I look at her, my vision juddering. ‘Shit, yeah, I guess – fucking hell –’
‘I’m admitting him,’ the charge nurse says. ‘I think it’s abscessed, but page Dr McGaven. It’s his case. If he needs to go back into theatre he’ll want to know early. Can you wait while I call Barb?’
Amie nods, then the charge nurse says something else but I don’t hear it. I close my eyes again and give in to the black.
*
Burning.
My whole body throbs with my pulse, my eyelids feel hot, my throat is rough from spewing, and my stomach is sore from contracting. My leg feels like it’s on fire. This is shit. I thought hospital was supposed to make you better.
If I wanted to pay more attention I could hear what the doctor and the nurses are saying about me. Lots of half-whispered, urgent-looking conversations are going on. But I don’t know if I have the energy to give a toss.
Nothing feels quite real. The anonymous scenery in here – the blue walls, the window, the curtains, the door – it all seems like part of a dream. Makes sense, I guess: I keep slipping into a doze, jerking awake. Different nurses arrive at intervals to put shots in my IV line, or try to coax me to drink a little water. The water always comes straight back up.
Dad – Dad hasn’t showed. He might still be laid out, too pissed to drive. Or maybe he’s sulking. Or maybe he’s dragging it out. Letting me stew in my juices for a while. When he thinks I’ve dwelled long enough on how screwed I am and how he’ll react – how he’ll retaliate – he’ll rock up to the hospital and barge his way back in. Unless…
Unless I don’t let him.
I could slip into sleep, relax into it, sink…and just keep sinking. I already feel so heavy, and my head aches all the time. The idea of just letting the dark well carry me deep is appealing. And it’s got me curious. What if it’s only a matter of not resisting?
I could do it. I could slide from my father’s grasp, like a fish in a creek. And the amazing thing is, I don’t think it would even take much effort. It would be a letting go of effort, in fact.
The concept has been waving to me all day, at the side of my vision, like a curtain blowing back in a gentle breeze. It sits there, waiting.
Patient.
‘Harris.’ Someone’s supporting my head. ‘Harris, come on, now. Sip.’
I don’t want to.
‘Sip. Come on.’ The angle of the thing against my lip changes. ‘Harris, you’re ticking me off now.’
The water’ll just come back up, I want to say.
‘Harris, look at me. Open your eyes.’
I do. Because it’s Amie and because I’d like to see her. But she doesn’t look happy to see me. She looks really pissed off, actually.
She waves sheets of paper in the air. ‘When I left here last night you were responding to treatment. Now you’re febrile, you’re still hypotensive, you’re vomiting, not taking fluids. Your acuity is for shit.’
I don’t know what any of that means.
‘You’re bloody…’ Her cheeks flush as she makes a frustrated screwed-up face. ‘Startfighting! For god’s sake, Harris!’
I think about explaining it to her. I’ve had twenty years of fighting, and I’m so fucking tired. What would it matter if I stopped fighting? What business is it of hers anyway?
She must see something in my expression because she stops waving the papers. She puts them back on the clipboard then she finds a chair. I watch her drag it closer until she’s sitting by the side of the bed.
‘You lookbad, Harris,’ she says softly. ‘What are you doing?’
I don’t know what I’m doing. Far as I can see, I’m not doing anything. Maybe she thinks that’s a problem.
She bites her lip. ‘Will you talk to me? Can you talk?’
I swallow. Test out my throat. It hurts.
‘Sip,’ Amie commands.
