Desperate to Touch

by W Winters

We weren’t given her name, only initials.

  Yet another thing that makes me feel uneasy. We’ve never had a patient whose information was guarded. We only have her medical history. Nothing else. Not a name. Not an address.

  Aiden never should have accepted her in here under those conditions. With that thought resonating inside of me, I set the tray down and then look at her.

  Really look at her.

  Her brunette hair is matted as she lies lifeless on her side on the mattress. Her bed is made neatly, it always is, and she lies on top of it, rather than under the sheets. I know she’s cold because of the goosebumps on her skin; hell, even I’m cold in this place at night.

  A horrid guilt rolls through me; how could I ever think of turning someone away?

  “E.J.,” I say as I swallow the previous thoughts and pick up the small paper cup containing three colorful pills. And then a cup of water. I don’t sit on her bed like I do with some of the other patients. I keep my distance with her, she’s more receptive that way.

  I sit in the chair in front of her nightstand. It hasn’t moved from the last time I was in here. She doesn’t like me to move it though.

  It’s a rare moment when I see someone in here who truly wants to die. This woman’s only thirty-two, and I have no idea why since it’s not in her charts and she hasn’t spoken to anyone, not that she could now anyway, but she doesn’t want to live another day. She has a bandage at her throat from recent surgery. The antifreeze destroyed her esophagus and she nearly died. Death’s door was only a minute away from her and not for the first time either. That attempt was made in this facility and that knowledge will never leave me.

  She blinks slowly and then her deep brown eyes look up at me. Rolling onto her back, she accepts the pills and then the water, downing them without thinking twice.

  When she closes her eyes as I check the bandages, tears fall down her cheeks and land heavily on the bed on either side of her head.

  She only sniffs once and then she swallows thickly, gripping the sheets.

  “Does it hurt?” I ask her and she shakes her head. Even if she wanted to talk, her voice would be hoarse and difficult to hear. Surgery saved her life and with time, she’ll be able to talk again. Not right now though, not while she’s in recovery.

  I wish whatever was hurting her inside would leave. I wish it would go away. The thoughts in her head that make her desperate to die are something no one should have to deal with. I can hardly look at her without feeling her sorrow. It’s palpable. Whatever happened to her, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

  “It looks like you’re healing well,” I comment even though I know she doesn’t care. My blue gloves snap as I take them off, depositing them on the tray with the last set of pills. I never leave anything in here for E.J. I’m sure she’d think of a creative way to die with any items that are left behind.

  “If you want anything at all, you know to just hit that button. I’ll get you anything.” Even to my own ears, I sound desperate at the last sentence. “A radio if you want music.” All the rooms have televisions in the upper right corner, but she’s never turned hers on.

  She only shakes her head, licking the tear that had rolled its way to her lip.

  “I hope you sleep well and you have the sweetest dreams,” I tell her sincerely. I don’t always talk to my patients like this. They’re all different.

  Her lips part, as if she’d say something, but she’s quick to shut them. “Should I get you a pen and paper?” I ask her, but she only shakes her head again, falling back to her side and tucking her hands under her head. I leave her there, staring at the empty chair.

  I’m still thinking of her when I enter the last door. Melody’s room. Which is why I nearly scream and throw my tray at the sight of a man at the end of her bed.

  Thump, thump. My chest hurts from the sudden pounding.

  What the hell is he doing here? It takes me more than a second to note his uniform. “Officer,” I greet the man as he holds his hands out in defense.

  “Nurse Roth,” he says and his voice is gruff at first, but his tone and demeanor apologetic. He clears his throat, and it’s only then that Melody looks up at me. She’s in her young twenties and on antipsychotics. She’ll more than likely be on them all her life. When she tilts her head at me as I glance between the two of them, her straight blond hair falls over her shoulder. A lock slips into her loose blouse, so loose I can see straight down and I know she’s not wearing a bra. Knowing Melody, that large gray shirt is probably all she’s wearing, even with this officer in the room.

  It’s then that I see the name tag: Walsh. Holy fuck!

  “Melissa showed me in,” the policeman explains, rising from his chair. The legs drag against the floor as he stands, pushing the chair back. With his hand held out, he introduces himself to me. “Officer Walsh.”

  The cold sweeps along my shoulders and down my back as I take his hand.

  “You can call me Laura.”

  This is the first time we’ve met, although I know all about him from Delilah’s notebook. She drew a picture of him once and I’m shocked to see how much the man in front of me looks like the sketch, but older. Years and years older.

  He’s good looking to say the least. Although obviously tired. The darkness under his eyes doesn’t distract in the least from his pale blue eyes. I may remember pieces of what Delilah wrote about him, but I’ve heard other things recently. Whispers from patients who talk about Marcus. They say Walsh is a dead man for coming down here when he should have stayed in New York.

  “It’s nice to meet you, are you visiting?” I ask cautiously and he shakes his head as I thought he would.

  “I have questions to ask Miss Trabott.”

  Setting the tray down on the dresser I explain to him, “I don’t know that Melody is in a condition to answer any questions right now. She’s not well, on heavy psychotics.”

  “I understand that,” the officer says and eyes me, looking me up and down as if he’s sizing me up. It feels like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. I hope regardless of whatever he sees, he gets the impression that I’ll kick him out. I have before. Authorities can either take the patients into custody, or they can leave them alone after visiting hours. This place needs to run on a schedule and with strict procedures. Cops don’t get free rein just to visit. “Melody asked me to come in. She has information about a murder.”

  Melody’s sweet when she responds, nodding and gathering her skinny legs to sit cross-legged on the bed.

  “Officer, I don’t know if you’re aware—”

  “A murder case she’s a suspect in… Laura.”

  All of the blood drains from my face as I stand there, stunned. Melody? Murder?

  “It’s not just me. He has other suspects,” Melody explains and her voice drags from the drugs. She talks slowly, but with purpose and there’s always a sweetness behind the words. When she’s alone, she rocks and hums to herself.

  “Accomplices, you mean?” Officer Walsh questions her. He’s kind in the way he looks at her. As if he’s not accusing her of murder.

  “They were good people. Don’t you agree?”

  Walsh’s demeanor changes. “They were, but a priest is dead.”

  “Officer,” I interrupt, the cup of pills in one hand, and a cup of water in the other. “I don’t want to… hinder an investigation. But it’s important she take these at a certain time and if she’s being questioned—”

  “I waive my rights; I don’t need a doctor or lawyer present.” Melody gives me a soft smile, as if thanking me and I ignore her.

  “With all due respect, Officer, her doctor would need to approve her mental state before anything she says would be admissible in court.”

  Walsh searches my gaze; it’s quiet. Too quiet. The way he looks at me, like he knows something I don’t… I don’t like it.

  “I can take them,” Melody pipes up just as I part my lips to tell him he has to come back during visiting hours. She reaches up
for the cups, throwing the pills back and then does the same with her cup of water. She huffs a small humorless laugh as she crumples the little white cup in her hand. “I can’t believe the priest was in there,” she whispers.

  Tossing the small crumpled cup into the larger paper one, she sets both down on the nightstand, staring at it when she speaks. “Why would he go there?”

  Officer Walsh leans forward and the movement steals my attention. He looks at me as he asks Melody, “Did you know about the others going there? Maybe just the man who hurt you?”

  “I don’t know anything,” she answers him in a whisper, but she can’t look at him.

  The rush of blood that met me when I opened the door, slows to a trickle. Melody’s quiet. Her gaze is still focused on the cups on the nightstand. Or something else that’s there maybe. There’s nothing else present except for a clock, but maybe in her mind, something else is staring back at her.

  “What happened at the farm?” I ask the officer, remembering something I read a week ago. Six men were killed in a fire at a farm off the highway, just before the state line. They hadn’t identified the bodies yet.

  “A fire,” Officer Walsh answers and I’m quick to look back at Melody. The sweet girl who hums to herself. She came in the day I read that article, which was the day after it happened.

  “Five members of a gang from upstate were locked in an old cattle farm two nights ago…” He watches Melody for her reaction before adding, “And a priest.”

  Her eyes close solemnly and then Melody readjusts, seeking refuge with her blanket as she covers herself up to her waist.

  “The five deserved it,” she speaks up and then looks back at the officer. “You know that one did, you know what he did to me,” she says, pressing Walsh to agree with her. Her body sways first and then the action turns to a gentle rocking. It speeds up with every passing second of silence. “I’m not sad that they’re gone.”

  “Did the priest deserve it?” Walsh asks her and Melody’s large eyes gloss over.

  “I don’t know,” she whispers on every rock. “I don’t know anything.”

  “I think that’s enough for tonight,” I say to break the moment, moving between Walsh and Melody. The officer rises, ready to object, but I don’t let him. “I don’t know what’s right and wrong. I don’t know what she did, but she’s my patient. She’s not well, and she’s not in the right mind to talk right now. You can always take her in for questioning.”

  Gathering the tray, I open the door to Melody’s room and wait for Walsh to leave. He tells her to feel better before leaving. She tells him good night and the exchange is odd to me.

  I don’t know if he’s with her or against her. If he wants her to feel like he’s her friend, he’s certainly accomplished that.

  The door closes with a resolute click. Keeping my pace even and doing everything I can to remain professional, I walk straight ahead to the end of the hall then to the left, to the nurses’ station.

  Slipping the tray on top of the pile, I watch as Officer Walsh signs the check-in sheet. Signing himself out.

  “I appreciate you letting her talk,” he says absently, not looking at me as he does. The pen hits the paper and he stares at it, looking at all the names, I guess.

  His large frame towers over the small desk in front of me and it makes him appear all the more foreboding.

  The manner in which he speaks throws me off. Letting her talk. As if he’s not grateful that he was questioning her, just that she needed to get something off her chest. That’s the real reason.

  “You can’t get reliable information from her,” I tell him although I can’t look him in the eyes. There are things Delilah wrote and I know they’re coloring my perception of this man. “She’s not in the right mind.”

  “She’s never in the right mind,” he tells me. When he closes his eyes, he runs a hand down his face, letting his need for sleep show. “She could barely focus when she first came to me.”

  I don’t know what to say or what to think. I don’t know much about her, only what’s on her chart, what she prefers to eat and the songs she must like, because she hums them constantly. I’m not her therapist or her doctor. Only her nurse.

  “You’ve talked to her a lot?” I ask him, probing to see what he knows.

  He nods once and then leans against the desk with the palms of his large hands bracing him. “She came to me for help; I tried to… but the evidence.” A frustrated sigh leaves him. “I did everything I could but there wasn’t enough to charge him with anything and he didn’t confess. I thought we were close to getting one, but he didn’t give us anything.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say automatically and search for more. “I wish things had turned out better for both of you.”

  Something I say makes his gaze narrow.

  “How do you think she and her friends managed to pull it off?” he asks me and then clarifies. “The five men who hurt them being burned alive in the barn. How did they do it?”

  “I—I don’t know,” I answer him and he gauges my reaction. I add, “Maybe it wasn’t them?”

  “They’re my only suspects. A murder of revenge. That’s my working theory. Five young women and men, all of whom have never stepped out of line in their lives. One night, they conspired and committed murder. How did they do it?” he questions me again.

  “I can’t tell you.” I’m certain surprise colors my eyes when he looks at me. I’m not a cop or an investigator. I don’t know why people do the things they do. I’m shocked by weekly events here. I could only imagine what transpired that led to the fire that night.

  “Someone helped them,” he concludes.

  “Who would help them? The priest?” I take a guess, still confused and not completely on board with Walsh’s working theory.

  “I don’t think so. I don’t understand how Father John plays into all this.” I can see the wheels turning in Walsh’s head, trying to piece together what happened.

  “If it wasn’t the priest who helped them… then who?”

  “Someone they see as a vigilante. That’s my theory.”

  “A vigilante?” The longer I stand here talking to him, the more and more I feel insane. Or maybe he’s the one who’s lost it. My mind whirls with all the secrets I know and it makes it more difficult to pretend I don’t know what he’s getting at. He called Marcus a vigilante. Delilah wrote about it.

  “Someone who wanted the men dead for a different reason. Someone who would benefit from the event occurring and make himself look like a hero in the process.”

  “Who would want them dead?” I play along, pretending I don’t know what he’s implying.

  “You know who.”

  “I don’t understand. I’m afraid you have me at a loss,” I lie.

  “Marcus. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. Everyone in this town has,” he comments and I feel my cheeks burn. For a moment, I doubt that I’ve held the secret of taking Delilah’s notebooks close enough. I question if he knows. Or is it just that he assumes everyone knows about Marcus? The way he looks at me, though... It feels like he knows I know all about him and all about Marcus.

  “A girl is hurt, and not well. This man seeks her out, knowing he can get her to do unspeakable things in order to feel better. In order to feel like she got the justice she should have gotten from the legal system.”

  I don’t want to know about any of this. I’m her caretaker and that’s the only reason I intervened. The words are there, ready to be spoken. Instead I find myself thinking and pray I swallow the thought quickly enough that the officer doesn’t see it written on my face. Is that what happened with Delilah?

  I’m drained as I get to my loft and sag against the door. There’s not an ounce of me left to keep me upright. My keys jangle as I toss them on the counter.

  I’m torn when it comes to Officer Walsh. What I read about him and what I saw tonight are at odds, painting contrasting mind pictures. I don’t know what to think about the man, but I can’t get
what he said out of my head.

  I find myself slipping into old habits, inserting myself between the business of powerful men with unjust causes just as easily as I sulk to my living room to gaze at the bouquet.

  Some nights I’m numb from work. It’s a brutal reality to be submerged in. That’s why I told Seth I want to stay at my place after long shifts. He agreed. Nearly everything I suggested, he agreed with this morning. Technically, yesterday morning.

  I sag into my sofa and then kick off my sneakers, one by one without untying them. Tonight, this exhaustion isn’t from work. It’s because I’m questioning my own ability to think straight.

  How did I get to this point in my life where I constantly question my sanity and my judgment? When did it get this bad?

  A knock at the door sounds, as if answering the question. The large black hands on the clock on the wall read 1:47. I’m hesitant to rise, but almost certain it’s Seth.

  There’s no one else who should be here. For a moment, I question if I should get a knife. I don’t have a gun and as the doorknob rattles I curse myself for that.

  “Laura,” Seth calls out before the door is cracked open and I let out a strangled breath. Thank fuck.

  “Way to give me a fucking heart attack,” I reprimand him although I don’t have the energy to speak loud enough for him to hear me.

  I’m still inwardly calming myself when Seth comes into view, closing the door behind him.

  “I made myself a key,” he comments, holding up the shiny silver piece in his hand and then letting it fall, clanging with the other keys on the ring. It takes me a minute to respond. I’m too caught up in how he’s dressed. There’s no suit today, only faded jeans and a black t-shirt. Simple and yet everything I remember. Running his hand over the back of his head, he ruffles his hair before tossing the keys down on the counter… right next to mine.

  The memories come back. Memories of how we used to do just that and it never felt wrong or off or confusing. Not like it does now.

  “Of course you made yourself a key… I’d ask how, but…” I leave the thought unfinished and lean back into the sofa, gathering the throw blanket to pull over myself.