My head was bandaged, all right. And it had been shaved.
I had an IV in the back of my hand. There was a large remote control on the bed beside me. A red button in the center had a cross on it, which I guessed was the universal call symbol for a nurse or someone. I pressed it.
“Why, hello there,” a lady said. Her voice sounded like a song.
I remembered Harmony and her mother.
“Hi,” I croaked.
“You rang? Good timing. I need to check on your vitals now anyway.” She wrapped my free arm in a blood pressure cuff, clamped a gray, plastic thing onto my pointer finger, and pointed a thermometer directly at my forehead. Moments later, she nodded, writing down her findings. “Looking good. How are you feeling?”
“Confused,” I admitted.
“I’m sure.”
“I was supposed to go home today.”
“Yes, I know. Don’t worry. As soon as we discharge you, you’ll be able to get on another flight. The airline was made aware of what happened.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“How’s your head feeling?”
“Okay, I think. It’s shaved.”
The lady chuckled. “That’s customary when you get stitches.”
“Stitches?”
“Twelve. But don’t worry. The scarring won’t be bad.”
“Huh.”
“The pain medicine we’re giving you must be working.”
“I’m hungry,” I said.
“No problem. I can get you some dinner. Any allergies?”
“Uh uh.” I shook my head. It felt like my brain was held aloft by a million balloons.
She nodded, then left. I tried very hard to remember exactly what happened to me. There were Cinnabon cinnamon rolls. In a box. Lattes. A little boy.
My father.
It was my father. Not a ghost or a figment of my imagination.
He’d been gone a long time, but some faces you never forget.
I looked at the telephone next to the bed.
The nice lady returned with a pink tray. The plate was covered by a silver dome. A small can of ginger ale and a box of apple juice, like for a child, sat beside the hidden meal. She set it down in front of me and took off the cover. Turkey, it looked like. Or maybe chicken. Gravy. Broccoli. Sliced potatoes. Another small dish, wrapped in plastic wrap, was dessert. Rice pudding, I surmised.
I unwrapped the plastic utensils and dug in. The nurse moved about the room, charting things and rolling a cart away from me. She offered me the television remote, and I turned on a game show that I didn’t understand. I muted it. On the screen, someone won a lot of money and jumped up and down, hugging the person next to her.
After eating, I asked the nurse, “Can I use this phone? To make an international call?”
“Sure,” she said. “You will be billed, though.”
