Interestingly enough, there are very few people around, which reminds me of yet another thing I hate about hospitals. They are an ideal setting for committing the perfect crime. A serial killer’s wonderland.
The sooner I get out of here, the better.
“Excuse me, but do you know where I can find a patient named Ray Majors? I think his room is supposed to be on this floor.”
A very disinterested male nurse never looks up at me, but starts angrily tapping the keys on his computer.
“Is he a stroke victim?”
“No, sir.”
I try to be respectful, hoping that he’ll act a little nicer. I’m fragile right now. All I can think about is the look in Bronx’s eyes a moment ago.
“What’s he here for then?”
“He was assaulted.”
“Are you family?”
“I’m his emergency contact.”
He punches some more keys, takes a sip from a bottle of Mountain Dew, then finally looks up at me.
“He’s down to your left in room 847B. This is the stroke unit, though. Not sure why he’s on this floor unless you like ‘em long in the tooth.”
The cut on my leg is pulsing. I’m hot. I’m anxious. This is so not the time for inappropriate comments or jokes and what kind of health professional drinks soda all day?
“Thank you,” I grit out. “This way, right?”
I point towards the end of the hall for clarification.
“Yeah.”
I continue my trek towards 847B, afraid of what I’ll find when I get there. Truthfully, I’m more afraid of what I’ll feel when I get there.
Absolutely nothing.
Or absolute joy.
25
Karma
There’s a woman with camel colored skin and a ponytail of long braids which she has twisted into a topknot when I arrive to Ray’s room. She’s wearing the same green scrubs as the woman who helped me earlier and is writing some notes on a whiteboard affixed to the wall. She lifts her head when I enter the room and greets me with much more of a brighter smile than the last nurse.
“Are you here for 847A or B?”
There’s an older man with pale gray skin and white hair sleeping in Bed A. He looks comfortable and almost serene, but when I step in further and look behind the partially pulled curtain to Bed B, I see that there are all sorts of wires and tubing hooked into a man covered in darkened bruises and lacerations.
My stomach rolls again.
I’m responsible for this.
“Bed B.”
“Are you family?”
“I’m his… emergency contact.”
