I miss the days where I could leave right away and go home. With Papa’s situation, I don’t want to risk bringing home any germs and since I’m late, I need to be able to go right inside which is why I went ahead and changed out of my scrubs. My homecare nurse is going to cost me double for a minimum of three hours because that is the way the contract reads. Since I went over by an hour and a half and still have a twenty minute drive home, I will be billed a full three hour block of double time cost.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and head out through the employee exit, craving cool air and quiet. The night hits my face like a blessing. For a moment, I just stand there, eyes closed, breathing.
Then I feel it. Not danger exactly, just awareness that something isn’t quite right. There is the sense that I’m being watched. It happens from time to time and I can’t explain it or pin point it.
I open my eyes and find the same scene that comes into view every time I have these feelings. It’s crazy the undeniable pull to the stranger.
There’s a man by a motorcycle in the lot. Big. Still. Watching without making a show of it. He doesn’t move when our gazes brush. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave. Just watches.
It shouldn’t matter.
It does.
Something about him feels heavy. Not threatening. Grounded. Like the world might bend around him if it had to. I look away first. I always do. I don’t linger. I walk to my car, unlock it, slide inside, heart beating a little faster than it should.
Probably nothing, I tell myself. It’s not like he speaks to me. He comes and goes watching from afar but never engaging. He doesn’t need to thank me. I took an oath to care for others and I did my job as a nurse. At least that’s what I tell myself. He isn’t someone special. This isn’t something that feels different. Hell, the man had me at gunpoint so it isn’t like he’s one of the good guys.
I can’t help the way my body seems hyperaware whenever he’s around watching me. Everything feels like something when you’re tired, at least that’s what I’ve convinced my mind to think.
I start the engine and pull out, letting the hospital fade behind me. My mind shifts automatically to home—med schedules, the night caregiver, the way my grandfather’s breathing sounded this morning. The crackling is back, another bout of aspiration pneumonia most likely.
Life narrows to what matters.
Still, as I drive, I check my mirrors more than usual. Just in case.
Home smells like antiseptic and dinner leftovers.
Mona, today’s caregiver greets me with a quiet smile, gives me the rundown. No changes. A little tremor change in the left hand. Some confusion earlier that passed. I thank her, see her out, then lock the door behind her.
The house settles.
I move to the living room and sit beside my grandfather’s bed, taking his hand gently. His skin is thin, warm. Familiar.
“Hey,” I murmur. “I’m home.”
His eyes flutter open. He smiles faintly.
“Long day?” he asks, voice soft.
“Always,” I say.
I sit there for a while, grounding myself in the rhythm of his breathing, and the sound of the western playing on the television. The world feels smaller here. Manageable.
Later, when I finally crawl into bed, exhaustion pulls me under fast. But just before sleep claims me, an image flickers through my mind.
A motorcycle. A man standing still in the dark. Eyes that watched without asking for permission.
I frown into my pillow. Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow will be easier.
***
The clock over the nurses’ station clicks over to 7:03 p.m., and I swear it does it just to spite me.
I’ve been counting down since noon.
Not because I hate my job—I don’t. I love the work, even on the days it chews me up and spits me out. But tonight my patience is thin, scraped raw by lack of sleep and the lingering edge of yesterday’s shift. Dr. Reeves has gone out of his way to look at me with disdain and treat me with irrelevance. Which is fine. I don’t need him to like me or acknowledge me, just care for his patients.
I finish charting my last patient, triple-check my notes, and log out with deliberate care. If he’s looking for an excuse to call me sloppy, he won’t find it here.
