‘That was only a rumour,’ he rasps.
I’m pretty sure it was more than a rumour, but I let it lie. ‘So why’d you give it away?’
His eyes take on a strange sightlessness, and I know he’s not looking at the inside of this hospital room. The pause goes on for a moment too long.
‘Harris?’
‘Just did.’ He turns his head.
He clearly doesn’t want to talk about this. I have no idea why. Most of the guys I know talk about their old footy victories a hundred times a day. Now Harris looks low, as if the whole conversation has depressed him. Damnit.
Then he blinks suddenly and talks again. ‘So you finished school last year?’
‘Um, yeah.’ I bundle up the dirty pillowcases in both hands. ‘Did a CNA course over the summer, and now here I am.’
‘So you’re a nurse? Or a, what…’
‘A Certified Nursing Assistant. Just a fancy name for a trainee.’ I scan the sheets above his leg. The linen will be tricky, but not impossible. ‘I’ve got to change your bed sheets, too.’
Harris startles a little. ‘How the hell you gonna do that?’
‘Watch me.’ I grin.
It takes about five minutes. I peel the fitted sheet down from the top at the same time as I unroll the new sheet, slipping it beneath his neck and shoulders, careful of his IV. When I get to his hips, I have to slide an arm under him and lift him in sections until the new sheet is cooling the skin of his back.
He’s heavy, and I won’t say he smells nice – he hasn’t let us bathe him since he came in – but he has a distinct scent I associate with maleness. I’ve always thought if guys knew how appealing their own scent was to girls, they wouldn’t use so much pongy aftershave. His skin is fine-pored and smooth, but he also feels clammy to touch; I’ll have to report that.
He jerks when I slip my arm under his waist. I’d put it down to nerves, but this isHarris Derwentwe’re talking about, the slayer of Five Mile… I file it under ‘normal embarrassment’ – I know he’s not wearing any jocks.
The sheet goes down pretty easily on his right side, everything kept modest because of the top-sheeted cage. Then I move over to his left. ‘Can you lift your butt?’
‘I got nothing on,’ he warns.
I try not to grin: definitely normal embarrassment. I tug a side of the top sheet over to spill onto his lap. ‘Will that spare your blushes?’
He’s blushing anyway, but he nods.
‘Good. Now lift up, just a little.’
He braces his right foot, tenses, and lifts enough to give his hips a few centimetres of clearance off the bed. I whip the dirty sheet down and shimmy in the clean one.
‘Excellent. Down.’ I replace the top sheet by laying it over the cage above the existing one, then drawing the old sheet away. ‘There you go. Just like magic.’
‘Great.’ He’s panting. That tiny bit of effort has made him break out in a sweat.
‘You all right?’
‘Yeah. Fine.’
I keep an eye on his face as I unfold a fresh blanket over the top of him. ‘How’s your leg?’
‘Dunno. You tell me.’ He shivers, rubs his hip under the blanket. ‘The doctor hasn’t said anything except I was lucky, and that I’ll be on crutches for a while.’
I nod. ‘You were, you know. Incredibly lucky. The bullet went clean through without hitting bone, or any major blood vessels. You could’ve lost your leg, or bled out.’
‘Crutches sound like a good option, then.’
‘Really good. Like, unbelievably good. The only things you have to worry about now are physio and risk of infection. That’s why they’ve got the drain in.’ I pause. ‘But I’ll ask the RNs, see if I can get you more information.’
