‘Gardening?’ His lips quirk up. ‘You looked at me lately? You think I do a lot of gardening? Jesus, I think we should go back to the heaving bosoms.’
‘NoPlayboy, if you were wondering.’
He shakes his head sadly. ‘I’ll just have to hope they’ve done a few features on naked tribeswomen inNational Geographic, I guess.’
He’sdefinitelycoming back online.
There are other clues as well. Barb said he’s arcing up in physio – depressed patients generally don’t whinge, just suffer in silence – and he’s chatting with the other nurses sometimes. I’d like to see him eat more, but let’s face it, it’s hospital food. At least he’s talking, even smiling on occasion. He has a really good smile. It starts as a kind of wicked grin, then widens into this crinkly-eyed authentic happiness that somehow makes me happy as well.
I start to feel confident the despair I saw in him when he was admitted was just a blip on the radar. When I go in to help Nick with a dressing change on Wednesday, Harris is sitting on the edge of the bed, leafing through aNational Geographicand kicking his legs.
‘See? Boobies.’ He holds up a double-page photo spread – a really gorgeous one, actually – of elderly Choco Embera women laughing over a cookfire.
I grin. ‘I knew you’d find them somewhere.’
‘Hold still, please,’ Nick says. He extends a hand for the extra gauze I pass him.
‘That’s looking good,’ I say, checking the wound over his shoulder.
‘Good enough to invite to the dance on Saturday night,’ Harris quips.
‘No dancing,’ Nick says. ‘And no kicking, thanks.’
‘Can’t help it,’ Harris says. ‘I got the wriggles.’
Nick makes an exasperated sound out his nose.
Harris is wearing a threadbare white T-shirt and a pair of footy shorts Barb got for him at the op shop on Maine Street. They fit him nicely, I notice. But I don’t think he’s going to be playing footy for a while. The wound in his thigh is now a gouged depression – I know Dr McGaven had to excise some abscessed tissue. It might be months before Harris regains full use of his leg.
He leans back on his hands and looks at the ceiling for the messy bits of the redressing process. ‘La la la, yeah, ow.’
‘Do you want a local?’ Nick asks, losing patience.
‘No, I don’t want a fucking local, I just want it done.’
‘Harris,’ I warn.
‘What? I can’t complain if it hurts?’
‘Complaints cost twenty bucks extra,’ Nick says. ‘There – straighten your knee. Yep, that’s it. I’m done.’
‘I’ll clean up,’ I offer.
‘Great, thanks, I’ve gotta see Mrs Martinelli in Two.’ Nick walks out.
‘He hates me,’ Harris says, after an interval.
‘No, he doesn’t,’ I scoff, but I’m already thinking up excuses for Nick’s rudeness. ‘He’s just…got stuff happening. He’s distracted.’
‘It’s no big deal,’ Harris says. ‘I’m not crying about it.’
I snort. ‘I think you’re reading too much into it. Proper nurses are supposed to be detached.’
‘I’m not saying he’s not professional. He just hates me.’
‘He doesn’t hate you. He just –’
‘Doesn’t like me. At all. Which, if you think about it, is pretty much the definition of hating somebody.’
