I was packing up for the end of my shift when Henry found me. I’d given him my shift report to turn in so that I could get out of his way faster. We weren’t supposed to do that. I thought he’d changed his mind and had come to make me turn it in myself. His face was more troubled than that.
“You can’t make stuff up,” he said. He pushed the report at me like it explained. I took it back and gave it a skim. Nothing seemed wrong.
“Make up what? She really wouldn’t sleep until they let me dose her. She kept talking and crying…”
“Not that,” Henry said. “That.” He tapped my report. The skin assessment. “Yesterday during lunch she was, like, totally fine.”
“A lot happens in a day.” Henry leaned in toward me. More people were coming by now to punch in or out.
“She’s my first round. Can you hold on, and maybe come with me? Do you have to head out?” The boys would be getting ready for school by then. I checked my phone for emergency messages. There were none. The way Henry frowned at me…
“Yes. I can wait.”
Henry walked with me toward the patient’s room. He patted the painted cinder block wall as we moved.
“They should tear this place down and build it again. All the paint and stickers in the world won’t make, like, a Soviet prison any different,” he said.
"This isn’t a Soviet prison.”
“No, because they wouldn’t mess with paint and stickers.” The patient’s room was in the juvenile wing. She was twenty-six. We were usually told to knock on the client’s door, but a woman in as deep a sleep as she was would never answer. Henry waved me in.
“See?” He didn’t turn on the room light. He settled his flashlight on the patient’s slowly-moving chest. I stepped in to look her over.
She could have passed for eighteen.She The patient seemed to have a sense for how little she could eat and drink before IVs and feeding tubes got involved. She had asked to have her thick brown hair shaved off during our last lice problem. It was now just long enough to twist and knot as she moved against her pillows. She was still, right now. Henry gestured for me to take a closer look. The patient was on her back. Her neck and head were straight on her pillow, as I placed her when the drug kicked in. I’d pulled the thin summer blanket up to her chest.
With each breath, the cracks inher the patient’s throat and jaw widened, like gills, to reveal a blackness that glim glitter glistened in the flashlight’s beam. The black fluid had already leaked in some places. Veins of black left tracks down her skin to pool on the pillows, against her neck.
I looked up at Henry. He saw what I saw. Had his light on it. But he was staring at me. He arched his eyebrows. I reached out and wiped my fingers through one of the puddles of black against the patient’s neck. I expected wetness. I got the dry, furry feeling of old paper, somehow, as I smeared it between my fingers. It dripped onto the blanket and the floor as I offered my hand to Henry.
“Look,” I said. He played the flashlight over my palm, over my fingers. Its light fell onto the spattered gray blanket.
“Look at what? Are you trying to mess with me? Because it’s not working very well.” I looked between the patient and Henry. “Uh... man, E,” Henry said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Henry. Look at this. Look at these.” I went to the other side of the patient’s bed and waved for him to move closer. With her between us, I traced, without touching her, the cracks. They were already worse than a moment ago. Her neck was a dry lake bed. “Look at these.” Henry looked, but his eyes skimmed over the irregularities. He looked back up at me.
“Are you okay?” he asked again. “It’s just skin. She’s got some acne going on, but you know she hasn’t been cleaning up. Maybe we can get her to listen tomorrow, tell her it’s better to take a shower or a bath instead of letting all this get bad, get, like, an infected zit or something.” This wasn’t an infected blemish. I reached down with a gloved hand. I scratched at a small patch of skin; it came up like a piece of broken china, caught under the tip of my finger. The patient whispered something in her sleep, swallowed, and blackness welled up where the skin was missing. It spilled down her throat to pool against her neck and in the hollow of her clavicle. It stained the blanket.
“What the hell, Eric!” Henry whispered. He glared at me. “You’re not on the clock. You can’t touch the patients.”
“Henry.” I offered him my hand over the patient. He backed away. “Henry, look at this.” He stared at my hand, but his eyes skimmed over the inky fluid and my skin like they were no different. Like there was nothing wrong. He looked up, and then narrowed his eyes at me.
“No. You can’t touch the patients. I think you… I think you need to leave. Go home. Maybe get some rest.” Under the light of his glare, I passed back toward him around the bed.
“You’re right,” I said. “I guess I’m just tired. Working nights and trying to spend time with the boys.” I rested my hand on Henry’s shoulder and wiped the black mess on his scrubs. He said nothing.
Henry left me to start his work with a warning to get some rest. Maybe take some time off. I found my report in the trash after I was done cleaning up. Henry had typed up another one and put it on the clipboard. It was missing the skin assessment completely. I didn’t lie. He still had the smeared handprint on his scrubs when I left him.
I made it home by nine. The boys were gone. They left behind jars of peanut butter on the counters, twisted blankets half-out of their rooms, clothes that had been discarded in the rush to get ready. School started at eight. We were a good fifteen minutes’ walk away. I was supposed to get an all-clear text when they made it there. I texted to ask for an okay when one of them had a chance. I paused halfway through a word to stare at my fingers.
Black gunk under my nails, but I’d been wearing gloves.
“You can’t make stuff up,” he said. He pushed the report at me like it explained. I took it back and gave it a skim. Nothing seemed wrong.
“Make up what? She really wouldn’t sleep until they let me dose her. She kept talking and crying…”
“Not that,” Henry said. “That.” He tapped my report. The skin assessment. “Yesterday during lunch she was, like, totally fine.”
“A lot happens in a day.” Henry leaned in toward me. More people were coming by now to punch in or out.
“She’s my first round. Can you hold on, and maybe come with me? Do you have to head out?” The boys would be getting ready for school by then. I checked my phone for emergency messages. There were none. The way Henry frowned at me…
“Yes. I can wait.”
Henry walked with me toward the patient’s room. He patted the painted cinder block wall as we moved.
“They should tear this place down and build it again. All the paint and stickers in the world won’t make, like, a Soviet prison any different,” he said.
"This isn’t a Soviet prison.”
“No, because they wouldn’t mess with paint and stickers.” The patient’s room was in the juvenile wing. She was twenty-six. We were usually told to knock on the client’s door, but a woman in as deep a sleep as she was would never answer. Henry waved me in.
“See?” He didn’t turn on the room light. He settled his flashlight on the patient’s slowly-moving chest. I stepped in to look her over.
She could have passed for eighteen.
With each breath, the cracks in
I looked up at Henry. He saw what I saw. Had his light on it. But he was staring at me. He arched his eyebrows. I reached out and wiped my fingers through one of the puddles of black against the patient’s neck. I expected wetness. I got the dry, furry feeling of old paper, somehow, as I smeared it between my fingers. It dripped onto the blanket and the floor as I offered my hand to Henry.
“Look,” I said. He played the flashlight over my palm, over my fingers. Its light fell onto the spattered gray blanket.
“Look at what? Are you trying to mess with me? Because it’s not working very well.” I looked between the patient and Henry. “Uh... man, E,” Henry said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Henry. Look at this. Look at these.” I went to the other side of the patient’s bed and waved for him to move closer. With her between us, I traced, without touching her, the cracks. They were already worse than a moment ago. Her neck was a dry lake bed. “Look at these.” Henry looked, but his eyes skimmed over the irregularities. He looked back up at me.
“Are you okay?” he asked again. “It’s just skin. She’s got some acne going on, but you know she hasn’t been cleaning up. Maybe we can get her to listen tomorrow, tell her it’s better to take a shower or a bath instead of letting all this get bad, get, like, an infected zit or something.” This wasn’t an infected blemish. I reached down with a gloved hand. I scratched at a small patch of skin; it came up like a piece of broken china, caught under the tip of my finger. The patient whispered something in her sleep, swallowed, and blackness welled up where the skin was missing. It spilled down her throat to pool against her neck and in the hollow of her clavicle. It stained the blanket.
“What the hell, Eric!” Henry whispered. He glared at me. “You’re not on the clock. You can’t touch the patients.”
“Henry.” I offered him my hand over the patient. He backed away. “Henry, look at this.” He stared at my hand, but his eyes skimmed over the inky fluid and my skin like they were no different. Like there was nothing wrong. He looked up, and then narrowed his eyes at me.
“No. You can’t touch the patients. I think you… I think you need to leave. Go home. Maybe get some rest.” Under the light of his glare, I passed back toward him around the bed.
“You’re right,” I said. “I guess I’m just tired. Working nights and trying to spend time with the boys.” I rested my hand on Henry’s shoulder and wiped the black mess on his scrubs. He said nothing.
Henry left me to start his work with a warning to get some rest. Maybe take some time off. I found my report in the trash after I was done cleaning up. Henry had typed up another one and put it on the clipboard. It was missing the skin assessment completely. I didn’t lie. He still had the smeared handprint on his scrubs when I left him.
I made it home by nine. The boys were gone. They left behind jars of peanut butter on the counters, twisted blankets half-out of their rooms, clothes that had been discarded in the rush to get ready. School started at eight. We were a good fifteen minutes’ walk away. I was supposed to get an all-clear text when they made it there. I texted to ask for an okay when one of them had a chance. I paused halfway through a word to stare at my fingers.
Black gunk under my nails, but I’d been wearing gloves.
Aside from a couple of minor typos he scratched out, Eric's a pretty good writer! =p
ReplyDeleteI love this part of the story; why is Henry ignoring the black gunk? Or is Eric hallucinating?