worry.”
He pulled away with surprising strength, and jabbed a finger at me. “You.”
“Me what?”
“Yortheeun.”
I leaned closer, hating myself for noticing the smell, cloyingly sweet and ripe. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
“You’re. The. One.” He punctuated each word with a fist against the blanket. “Your blood.” And then those nonsense words again that seemed to mean so much. “Lay da chee!”
“Yes,” I said, because what else was there? “I know.”
That seemed to satisfy him. He closed his eyes. I sat there,listening to his breath rattle in his chest and the monitors play their discordant song, wondering how long I was supposed to stay—and how I could leave him there alone.
The door creaked open. “So how are we doing today, Mr. Hoffpauer?” A young doctor stood in the doorway, his black hair gelled into tiny spikes and a minuscule silver stud in his right ear. The look would have gained a thumbs-up—and likely some gratuitous yoga stretches—from Adriane, but it didn’t exactly scream professional competence.
“I think he’s sleeping,” I said when the Hoff didn’t react to his arrival.
“You a relative?”
I shook my head. “I’m his student, I guess. They said he was asking for me.”
The doctor brightened. “Oh, you must be Nora? Yes, he was pretty adamant.”
“He didn’t really seem … I mean, he was kind of babbling, like he didn’t really know what he was saying.”
“That’s normal with a neurological event of this severity.” The doctor lifted a clipboard from the edge of the bed and began flipping through it, nodding at whatever he saw. “Did he know who you were?”
I nodded. Then, since he was still buried in his clipboard, said yes.
“He was trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t understand it. I think I upset him.”
“He got angry, right?” the doctor said. “Don’t worry, that’s normal, too. You can expect some irrational emotional outbursts.”
I wanted to point out there was nothing irrational about getting angry when you were stuck in a hospital bed with a ruined body and defective brain. But I also wanted answers. And I suspectedI wouldn’t get many if I treated him to an irrational emotional outburst of my own.
“So it was definitely a stroke?” I asked.
“Oh, there’s no question of that.”
“And is it possible … I mean, is that the kind of thing someone could cause ? Like, on purpose?”
He didn’t seem surprised by the question. “Certainly excessive stress on the body or nervous system wouldn’t help matters. And certain medications can induce—” He frowned, like he’d said more than he’d intended. “We’re waiting on the scans, but I suspect he’s been having transient ischemic attacks—think of them as mini strokes—for some time now. Has he been acting oddly at all? Doing things, saying things that don’t make sense?”
“I really don’t know him that well,” I admitted, and thought of the open safe, the missing archive. Was it possible that the police were right and he’d hidden the papers somewhere himself?
“It’s good of you to sit with him, then,” the doctor said. “He’s going to need all the support he can get. Does he have any family?”
Again, I had to admit I didn’t know. “How serious is this?” I said. “Is he going to get better?”
The doctor finally met my eye. “The stroke affected his speech center. There are mobility issues, especially on his right side, and we don’t know yet whether his speaking problems are connected to that, or to a cognitive deficit. There are signs of aphasia, disorganized cognition.… It’s just too soon to tell.”
“You mean you don’t know whether he can’t talk or can’t think.”
“We’re monitoring the situation. Rehabilitation after a stroke is difficult, but people accomplish amazing things. That said, you should prepare yourself. He might never be the man he was before. You said he was a
He pulled away with surprising strength, and jabbed a finger at me. “You.”
“Me what?”
“Yortheeun.”
I leaned closer, hating myself for noticing the smell, cloyingly sweet and ripe. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
“You’re. The. One.” He punctuated each word with a fist against the blanket. “Your blood.” And then those nonsense words again that seemed to mean so much. “Lay da chee!”
“Yes,” I said, because what else was there? “I know.”
That seemed to satisfy him. He closed his eyes. I sat there,listening to his breath rattle in his chest and the monitors play their discordant song, wondering how long I was supposed to stay—and how I could leave him there alone.
The door creaked open. “So how are we doing today, Mr. Hoffpauer?” A young doctor stood in the doorway, his black hair gelled into tiny spikes and a minuscule silver stud in his right ear. The look would have gained a thumbs-up—and likely some gratuitous yoga stretches—from Adriane, but it didn’t exactly scream professional competence.
“I think he’s sleeping,” I said when the Hoff didn’t react to his arrival.
“You a relative?”
I shook my head. “I’m his student, I guess. They said he was asking for me.”
The doctor brightened. “Oh, you must be Nora? Yes, he was pretty adamant.”
“He didn’t really seem … I mean, he was kind of babbling, like he didn’t really know what he was saying.”
“That’s normal with a neurological event of this severity.” The doctor lifted a clipboard from the edge of the bed and began flipping through it, nodding at whatever he saw. “Did he know who you were?”
I nodded. Then, since he was still buried in his clipboard, said yes.
“He was trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t understand it. I think I upset him.”
“He got angry, right?” the doctor said. “Don’t worry, that’s normal, too. You can expect some irrational emotional outbursts.”
I wanted to point out there was nothing irrational about getting angry when you were stuck in a hospital bed with a ruined body and defective brain. But I also wanted answers. And I suspectedI wouldn’t get many if I treated him to an irrational emotional outburst of my own.
“So it was definitely a stroke?” I asked.
“Oh, there’s no question of that.”
“And is it possible … I mean, is that the kind of thing someone could cause ? Like, on purpose?”
He didn’t seem surprised by the question. “Certainly excessive stress on the body or nervous system wouldn’t help matters. And certain medications can induce—” He frowned, like he’d said more than he’d intended. “We’re waiting on the scans, but I suspect he’s been having transient ischemic attacks—think of them as mini strokes—for some time now. Has he been acting oddly at all? Doing things, saying things that don’t make sense?”
“I really don’t know him that well,” I admitted, and thought of the open safe, the missing archive. Was it possible that the police were right and he’d hidden the papers somewhere himself?
“It’s good of you to sit with him, then,” the doctor said. “He’s going to need all the support he can get. Does he have any family?”
Again, I had to admit I didn’t know. “How serious is this?” I said. “Is he going to get better?”
The doctor finally met my eye. “The stroke affected his speech center. There are mobility issues, especially on his right side, and we don’t know yet whether his speaking problems are connected to that, or to a cognitive deficit. There are signs of aphasia, disorganized cognition.… It’s just too soon to tell.”
“You mean you don’t know whether he can’t talk or can’t think.”
“We’re monitoring the situation. Rehabilitation after a stroke is difficult, but people accomplish amazing things. That said, you should prepare yourself. He might never be the man he was before. You said he was a
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