“No.”
A pause.
More staring between us.
From me because she’s hot as fuck and loud as hell. A bolt of energy in this sad and depressing place.
“Your right eyebrow is different. Higher.”
She points to my brother, who is utterly oblivious to his hot nurse. He’d be so fucking pissed. He loves the whole nurse costume. Although she’s not wearing the short skirt and low-cut top that our last nurse role-played in.
“You see, Papito?”
I don’t see. My eyes are glued to her. She’s a burst of energy to the guilt crowding my mind. To the nausea that keeps me from eating. Keeps me staring at my brother, the machines, and the groans of pain whenever he moves. To the sympathetic eyes and concerned looks that every other person who enters this room gives me. It’s like being in a nightmare. Being stabbed over and over with every medical professional handling the knives, every time I hear more bad news.
“I’m Sofia Santiago. I’m your brother’s day nurse.”
She bustles over to this whiteboard. Starts angrily writing her name and cell number on it, the marker squeaking the entire time.
“You need me, call my number. Don’t do anything without me being here. If he wakes, you call me. If he needs to pee or drink, you call me. If he wants to get up, what do you do?”
She turns, the uncapped marker threaded between her fingers. Her fists plant on that curvy hip, looking at me for the answer. In charge. That’s what she is. It makes me more worried. More scared that they brought in the drill sergeant. Like, shit just got real with her.
“I call you?”
She stabs the tip of the red marker in my direction.
“You call me.”
Then writes ‘CALL ME’ in big bold letters under her name and adds little stars around it. My gaze slides from her to my brother. Still drugged up, still sleeping, and thankfully, still alive.
“Um, you said, it’s like a morgue in here. Is he going to die?”
A glance over her shoulder before facing me. The edges of her thick lips, covered in gloss, pull back. Sort of a frown. My gut twists, and my heart throbs in my chest. Like it always does when someone enters. But her assertiveness knocks it up a fucking lot.
“Oh, Papito,” she mutters, closing the distance between us to hover over me. When her hand lands on my shoulder, a bolt runs straight through my body, making me feel more alive than I have since I set foot in this place. More human in a place made to save humans. “Of course, he’s not going to die. He’s just a bit banged up. But we’ll get him better. Don’t you worry about it.”
But I am worried about it. Does she even know that I’m the reason he’s in here? It’s my fault he’s lying in that bed? Having gone through surgery to fix his leg and clean out the road gravel from his flesh?
The warmth from her hand seeps into every layer of my body. From the skin, muscles, and down to my bones. I want to believe her so bad it hurts even more.
“Are you sure? I mean, this is the Intensive Care Unit. The worst of the worst, right?”
Tears sting my eyes. If she notices, she doesn’t react. Maybe she’s numb to all the tears this place brings. I don’t know. But it’s all I’ve done. Here, the chapel, the bathroom, the waiting room. Every fucking room in this place is covered in the salty waters of my sadness.
“He was on a motorcycle, yes?”
“Yeah,” I mumble, looking from her to him and back.
“All motorcycle accidents come to the ICU first, to monitor the brain.” She draws closer. The light smell of hand sanitizer and some fruity lotion distracts me. She’s the only thing that smells good and nice. Not reeking of iodine, blood, and bleach. “Unless they are treated in the emergency room and go home.”
“And his brain? Is it good?” My eyes roam all over the machines, wanting the answers that everyone is hesitant to give me. Always giving to my parents instead, who are overprotective and never share bad news with Em and me. But this time, it’s about Em, and if they heard or know something bad, they definitely wouldn’t tell me. “I mean, he’s not . . . brain . . . ?”
I can’t even say it.
Brain-dead.
Every time I close my eyes, it’s the nightmare that scares me, that haunts every waking hour. The tears are flowing down my face. I can’t stop them. I don’t want to stop them. Her hand and the salty tracks on my cheeks are all I want to feel. A temporary break from all the thoughts that tear me up inside.
