Cigars for Sawyer

by Justin Swapp

  ***

  The next day was difficult, not just because I had had a hard time sleeping, but because I was in no condition to go to work, especially my line of work. Typically I liked my job. In fact, I loved it. Working as an orderly at Second Chance Hospital had always been inspiring. But I think that was the problem. For the first time, I didn't feel inspired.

  Distracted and preoccupied, I couldn't stop thinking about Uncle Chuck, or about that odd tobacco box. The gift made so little sense that it pried at my mind throughout the day. I didn't collect things, and I definitely didn't smoke. I thought Uncle Chuck knew me better than that. He had been like a father to me. The urge to just erase it all swelled in me. I knew I could, but my mother's words haunted me, and now his words did too. I felt preoccupied, and that made me feel guilty; I should have been thinking of my patients, especially, Sawyer.

  I clocked in near the entrance, bending slightly at the knees in front of the retinal scanner, and started my rounds. As an orderly it was my duty to ensure my patients' safety, comfort, and when possible, progress with their conditions. First on the schedule was Mr. Ferguson. I got him up and dressed in time for his exams, though I couldn't tell you what they were for. I normally could. Mrs. Jefferson forgot how to use silverware again so I tried to teach her. I ended up feeding her breakfast and then handing her off to Suzanne for bathing.

  Sawyer was slated for physical therapy that afternoon. When the time came, I knocked on his door out of courtesy, but knew he wouldn't say anything. He would sit on his bed, staring at the ground, waiting for me. That's what he always did.

  We had a certain connection that I couldn't quite explain. Sawyer was my favorite patient. Perhaps because of his condition, or because he needed me more than the others, though recently I felt like it was me that needed him. Among other things, I had taken to telling him about my feelings since Uncle Chuck died.

  I cracked the door and poked my head in. "Sawyer," I said cheerfully, "may I come in?"

  I entered, of course, without waiting for a response. I wouldn't get one.

  The room was pretty bare, as one might expect. There was a mirror, a desk, and a bed upon which Sawyer sat. My guess was that he was probably around thirty-five, but I never had the heart to ask him. He sat up straight and stiff on the edge of the bed, his legs long enough to touch flat on the floor. He didn't move much, except for his eyes. They watched me affably.

  "Sawyer," I said as I sat down next to him on the rickety bed and put my arm around his shoulder. His attentive eyes tracked me the whole way. "Are you ready for your therapy today? We're going to stretch --"

  He lifted his arm slightly toward the desk revealing a curled hand.

  "You want the radio?" I said with a smile, shaking my head. "Okay. I should have known. You always want music, don't you?"

  I walked over to the desk and flipped a switch on the old alarm clock radio. It was already set to Sawyer's favorite classical station. Instantly the room was enveloped in soft music. The piano's methodical melody contrasted with a verbose violin instantly made me moody.

  To get ready for his walk around the hospital, I had to stretch Sawyer out. Lifting his foot I began extending his leg like I always did. I started at the foot, and worked my way up to the calf.

  "They read the will yesterday," I said, picking up our conversation where we had left it last time. "It was really depressing to see the rest of the family grovel over his possessions."

  Then, I elevated his leg and --

  Sawyer grunted.

  I glanced up to see Sawyer lifting his curled hand toward the desk again.

  "What is it?" I said, confused, lowering his leg. This wasn't the routine.

  He stared intently at the desk, raising his eyebrows slightly.

  I followed his gaze trying to understand what he wanted. "A different station?" I asked, but his eyes shifted back to mock me.

  I looked again. "Oh, do you want this?" I approached the desk and picked up a pencil and a notepad, and held them up for him to see. When his eyes widened, I sat back down, and laid the notepad in his lap, and the placed pencil in his hand.

  He wrote slowly. The handwriting was so messy that I couldn't understand what he had written. When I did I swallowed hard.

  Kill me.

  I shot up, shocked.

  "What?" I said ripping the note from the pad of paper, and crumpling it up all in one motion. I didn't know how to process what had just happened. "How could you say that to me, Sawyer? You're my friend, and you know that my uncle just... died."

  His eyes pled with me, but I shook it off.

  Then, as if I suddenly came to my senses I yanked the sharp pencil from his hand too. He blinked hard.

  "Look," I said, running a hand through my hair, "I'll have Suzanne come by and finish working with you today, Okay? I... I've got to go."

  I ran out of the room, stopping only to relay to Suzanne that something had happened, and that I needed to go home. She expressed understanding, like always, and agreed to care for Sawyer in my stead in exchange for dinner and a movie.