I don’t know how I’d ever missed it. Every night she wasn’t medicated, Abigail Cooper did these readings. It wasn’t always the same kids, but Sam was a common attendee when we couldn’t give him another dose of Larazepam sleep aid. I was used to seeing Abigail screaming about things she couldn’t have anything to do with, flailing in her sleep, sobbing her conviction that she was a threat to everyone around her and that “it” needed to stop. This quiet peace was something else entirely. My rounds took me through the play area, and every time we were both there I stopped to listen to her for just a few moments. It was a sign that these people weren’t wrecked forever. If she could sit here in peace and read to kids, who sometimes weren’t asleep, and a nurse, who always was, maybe we could help her get over her delusions and paranoia. Maybe she could be a real person.
I stopped one night to listen to her read an old fairytale, listen to that full-volume whisper, and I watched her. She tasted every word on her tongue as she spoke. Whether the kids with her were asleep or not, she read in a soothing, quiet tone entirely different from how I was usually forced to deal with her. All of my tasks were done, medicines and straps in place on the patients. I sat down in the seat near Abigail for the first time, though she always waved her offer to me whenever I passed through. Abigail smiled at me, and nothing cracked.
“You never sit with me! Finally taking a rest?”
“Everything’s done, and my legs ache pretty bad. I took my kids on this long walk today,” I said. She tilted her head and looked bright and aware at me. If not for her unwashed face, her haggard face, the rat’s nests in her hair, she could have been pretty.
“You have kids?” First rule of the hospital: engage with the patients.
“Yeah, two boys. Joe just started at St. Mary’s. Matt’s a sophomore there.”
“I’m glad you get to spend time with them,” Abigail said. “It must be really tough to do that and work nights here, too. Why don’t you work days so you’re on the same schedule with them?”
“It… works pretty well, this way, while they’re in school. When they’re in school, I can sleep. Next year, the summer, who knows.” She looked at me, and her black eyes were soft.
“You need the money, right? They pay extra for night shift?” I shook my head, but she kept on: “I know kids are expensive, but nobody should have to work nights all the time. Does your wife work? I know—”
“She’s. Not in the picture.” I started to stand up, to continue my rounds, but Abigail put out a hand.
“I’m so sorry. I’m a huge, I’m, please. Please don’t go.” I stayed, and she read. I stayed seated even when her throat opened up and black fluid stained the front of her sweatshirt. Abigail needed me. Maybe she couldn’t be a real person. Maybe I deserved to be in here, not her.
It became a routine, to finish my tasks as quickly as possible, to medicate those I couldn’t quickly soothe otherwise, to be there and sit with her to talk with her. To see what would give out on her next. And to have someone to listen.
I told her about the boys, about our hikes, frisbee, racket ball. I told her about Angela. I guess she left to find herself, but she always knew who she was when we were together. We should have been together. Abigail listened to me, sympathized with me, raged at Angela.
“I came home from taking the boys to the doctor’s while she was at work. She didn’t come home, and didn’t come home, and her phone, I think she tossed it. No clothes, no suitcases gone. Like she had to go, had to get out.”
“I can’t believe she just left! I would never do that to my kids. I would never do that to you. That bitch should—” Abigail was gritting her teeth, and we both heard, the sensation as her jaw cracked and a fracture shot up from her throat to her hairline.
“I guess she left to find herself,” I said. I helped Abigail smooth away the crevice in her face. “She always knew who she was when we were together, always knew we should be together. She’ll be back.”
“She won’t be back, Eric.” Abigail rested her hand on mine. I pulled away.
“She’ll be back.”
Gail seemed to most enjoy listening to me talk about the boys, about doing things outside in the light. I knew there was a new garden planned, but she told me how the patients were being invited to choose plants, to research them in a set of horticulture books and campaign for which ones should be included. She didn’t say it, but I thought that part of the project was Abigail’s idea; she glowed with pride when she talked about it. I wanted to work on the garden with her when the plants were chosen, but that was day work.
“You should ask about switching to day shift,” she said when I mentioned it. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’d love to see you during the day.” I couldn’t promise her, but she seemed primed to be disappointed. I told her I would think about it. I would talk to the kids about it.
I didn’t talk to the kids about it. They must need help with getting the garden ready, with corralling the patinents patients in acitivities. I just had to come in to talk to the department head about it.
I needed sleep if I was going to meet with Dr. Stevens to discuss my hours, but finding it was a struggle. The day would be crazier with people awake, people aware, patients fighting, needing guidance and supervision. There would be more staff. But there would be daylight, and a garden Abigail was so proud of.
They had a group of patients outside when I arrived. I think they were involving the patients in choosing where the garden or gardens should be, but Gail wasn’t with them.
I was waiting inside for the elevator when I heard a scream. Screams were typical, here, but I knew this scream, and it moved through my skin like I was standing right next to her, like I was screaming.
Ah, I guess that answers my question from earlier =) . For a sense of normalcy, hanging on to her humanity as long as she can.
ReplyDeleteI like that the two of them are able to connect. Gail obviously can't find many opportunities to do that...