I took the boys for burgers at the arcade. I had more tokens waiting for them whenever they ran out. Joe fell asleep on the ride back. Matt looked at me over Joe’s bowed head.
"Do you have her number? Her address?" I kept my eyes on the road. I took as long to answer as I could get away with.
"Whose?"
"Hers. Angela’s." I sucked on my teeth to give me time to think.
"No," I said.
"Why not? I want to talk to my mother. I want to call my mom, I want to see her, I want to know why she wants to be there, why she wants to freeze her boobs off and, and probably whore herself out to oil rig guys, why—"
"Angela is a marine biologist," I said. "She’s doing things like saving the whales and studying fish, not. That."
"Saving the whales instead of her kids. People make bank in Alaska. I bet she makes bank. She’s gotta owe like a million dollars in child—"
"She’ll be back when she’s ready. She’ll be back; we have to give her time."
"Dad, it’s been like fifteen years—"
"Thirteen."
"How long is enough?" I had no answer for him.
It was a relief to leave the boys settled for the night and head to St. Gile’s. Mostly, things were quiet. I started my walk-throughs. Even the patients who struggled with sleeping through the night seemed to be doing well. I finished with the low-risk adults in the east side of my floor and headed for the pediatric wing.
The night shift nurses were strict about kids staying in bed. My first rounds were always bed-checks to ensure people were where they belonged, and that they were doing well. After that came medications or exercises that needed to be done every few hours. Anything out of place was reported to the night nurses. An empty bed was something out of place. I stepped inside the room. The bed was empty and bare; the blankets were piled beside it, and the kid wasn’t in those. He wasn’t on the other side, or underneath the bed. His chart listed sleep terrors and insomnia, but notsomnumblism sleep-walking.
"Sam?" None of the toys and games we gave kids to keep them in bed were out of place. I stepped out of the room and headed for the play area where we kept kids who couldn’t sleep, those we wouldn’t or couldn’t medicate.
I turned the corner into the play area and realized that there was more than one empty bed. The room was full of kid-sized recliners, chairs, kitchen sets, blocks. There were a few bigger chairs for adults, like the nurse currently dozing with her head on her hand. The patient from a few nights ago sat in a child’s chair with kids to either side of her. In that seat, her limbs looked long and thin. She hadn’t brushed her hair, and it stuck up in knots and swirls. The patient held a book in her hands, and she read to the children. They were both asleep where they sat. She didn’t seem to notice. I never heard her simply speak, before. It was breathy, like even though she spoke normally she still somehow whispered.
The patient’s neck seemed fine, but I couldn’t tell from here. I stepped a little closer to make sure. Without a break in her reading, she glanced up at me. The patient, Cooper, smiled for brief moments as she read. The corners of her mouth lifted, her cheeks rounded, and the skin at the corners of her eyes broke open to show that glimmering black. When she stopped, the cracks closed like they’d never been there. I pulled my eyes away from her face and onto the kids and the nurse. The kids had a nurse, and that was the only real rule. If they were out of bed at night, they had to be with a nurse or doctor. I thought about waking the nurse, and I began stepping toward her. The story stopped, and I looked back at Abigail Cooper. She gave me a wide smile. A drop of black leaked from the cracks on her face. I glanced back after I began to walk away, and she was still staring. She waved at a seat near her. I shook my head, and she gave me a one-shoulder shrug. Her boatneck sweatshirt revealed the cracked line the motion left in her skin.
I continued my rounds.
"Do you have her number? Her address?" I kept my eyes on the road. I took as long to answer as I could get away with.
"Whose?"
"Hers. Angela’s." I sucked on my teeth to give me time to think.
"No," I said.
"Why not? I want to talk to my mother. I want to call my mom, I want to see her, I want to know why she wants to be there, why she wants to freeze her boobs off and, and probably whore herself out to oil rig guys, why—"
"Angela is a marine biologist," I said. "She’s doing things like saving the whales and studying fish, not. That."
"Saving the whales instead of her kids. People make bank in Alaska. I bet she makes bank. She’s gotta owe like a million dollars in child—"
"She’ll be back when she’s ready. She’ll be back; we have to give her time."
"Dad, it’s been like fifteen years—"
"Thirteen."
"How long is enough?" I had no answer for him.
It was a relief to leave the boys settled for the night and head to St. Gile’s. Mostly, things were quiet. I started my walk-throughs. Even the patients who struggled with sleeping through the night seemed to be doing well. I finished with the low-risk adults in the east side of my floor and headed for the pediatric wing.
The night shift nurses were strict about kids staying in bed. My first rounds were always bed-checks to ensure people were where they belonged, and that they were doing well. After that came medications or exercises that needed to be done every few hours. Anything out of place was reported to the night nurses. An empty bed was something out of place. I stepped inside the room. The bed was empty and bare; the blankets were piled beside it, and the kid wasn’t in those. He wasn’t on the other side, or underneath the bed. His chart listed sleep terrors and insomnia, but not
"Sam?" None of the toys and games we gave kids to keep them in bed were out of place. I stepped out of the room and headed for the play area where we kept kids who couldn’t sleep, those we wouldn’t or couldn’t medicate.
I turned the corner into the play area and realized that there was more than one empty bed. The room was full of kid-sized recliners, chairs, kitchen sets, blocks. There were a few bigger chairs for adults, like the nurse currently dozing with her head on her hand. The patient from a few nights ago sat in a child’s chair with kids to either side of her. In that seat, her limbs looked long and thin. She hadn’t brushed her hair, and it stuck up in knots and swirls. The patient held a book in her hands, and she read to the children. They were both asleep where they sat. She didn’t seem to notice. I never heard her simply speak, before. It was breathy, like even though she spoke normally she still somehow whispered.
The patient’s neck seemed fine, but I couldn’t tell from here. I stepped a little closer to make sure. Without a break in her reading, she glanced up at me. The patient, Cooper, smiled for brief moments as she read. The corners of her mouth lifted, her cheeks rounded, and the skin at the corners of her eyes broke open to show that glimmering black. When she stopped, the cracks closed like they’d never been there. I pulled my eyes away from her face and onto the kids and the nurse. The kids had a nurse, and that was the only real rule. If they were out of bed at night, they had to be with a nurse or doctor. I thought about waking the nurse, and I began stepping toward her. The story stopped, and I looked back at Abigail Cooper. She gave me a wide smile. A drop of black leaked from the cracks on her face. I glanced back after I began to walk away, and she was still staring. She waved at a seat near her. I shook my head, and she gave me a one-shoulder shrug. Her boatneck sweatshirt revealed the cracked line the motion left in her skin.
I continued my rounds.
Ooh, I like how no one can seem to agree on exactly how long Angela has been away. Fifteen years? Matt and the legal documents seem to think so. Fourteen? Angela thinks that's right. Thirteen? According to Eric.
ReplyDeleteHmm... why does Gail read to the kids? Is it just to have a sense of normalcy? Or is there something more sinister underneath?