Harris looks at the lunch tray, looks at me. The tip of his tongue skitters over his lower lip. ‘Pizza.’
‘Or chicken.’ I shrug. ‘Up to you. Hospital will cover it. I just thought you might like something a little more…’
‘A little more. Yeah.’ He glances at the tray again, like he’s wishing the plate held a nice juicy porterhouse.
‘Here, let me take that.’ I don’t give him time to think too long. ‘Won’t take a second to warm it up.’
‘Thanks.’
I shrug again. ‘It’s my job.’
It’s not really my job – convincing patients they should let us look after them, buying dinner for them so they won’t have to put up with the nutritious-but-lousy stuff the hospital provides – but I’d do it for anyone who needed it. Harris needs it. I’ve dispensed lollipops and bandaids: this is the same thing, just on a slightly larger scale.
By Tuesday, Harris is almost back to normal. He’s reached that point which is a drag for patients and a reassuring sign for nurses everywhere – he’s bored. I catch him lying in bed, flicking through television channels on the monitor in random frustration.Flick flick flick.
He clicks the ‘Off’ button and tosses the remote down, then stares at the ceiling until he realises I’ve entered the room. His face – still bruised from the fistfight – gets this neutral alert expression, which I’ve figured out is just window dressing.
‘Hey, um, yeah,’ he says. ‘What’s happening?’
I shrug. ‘Nothing. Just came by to see how you’re going. Had enough of the TV?’
‘Yeah.’ He prods the remote. ‘Sports report’s over. Now it’s just daytime soaps, local news…all the usual crap.’
‘You’re getting a lot of interruptions for physio and dressing-changes and stuff,’ I note.
‘Yeah.’ His shoulders do a little shuffle.
‘Something else you want to do? Crosswords? Or maybe you’ve got a book to read or something?’
‘A book?’ His eyes are amused. ‘Nah, didn’t really think to bring my library bag with me.’
‘Well, there’s books in the lounge area, I could bring you a couple.’ I frown. ‘They’re mainly old Mills&Boon paperbacks, though. Might not be your thing.’
‘Don’t you think I’m a true romantic?’ he says.
I’ve managed to get a grin out of him at least. ‘They’re not exactlyRomeo and Juliet. More heaving bosoms and guys with airbrushed chest hair.’
‘Heaving bosoms, eh? Now you’re tempting me.’ He shifts on the bed, makes a grimace.
‘Are you in pain?’ I ask quickly.
He shakes his head. ‘Nah, mate, it’s fine. Just can’t help but be uncomfortable sometimes, that’s all. If I’m feeling crap again I’ll let you know.’
‘Good.’ My shoulders release. He trusts me this much, that’s something. ‘Hey, if you don’t want to read romance novels, I could bring in a few books from home. Or magazines. My dad has a lot of old car magazines.’
‘Your dad?’
‘Yeah. Y’know – my father. The police sergeant.’ I grin.
Harris’s eyebrows look like they’re on stilts. ‘And he’d lend me his magazines?’
‘Sure. He wouldn’t miss them. He’s got loads. They just sit around the house gathering dust, until I put them in the woodstove.’
Next time I’m on shift I carry a generous stack of magazines into Harris’s room. Let the pile thump onto the tray trolley beside his bed so he can hear the weight of potential enjoyment in the pages.
He pushes himself up on the pillows. ‘These are all from your dad?’
‘I put a few others in,’ I say. ‘I get a lot ofNational Geographicmags from the op shop, thought you might like to have a look. The pictures are pretty cool, and the articles are interesting. And I found some other old ones – fishing, gardening – from the lounge room.’
