“No, help me!” Tasha jolted up, covered in a sheen of sweat, her heart feeling as though it was going ten to the dozen, no, it was going ten to the dozen, trying to beat right out of her chest.
She looked around the room, both relieved and fearful to be lying in her hospital bed alone. The need to feel safe, and by safe she meant wrapped in Jim’s arms, and the desire to keep this hidden from him were at odds.
Tasha had no idea why this was happening—dreams—memories—bad times, all mixed up in her brain and taunting her in her dreams. If she’d dreamt about the crash she’d understand that as a recent trauma, but these dreams were old traumas not her newest one.
The door opened, breaking her thoughts.
“Hi, Tasha, how you doing?” Stan walked to her side and looked around the room then smirked. “Where’s your shadow? You’re not hiding him beneath the covers are you?”
They both laughed at his reference to Jim, the doctor’s humour lifting her panic and anxiety a little.
Tasha wafted the covers as if checking under them for him. “Nope, no sign.”
“Well, I’m sure he’ll be back before we know it.”
Stan smiled but was already setting about doing his observations and checks on Tasha. He talked her through the possibility of going home soon, but seemed non-committal in terms of when. The list of dos and don’ts seemed never-ending but they didn’t concern her because she was in no doubt that Jim would ensure they were all complied with.
“You’re running a bit of a temperature,” Stan muttered and seemed to be weighing up his options. “I’ll run some bloods and start you on a broad spectrum antibiotic, as a precaution.”
“Okay,” Tasha replied meekly, thinking that her high temperature was understandable after waking up hot and sweaty. She watched the doctor leave only to be replaced a minute later by one of the nurses.
“This is not fucking happening.” Jim began to pace the corridor.
Bobby leaned against the wall and allowed his brother to make several more lengths of the corridor before stepping into his path.
“Jimbo, please, you’re wearing a groove in the floor.”
Jim looked down as if checking for the groove Bobby had mentioned, but he did stop.
“She’s in good hands—”
“Do not finish that with ashe’s in the best place right nowor a similar platitude,” Jim pleaded, knowing that those words would offer no comfort to him, in fact, they would only succeed in pissing him off.
Bobby shrugged. “But she is.”
“She was better, getter stronger every day,” Jim said, possibly not needing a response, but he got one anyway.
“She was, she still is stronger, but she has an infection—”
“Another fucking infection! I mean, what are they doing here that she has now picked up another infection in the hospital?”
“Jim, this isn’t the hospital’s fault. This isn’t negligence. Tasha has just been unlucky.”
Jim scowled but offered no argument.
Bobby took his brother’s silence to mean he knew what he was saying was true so continued. “A hospital is full of sick people…it’s like infection and illness central, plus anyone who has been in to see Tasha could have brought infections in.”
“Yeah, well, she is on a visitor ban until she’s home so that won’t be happening again.”
Bobby shook his head, knowing Jim was worried, but knowing that this, his super control freak, shutting everything and everyone down was not in anyone’s best interests, least of all Tasha’s, assuming she came out of theatre in one piece. He shut his own thoughts down now, needing to focus on his brother remaining calm and together.
Jim glared at his brother, his irritation rising at his attempts at trying to console and placate him as he stressed about Tasha’s wellbeing, again.
Bobby, undeterred, shook his head again.
“Go ahead, shake your head, I mean it. Stan picked up the temperature spiking again and thought she might have picked up a cold or something and then within eight hours she is hot, clammy and has passed out walking to the bathroom because her blood pressure has dropped through the floor. The antibiotics may as well have been vitamins for what use they were because they were never going to treat the internal puss fill abscess the size of a fucking tennis ball.”
“But—”
