not.” I kissed him again, then buried my face in his shoulder.
“I should go,” Adriane said. “I don’t belong here, right?”
“Adriane—” I started, but she cut me off.
“It’s fine.”
It clearly wasn’t.
“Well, when you find Chris, will you tell him I say—” I paused, because how to phrase the message For five seconds I thought those sirens were for you, and now I need to hear your voice. I need proof that you’re real ? “Just tell him to call me.” But when I looked up, she was already gone.
26
I don’t do hospitals. It’s not the smell, that suffocating stench of cleaning fluid with a hint of the decay it was intended to disguise. It’s not the waiting rooms, with their faded, broken furniture and huddled groups of weeping or wailing families alongside dead-eyed survivors with no need to stay and no will to go home. It’s not Andy, who never made it that far.
It’s the doors. Open doors along dingy white corridors that reveal everything you’re not supposed to see. Patients crying, patients moaning, patients vomiting; patients awkwardly mounting bedpans or shuffling barefoot, IV in tow, toward an industrial toilet; bloated patients lying still with tubes running in and out, monitors beeping, machines wheezing and pumping and performing all the functions their bodies have given up.
I didn’t have to go alone, but bringing someone with me would have meant admitting I couldn’t do it myself.
Also, the Hoff had only asked for me.
The nursing station in the intensive care unit was empty, but eventually a heavy woman in an orderly’s uniform noticed me. She was carrying a vial of something that looked suspiciously like urine. “I’m looking for Professor—I mean, Anton Hoffpauer?” I said.
“You Nora?”
I nodded.
“Yeah, he’s been asking for you.”
“They told me. But … are you sure?”
“Took us a while to figure out exactly what he wanted, and how to find you, but yeah, I’m sure.”
“I just don’t see why he would want—”
“Room seven, honey,” she said. “You can go right in.”
“How is he?” I asked, stalling.
“In and out. You never know with a stroke. People come back from the damnedest things.”
“So he’ll be okay?”
She pursed her lips. “Go see him, honey. He’ll like that. If you stick around for a while, the doc might come by, and he’ll have more answers for you.”
But the non-answer was answer enough.
The narrow patient rooms were encased behind thick glass walls, with white curtains draped across for privacy. The door of number seven was open. I desperately didn’t want to go inside.
The door creaked when I shut it behind me. Deep breath, I thought, forcing myself to turn around and face him. In and out.
He was pale, with yellowed encrustations around his watery eyes, like a kid who’d cried himself to sleep. The liver spots at histhinning hairline stood out like splotches of ink on a too-white canvas. IV needles threaded into bulging veins. One side of his face drooped noticeably, and when he opened his eyes, only one of them focused on me. It widened.
Why me? I wanted to ask. Why not Max, or Chris, or better yet, a son or granddaughter, someone to take his gnarled hand or stroke his sweaty forehead, to sit beside him and force a smile and not recoil when a rivulet of drool trickled from the corner of his blistered lips.
I lowered myself into the narrow metal chair beside the bed. He was muttering. Nonsense syllables, mostly, the right side of his mouth lagging behind the left.
“Lay da chee,” he said, then repeated it, louder. “Lay da chee!”
He curled his left hand into a fist and pounded the bed.
“Shh.” I patted the blanket, awkwardly, a few inches from the lump that was his right leg. “It’s okay.”
His mouth twisted, and he forced out a slurred but understandable word. “Safe!” he shouted. “Not safe!”
“You are,” I assured him. And then I took his hand. I had to. “Don’t
“I should go,” Adriane said. “I don’t belong here, right?”
“Adriane—” I started, but she cut me off.
“It’s fine.”
It clearly wasn’t.
“Well, when you find Chris, will you tell him I say—” I paused, because how to phrase the message For five seconds I thought those sirens were for you, and now I need to hear your voice. I need proof that you’re real ? “Just tell him to call me.” But when I looked up, she was already gone.
26
I don’t do hospitals. It’s not the smell, that suffocating stench of cleaning fluid with a hint of the decay it was intended to disguise. It’s not the waiting rooms, with their faded, broken furniture and huddled groups of weeping or wailing families alongside dead-eyed survivors with no need to stay and no will to go home. It’s not Andy, who never made it that far.
It’s the doors. Open doors along dingy white corridors that reveal everything you’re not supposed to see. Patients crying, patients moaning, patients vomiting; patients awkwardly mounting bedpans or shuffling barefoot, IV in tow, toward an industrial toilet; bloated patients lying still with tubes running in and out, monitors beeping, machines wheezing and pumping and performing all the functions their bodies have given up.
I didn’t have to go alone, but bringing someone with me would have meant admitting I couldn’t do it myself.
Also, the Hoff had only asked for me.
The nursing station in the intensive care unit was empty, but eventually a heavy woman in an orderly’s uniform noticed me. She was carrying a vial of something that looked suspiciously like urine. “I’m looking for Professor—I mean, Anton Hoffpauer?” I said.
“You Nora?”
I nodded.
“Yeah, he’s been asking for you.”
“They told me. But … are you sure?”
“Took us a while to figure out exactly what he wanted, and how to find you, but yeah, I’m sure.”
“I just don’t see why he would want—”
“Room seven, honey,” she said. “You can go right in.”
“How is he?” I asked, stalling.
“In and out. You never know with a stroke. People come back from the damnedest things.”
“So he’ll be okay?”
She pursed her lips. “Go see him, honey. He’ll like that. If you stick around for a while, the doc might come by, and he’ll have more answers for you.”
But the non-answer was answer enough.
The narrow patient rooms were encased behind thick glass walls, with white curtains draped across for privacy. The door of number seven was open. I desperately didn’t want to go inside.
The door creaked when I shut it behind me. Deep breath, I thought, forcing myself to turn around and face him. In and out.
He was pale, with yellowed encrustations around his watery eyes, like a kid who’d cried himself to sleep. The liver spots at histhinning hairline stood out like splotches of ink on a too-white canvas. IV needles threaded into bulging veins. One side of his face drooped noticeably, and when he opened his eyes, only one of them focused on me. It widened.
Why me? I wanted to ask. Why not Max, or Chris, or better yet, a son or granddaughter, someone to take his gnarled hand or stroke his sweaty forehead, to sit beside him and force a smile and not recoil when a rivulet of drool trickled from the corner of his blistered lips.
I lowered myself into the narrow metal chair beside the bed. He was muttering. Nonsense syllables, mostly, the right side of his mouth lagging behind the left.
“Lay da chee,” he said, then repeated it, louder. “Lay da chee!”
He curled his left hand into a fist and pounded the bed.
“Shh.” I patted the blanket, awkwardly, a few inches from the lump that was his right leg. “It’s okay.”
His mouth twisted, and he forced out a slurred but understandable word. “Safe!” he shouted. “Not safe!”
“You are,” I assured him. And then I took his hand. I had to. “Don’t
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