‘Hold still.’
She starts on a round of obs, which I’m familiar with from before I was discharged: temperature, blood pressure, respiration rate, pulse. The BP cuff makes that familiar scream as it’s Velcroed in place. Amie’s hair is in a ponytail today and the shimmering fall of it spills down her back.
She keeps her focus on her work. ‘Your pulse is a bit high.’
‘Mm.’ I concentrate on keeping still. I try not to notice that there seems to be a little force field surrounding each of us, and how, as she moves around me, my orbit seems to warm up in contact with hers.
She runs me through the range-of-movement positions the physio prescribed for me. ‘It’s okay. Your leg and the wound site don’t seem to be tightening up too much. But you need to take better care of it.’
‘I’m taking care of it –’
She puts a warm hand on my chest, gives me the take-no-prisoners stare. ‘Harris, will you just trust that I know what I’m doing? How about we make that a permanent arrangement – you look after this to the best of your ability, and I’ll look after it when you come in, and hopefully between the two of us we can get you better, okay? Then I don’t have to call an RN to give you a full work-up if you come to your appointments with a nasty infected surgical wound.’
‘Fine,’ I say, abandoning resistance. ‘I’ll take better care of it.’
‘Great. Now I just need to clean it and apply some more antiseptic, then re-dress it.’
‘Okay.’
The cleaning and disinfecting are unpleasant, but it’s harder to concentrate when she starts re-dressing my leg. While her fingers move on my thigh, I have to look away. I’m thinking about anything but the brush of her fingertips: cold showers, icebergs, the insides of fridges. God, it’s been too long since I dipped my wick if I’m this sensitive.
‘I’ve got another antibiotics script for you from Barb,’ Amie says. ‘Call the hospital if it starts to get painful again so they can book you in for an earlier appointment.’
‘Huh? Uh, yeah, sure. I don’t want to get another infection, that was bloody horrible.’
‘You’ve got access to a phone? Maybe borrow Mark’s, or –’
‘Got one.’ I fish my newest accessory – a phone with a hot pink case – out of the pocket of my jacket, waggle it in front of her.
‘You got a phone?’ She squints at the case. ‘Nice. Bit glam for you, but –’
‘Got it off Della Metcalfe. Bumped into her at Westie’s self-defence class. She said I could have it. Her old one, she said.’
‘Della gave you a phone,’ Amie says, and her expression repeats it, with emphasis.
I shrug. ‘Me and Dell, we’ve got a bit of history. She said she wanted to help me out. She’s cool.’
Amie shakes her head at me, snorts. ‘You’re a bloody enigma, Harris, I swear to god. You’ve shagged half the girls in the district and still managed to stay friends with everyone.’
I make my best indignant face. ‘Hey. For one, I have a charming personality. And for two, I haven’t shagged half the girls in the district. That’s an exaggeration.’
‘Really.’ Her fingers busy themselves fixing the final pieces of paper tape.
‘Yes, really. You also might wanna remember there aren’t actually that many girlsinthe district, so even if Ihadshagged half of them, it wouldn’t end up being a very large number of girls –’
I stop when Amie starts laughing.
‘Okay, you’re good,’ she says finally, still pressing her lips together to stop a grin escaping as she tidies up the wound dressing rubbish. ‘I guess I’ll see you again in a week?’
‘Yep.’ I get to visit Amie again next Wednesday. I’m oddly elated. Apart from the wound-cleaning business, these appointments could turn out to be more of a highlight than I’d thought.
‘Oh, wait – you’re going to Rathmine Street now, aren’t you? To see Nick’s car?’ She looks a bit embarrassed to know that, but hey, he’s her mate. I’m sure he’s whinged in her ear about it. ‘Could you say I’ll meet him at the pub when I get off work? You’re welcome to come too, if you’d like.’
‘Cheers, yep, I’ll tell him.’ It’s a nice offer, but somehow I just can’t imagine having a friendly beer with Nick Partridge. The guy seems to think I’m a lower form of life than microbes.
I pull up my jeans and Amie hands me my crutches. ‘It’s good to see you back on your feet, Harris.’ Her cheeks look a bit pink. ‘I’m glad you’re doing okay at Mark’s.’
‘It’s good.’ I still can’t shape the right words, the ones I want to say. ‘It’s great.’
