand he’d had closest to Baby, the one that would have been on her side as they passed each other.
Doctor Forster made a small noise. It was a weak, pained noise, almost too small to be heard. His eyes were moving under his lids like he was fighting against a bad dream. She was about to let his hand go when his grip tightened. No longer loose in hers, his fingers squeezed hers fiercely. His hand became a vice around hers. She felt and heard the pop of a knuckle going in her hand and bit back a shout of pain.
His eyes were open. Mel tried to loosen his fingers, but couldn’t. She looked at his eyes and whispered, “It’s okay. You’re safe. You can let me go.”
He wasn’t looking into her eyes though. He was looking around her, at the space where there was nothing. It was like he could see ghosts that were only visible to him. And he was very afraid.
From behind the mask, he croaked out, “No. No.”
Every machine in the room was going crazy, the rhythmic beeps ratcheting up their tempo and tiny alarms sounding out. The nurse hurried in and tried to shove her aside. Seeing that Mel was attached to the man in the bed by her hand and that he wouldn’t let go, the nurse ignored her. She filled a syringe and pushed the medicine into an I.V. line, immediately bending over to soothe her patient afterward.
It took only seconds for him to fade back into whatever dreams he might have in this place. Mel snatched her hand away the second his grip loosened, cupping it gingerly near her chest with her other hand.
Sparing only a glance her way, the nurse hissed, “Out! Wait by the desk.”
Mel’s hand was throbbing and her knuckles already hideously swollen by the time the nurse came out. Her face was set into harsh lines until she got close enough to see Mel’s hand. She ran the last few steps, reaching out to take Mel’s wrist in a gentle, professional grip.
“Christ! Your fingers are dislocated!”
Mel nodded, biting down hard to keep from making a sound.
“What happened?” the nurse asked, maneuvering Mel’s free hand to cup the injured one in the manner she wanted it done.
“Nothing. I think he was having a nightmare.”
“He shouldn’t be dreaming at all with the drugs he’s on.” She stopped, then shook her head at the mess of Mel’s hand. “I need to get you seen. Hang on. I know it hurts. I’ll call someone to come for you.”
“No need. Just tell me where to go and I’ll get there.”
She gave Mel a wary glance, but made the calls and connections that would move her to the head of any line. An hour later, Mel walked out of the Emergency entrance wearing a newly printed cast and carrying a bottle of painkillers. Her hand was splayed out in the case of plastic, each finger set into a shallow groove. A skin-colored, soft sleeve that felt as fuzzy as the inside of a new hoodie provided a bit of padding between her skin and the splint. Getting her fingers popped back into their sockets had been an experience she never wanted to have again, but this splinted cast was worse. She looked foolish.
And it had all been for nothing. There was nothing to get here. An overworked doctor had a heart attack. It happened. Given that he was still having nightmares, Mel would have to guess that stress had simply done the good doctor in. It was entirely possible the tragic patients that had lingered on his ward had been the last straw of stress his heart could handle. That seemed more likely than anything else. The nurse had simply been imagining things.
As she cradled her throbbing arm, Mel closed her eyes and let the car take her home.
Charlize And Her Peculiar Meal
The next morning, Mel was forced to smile her way through a bit of good-natured ribbing about her hand, as well as some genuine concern from Paul, before she could settle down to work. Her hand ached like someone had
