by Vicki Green
“Hello?”
“Miss Benton?”
It’s a man. My heart leaps when I think Dad could have been rushed to the hospital since I’ve been home. “Yes. What is it? Is it Dad?” I’ve read dementia progresses slowly, and sometimes you don’t see any signs of it until it’s advanced enough to give you signs. I’d also read tests have shown that those with this horrible infliction average a life of four to five years while having it, but men seem not to live as long as women who have it. Could he have had it longer than I know? Could it advance this rapidly especially being on the drug to help him? Of course, he only started being treated with it a couple of days ago. I start to feel ill and slide down onto a kitchen chair. My mouth turns dry as my shoulders slump.
“No. This is Dr. Powell – Peter.” My heart is still racing but I feel relief flood through me. “I’m so sorry I alarmed you.”
I take a few deep breaths and then sit up straight. “It’s okay, Dr. Powell. I’ve been meaning to call.” Not really. I’d actually forgotten. I know I need to work for the money, but I’m not sure my heart will be in it.
“Please call me Peter. I’m sure you’ve had other things on your mind. It’s understandable.”
Maybe this job is what I need to help keep my mind off things yet I’m worried about being away from Dad or not able to see him when I want to. I’m so torn.
“Thank you, uh – Peter.” I feel strange calling him that. “I have had a lot to take care of since we last spoke.”
“Again, understandable. Are you in a position where you can start work? We’ve added several patients in our ICU and are in need of help. I received the fax from your previous employment and you were correct that your record is impeccable.”
It was another one of the many things I did, calling my old manager and explaining my situation. She was heartbroken that I was leaving but gave me well wishes. I’d been relieved she didn’t go on and on about Dad and what was happening. My heart for helping others overtook my need to be available for Dad. Dr. Powell did say I’d be able to take off when I needed. Maybe this won’t be so bad. “Yes. I can come in. When did you want me?” Okay, that might have sounded a little too suggestive, especially after the way he looked at me when he was going to do my interview. I did notice a ring on his finger. Hopefully I read too much into that.
“Good. Have you seen your dad today?” What? Why is he asking me that?
“Not yet. I was getting ready to go over there shortly.”
“How about you go spend some time with your dad then maybe come to the hospital around noon or so? Maybe work a four-hour shift. If anything comes up with him, you can leave. I’ve already spoken with Jackie Spears, the head nurse in ICU. You’ll like her and she understands what you’re going through.” Great. Another person who knows, that will give me those sympathetic looks and sad smiles.
“That’s very nice. Thank you. I’ll be there at noon.”
We talk for a couple more minutes, and I find I’m actually excited to be busy doing something I love. I’ve heard a lot about their ICU and am anxious to get started. When I leave the house, I’m in a better mood. After parking at the nursing home, I carry my large container inside and walk straight to Dad’s room, thankful no one was around to stop me this time. As soon as I enter Dad’s room, I stop, my smile spreading as I look at Dad holding the top bars of a walker with Dax standing beside him. Dad looks up and smiles, the light in his eyes back, and when my eyes shift to Dax, I’m confused. He gives me a scowl, clearly irritated. But why?
“You’re late,” he growls through gritted teeth. What the hell?
I decide to pay him no mind and walk to the counter. I set down the plastic container and reach up, open the cabinet door and pick up two paper bowls. I shrug as I start dishing out some fruit salad into both of them. “I made fruit salad for Dad like I promised and then the hospital called about my job.” I grab two plastic forks from the drawer, pick up the bowls, and turn around. The look on Dax’s face stops me. His eyes are wide and his brows raises so high. Not sure why he’d be so surprised by this.
“Your job?”
He’s definitely not happy about this. Why would this upset him? Did he think I have a ton of money so I didn’t need to work? Does he not understand what Dad’s medical bills are going to be like and how in the hell I’d survive without working? Does he think I’m rich or something? I can’t stop the snort that leaves me when I think about that. I watch him lead Dad over to the recliner, in awe that Dad can walk a little using a walker. I’m so proud of him and what he’s accomplished after only being here a few days. Dax leans down, after helping Dad to situate himself, whispers something, and then walks over to me – or rather storms, takes both bowls out of my hands – more like grabs, sets them both down on the table beside Dad’s chair, and walks back over to me, grabs my hand, and pulls me out of the room. I can barely keep up with his long strides down the hall. My mouth is open ready to yell at him, when he opens that same storage closet door and pushes me inside. I feel manhandled as I hit my back against that same shelf as the other day but with the look on Dax’s face, I don’t think the same thing will happen as last time.
“What the fuck, Dax!”
I startle when his hand clamps over my mouth. I hate that fear creeps inside me when all he’s done is be there for me, shown me that he can be so caring and sweet. Then he morphs back into bad-boy mystery man, and I’m confused – again.
Anger radiates from him as he removes his hand and steps back, pacing in the very, very small area. “You shouldn’t work.” Wait! What? “You should spend all your time with your dad while you can. I can’t believe you went out and got a job.” What the hell?
I watch him act like a lunatic as he tries to pace the small space, running a hand through the long hair on top of his head, making it stick up, and then tugging on it. He’s giving me the biggest feeling of crazies. Who in the fuck did I get involved with? Please – please don’t tell me he’s insane. It would be just like me to fall in love with a madman. Huh? That thought would be comical only it’s not.
He stops and stares into my eyes, anger still fuming from him. “Why are you doing this?” I shake my head at his words. He’s blaming me for working? He is crazy. Or maybe I am. I stiffen and try to step back, hitting the shelf again, when he storms over to me, grasping my upper arms, roughly. His eyes search mine. My heart is beating so rapidly, and I can’t catch my breath. “Don’t you see you could be in danger? Can’t you see I’m trying to protect you?” What is he talking about? What danger? Oh, my God, my head hurts. He releases me and turns around, his strong back moving with his heavy breathing, his muscles rippling with the movements. He runs a hand through his hair again as he turns around to face me. The anger is gone, replaced by something else – something I can’t place. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly then walks to me, cupping my face with his hands. “Don’t you see I care about you? I only want you to be able to spend as much time as you possibly can with your dad.” Our eyes search each other’s, but I’m not sure what I’m looking for. I’m so confused by the quick changing of emotions. He leans down and captures my mouth. I feel his hand moving underneath my hair and grasping the back of my neck, pulling me into him. He doesn’t waste any time plunging his tongue into my mouth, but I open invitingly, longing for more. Just when I put my hands on his biceps and things start to heat, he pulls back but presses his forehead against mine. Were both breathless, our skin sticky with sweat. “Being here with your dad or at your house, I know you’ll be okay while I’m gone.” I look up into his eyes that are staring into mine with worry. “I need to know you’ll be safe.”
My hand squeezes his bicep as I swallow hard. “Safe from what?” I whisper.
We stand there in silence, fear wraps around me like an unwelcomed blanket. What is he so afraid of? Is it his “business” that he won’t tell me about? Just where does he go and what does he do? Why can’t he tell me unless…
He releas
es his hold on me and runs his hand through his hair in frustration. “I can’t tell you.”
I cross my arms over my chest, getting angry and frustrated myself. “Why can’t you tell me? You don’t trust me?” I startle again, putting my arms at my side when he steps back to me quickly, his fingers pushing through my hair as he cups my face again while his free arm wraps around my waist, holding me still.
“I trust you,” he whispers. “Fuck, more than my life – I trust you.”
I’m getting nowhere and that frustrates me even more. “Then why can’t you tell me?” He doesn’t answer right away, leaving me exasperated. Finally, he speaks but it just confuses me more.
“It will put you in even more danger than I already have, and I can’t allow that. I won’t do that.” He acts like it’s so simple. Like I should just know this, and it all makes sense. But it doesn’t. Not in the least. My brows lower and I tilt my head, my heart rate increasing by the second.
“Are you in trouble?” I whisper as if anyone could hear our conversation in here. “Are you involved in something you shouldn’t be – something – illegal?”
Releasing me, he turns around swiftly but comes right back and kisses me so hard I feel like he’s bruising my lips. I can’t get air but right now, I don’t want any. His kiss is intense, his lips warm, and his thumb moves across my cheek, tenderly, causing wetness between my legs. I don’t understand his fear but, I want him so badly. His mouth leaves mine too soon, and I’m left breathless once again and utterly clueless what this is all about. He still keeps ahold of me, his eyes boring into mine. “Do you trust me?”
Do I? He’s really not given me a reason not to, but I don’t like that he asks me to but then can’t tell me things. He’s not been very forthcoming about himself and then he wants me to trust him? He’s given himself to me, his body, and I think his heart, but he hasn’t given himself to me. Not really, not entirely. But do I trust him? He takes such great care of Dad, and he wants me to spend all my time with him, except for the nights. Those are for Dax.
“Mostly?” I whisper, still so unsure. I look into the depths of his eyes, trying to figure out what could be so bad that I would be in danger. Then realization hits me like a ton of bricks. God, I’m so stupid! “You’re going away again.” It’s not a question. He nods and lets out a sigh.
“I’ll be leaving in the morning right after your dad’s therapy, and I won’t be back until the next morning.” I think my entire body just deflated. Sadness fills me with the thought that I won’t see him for an entire day and night. I’ve been living for the nights, going through the motions, trying to stay encouraging for Dad’s sake. But the nights. It’s when I’m with him that this whole situation feels like a dream, or nightmare. It’s the only time I can forget, be with Dax and let him take my mind off everything. He makes me feel again. He actually makes me feel safe, assured, cared for, and maybe even loved. I don’t know how these strong feelings can happen so quickly, in the short time we’ve known each other. But since that first night, he’s acted as if he knows me. Impossible. There’s no way I would forget him. It’s like he’s put me in his spell, like I’m drawn to him – a piece of metal to a magnet – a missing puzzle piece that I didn’t realize was gone. I’m not sure where’s he’s been all my life, but I’m grateful he’s here now.
I run my finger down his cheek. His eyes close briefly as I move down his face to his jaw. “Will you be in danger?” I whisper, unsure if I really want to know.
He kisses me. Short, sweet, delicately. “I’m a bad-ass.” He smirks. “I can take care of myself.” Why do I feel like he’s lying? He presses his mouth against mine hard and then steps back, taking my hand. “Just trust me and don’t work. Not right now,” he begins as he opens the door, and I follow him out of the small room. “Go spend time with your dad, and tonight I’m cooking dinner.”
We walk to Dad’s room, and I watch as Dax walks down the hallway and out of my sight. I have a decision to make. Do I go to work today or call and tell them I can’t? I walk into Dad’s room and see him smile up at me as he eats his fruit salad. I have to work. Soon medical bills will be coming in, and I need to sit down and see when the house payment and utility bills are due. I know he’d paid off his car a couple of years ago, and I don’t think he has many years left on the mortgage, but I need to make sure. Right now, I’m going to sit down and have some fruit salad with him and enjoy my time. Dax might not be happy with my decision, but it’s something I have to do.
16
I was on the ICU floor at noon, sharp. I turned this decision over and over in my head, while I was with Dad, until my head hurt. We are going to need money. That’s pretty plain and simple. I can’t even fathom what kind of danger Dax was talking about. I mean, anyone who works in a hospital or any other public place can be in harm’s way. The percentage isn’t high but it could happen. I mean, look at all the terrorist attacks or just the crazy people out there shooting up schools, robbing banks, and yes, occasionally taking over an emergency floor at a hospital. I’ve seen it happen more in the movies than in real life but I’m not stupid. (I mean really, come on producers and movie writers. Where do you think those insane people are getting some of their ideas?) Hell, I could get hit by a car on my way from the parking lot into the nursing home or God forbid, be in a car accident while driving. After Mom and Bobby were killed, I had horrible nightmares and swore I’d never drive. By the time I was sixteen, I wanted the independence too much not to. But again. Dax acted like he knew something but wouldn’t share any information. As usual.
“Jackie Spears?” I ask at the nurse’s station.
A young woman with bright red hair, tied into low pigtails, freckles on her nose and cheeks, and big blue eyes, looks up at me from behind the counter at a desk. “Are you Saige Benton?” I nod, not liking that my name has already made its rounds. She stands with a big smile on her face, hand extended my way. “Don’t worry. Jackie asked me to look out for you.” I take her hand, and she shakes it a little too hard. “I’m Darby Tomkins. I’ve been here for about three years, and I’m the bed queen on this floor.” She leans in like she’s going to tell me the biggest secret of the world. “People say I’m too bubbly and I live off caffeine, which is true – both cases.” She stands up straight. “You’ll get used to it. C’mon, I’ll show you around.” Hesitantly, I follow her once she walks around the counter. “I know you’ve worked in an ICU for a while now.” She looks at me and smiles. “Your record is quite good.” My brows raise. Our records are supposed to be confidential to the head staff only. She nudges my arm with hers. “Don’t worry. I know everything about everyone around here. Thing is, I don’t share anything unless someone wants me to.” She gives me a wink and stops at a door, pushing it open and reaching her arm out into the room in invitation. I walk in and wait for her to pass me. “This is Mr. Witt’s room. Hi, Mr. Witt. How are we feeling? This is nurse Saige.” I nod and smile. He looks at me, briefly, and then back at Darby.
I watch her walk around the bed, the room set up so familiar along with all the beeping sounds and whoosh of oxygen. She picks up his wrist and checks her watch.
“I’m a little thirsty and I need to use the restroom,” he says quietly, looking up at her.
She looks down and smiles then back at her watch. Once she’s gotten his pulse, she lowers his arm and puts her stethoscope buds into her ears and leans down, pressing the end on his chest. “I know you are. I’ll bring you some ice chips. Remember, since you just had surgery, that’s all you can have right now.” She stops and listens to his heart, moving the diaphragm to different places. She stops and looks up at him. “Also, remember you have a catheter in you so you can use the restroom any time you want.” He smiles at her. Once done, she removes the buds from her ears and lets them hook around her neck. “Anything else I can get you?”
His eyes slide to mine then back to hers quickly. “Can you try to call my wife again? Her name is Barb. She’ll be worried.”
When I walk into the room, I planned to do what I normally would and what Darby just did in Mr. Witt’s room. But I stopped short when I see a nurse bending over a patient with her hands folded on top of each other and doing chest compressions. She doesn’t turn her head when she hears me come in. “CODE BLUE!” I spring into action, running to the phone on the wall by the door and dialing the intercom.
“CODE BLUE!”
I look at the dry erase board for the room number.
“ROOM FOUR TWENTY-SEVEN! CODE BLUE!”
I hang up, grab a set of disposable gloves and put then on while running over to the bed. “Grab the bag,” the nurse yells. I run around to the other side of the bed, grab the bag, the mouth piece already in their mouth, and start squeezing while she continues chest compressions. “I couldn’t stop and hit the button,” she tells me as I continue to squeeze the bag, pushing a large flow of air into the patient’s mouth while the nurse continues CPR. “I had to act fast and clear her airway and then start CPR. I tried to hit the button on the rail but she started convulsing.” I nod, looking down at the woman that we’re trying to save. She looks to be about Dad’s age. I turn my head when the door slams against the wall.
