Hours passbefore he stirs again, and I turn in my chair to watch him. His eyes flicker open. He rubs them and looks around. The monitor catches his attention, and he sighs. But then the monitor tells me he’s stressed when the pattern changes to something a little concerning.
He picks his head up and looks at me.
The light in the room is very dim now since the sun’s gone down, and there’s no daylight trying to break through the curtains or spilling in through the hallway door.
I get up and move to the side of the bed so he can lie his head down again and still see me.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“Oxley,” I answer again. Maybe he was too stressed to remember that he’s already asked me that. “Are you in pain? Are you hungry? Do you need anything?”
He stares at me. I think his eyes are black, but that’s probably the lighting. Would he be bothered if I turned on the bedside lamp so I could see them more clearly? Or would he think that’s weird?
Interesting that I care at all whether he thinks I’m weird. Others’ opinions don’t generally bother me.
“I’m a little hungry,” he says, but I hear the wariness in his voice. “Are you going to drug me again, Ox?”
“Oxley,” I correct. “No. Never again. I’m sorry. I was afraid that you’d bleed out from your accelerated pulse.”
Alarm spreads across his face, and while I know his wound is properly sealed shut, panic rises in me, too. “You won’t,” I add quickly. “You’ve been properly sewn up now. So you won’t bleed out.”
He takes a deliberate deep inhale and nods. His heartbeat slowly relaxes, though mine takes a bit longer than his.
“I’ll go make you some food,” I say. “Doctor’s orders are that you don’t get up for now. Okay?”
He nods.
I have a very strong urge to wheel this bed out of the bedroom and into the kitchen somehow so I can watch him. What if he needs me and I’m not here?
That’s not possible, though. The king-size bed won’t fit through the three-foot door opening. They just don’t make apartments like that. I’ve looked.
Once in the kitchen, I open the refrigerator door and then pause. What am I supposed to feed him? Does he have any dietary restrictions? Are there foods that help you heal and those that hinder it? Will something upset his stomach with the pain meds?
Pulling out my phone, I dial Mark. When he answers, I ask, “What do I feed him?”
He chuckles. “He’s not a dog, Oxley. You feed him food.”
“Mark.”
I can still hear his amusement when he answers seriously this time. “Bland foods for a few days until his pain subsides and we’re able to reduce the input of pain meds.”
“Bland foods,” I repeat, not entirely sure what that means. Any food without seasoning is arguably bland.
“Yes. Rice, chicken, plain crackers, toast, pumpkin, sweet potato, bananas, applesauce, soft white pasta, fish… eggs.”
I nod. I don’t think I have most items on that list. “Okay. Thanks.”
“He’s awake?” Mark asks.
“Yes. I might have nearly made him panic, but I also calmed him down.”
Mark chuckles. “Definitely avoid making him panic, but be yourself, too.”
Weird thing to say. “Yeah. Thanks?”
He laughs again. “Call me if you need anything else, Oxley.”
“I will. Bye.” I don’t wait for his response before I hang up in case he wants to tell me to be someone else instead. That was a strange thing to say.
