by Lisa Olsen
I’d always had the stigma of being kind of a book nerd. It’s cliché, but maybe it had something to do with the braces and glasses I wore all through high school. Okay, so looking back I can admit it had more than a little to do with button down shirts and skirts that didn’t rise above the knee, but my parents were really strict while I was growing up. Even three years out of high school, I still had trouble coming out of my shell, as my sister Hanna liked to call it. Or pulling the stick out of my… behind (I’m paraphrasing), as Bridget liked to say a bit more colorfully.
While the braces were long gone, the glasses remained, but I liked to think I didn’t look all that different from any other student at the Central Coast Academy of Fine Arts. When I wasn’t wandering through the bowels of the hospital wearing a torn, bloody rag, that was.
The need to get away from the morgue propelled me forward, I thought it was adrenaline lending me swiftness at the time. The earlier stiffness was completely gone, no trace of the paralysis, though I still felt off my game. Every second that drew me farther away, I expected to hear my name called from behind, or even a ‘stop that girl!’ yelled after me. But I didn’t run into a soul on my way to the wide elevator at the end of the hallway. As the doors slid shut, so did my eyes, and I allowed myself a brief moment to catch my breath and give thanks to the gods above for not only allowing me to get away, but for sparing me from whatever near-death experience I’d narrowly escaped.
As conspicuous as I felt in my bare feet and ruined dress on the ground floor, it was nothing compared to the flare of embarrassment that went through me when someone joined me in the elevator. A little wisp of a man, close to my height, peered at me from behind oversized glasses. Dressed in blue scrubs, he could have been anything from laundry staff to a neurosurgeon to my untrained eyes.
“Are you alright?” he asked, more than a little concerned by my appearance.
“Yes, of course. This isn’t my blood,” I waved off the concern. Come to think of it, I wasn’t in any pain. What had the guy said back in the morgue… tissue damage at the neck? My neck felt fine. Surreptitiously, my hand snaked up to probe at my neck and felt nothing but smooth skin. “It’s ah… it was a costume party that got a little out of hand. You know how it is.” I gave him my best smile and crazily enough, he bought it.
“I remember those days,” he smiled wistfully. The doors opened on the second floor then and he held them open for me. “Getting off?” There was definitely a light of hope in his eyes. What kind of a weirdo wanted to flirt with a barefoot, bloody wreck of a girl in the middle of the night in a hospital?
“Sorry, not my floor.” I pushed the button for the third floor, stepping back with a faint smile as he shuffled off. What I wouldn’t give for a mirror… Self consciously, I pushed the hair out of my eyes and realized for the first time I wasn’t wearing my glasses.
I wasn’t blind by any means; I could tell the difference between a tube of toothpaste and a tube of anti-itch cream, but I had trouble whenever reading was involved. Normally when I forgot to put my glasses on, after a few minutes I’d get a light headache until I put them back on again, but I’d been walking around the hospital just fine without them.
Looking at the numbers on the elevator buttons, they were sharp and distinct. I could clearly read the posted weight limit and even the elevator permit behind grubby plastic. Maybe it was one of those things where you got hit on the head and it changed your eyesight? Only I didn’t think I’d hit my head, and since when did the Flintstones logic work anyway? The night kept getting weirder and weirder.
The elevator doors opened and I stepped out onto the deserted hallway. I knew my roommate Bridget worked nights up on the third floor in long term care as a ward assistant (a glorified name for an orderly, but I’d learned long ago she didn’t particularly appreciate that label), and I hoped it wouldn’t be too hard to find her without attracting more attention. Luckily, I didn’t meet a soul, and I spotted her standing at the nurse’s station, head bobbing to Linkin Park blaring from her earbuds.
You’d never think someone like Bridget and I would be friends from looking at us. Maybe that makes me a little judgmental of appearances, but you have to admit, most people do make snap decisions based on looks. Paired with her maroon scrubs, she wore chunky, black combat boots that flopped open at the top, a score of black rubber bracelets like Madonna used to wear back in the eighties, and at least three chunky silver necklaces. Her dark hair was plaited into thick braids that hung down her back, revealing the top of the tattoo on her neck. I’ve always wanted one, but I could never picture myself as a grandmother with a tattoo. Who wants to see a cool design get saggy, old, and faded as you age?
Bridget didn’t know how to do subtle with makeup, and I could see the heavy dark eyeliner on her eyelids and deep red ‘vixen’ lips from a mile away. It was a little surprising the hospital didn’t care how she altered the dress code to suit her tastes, but when you worked the graveyard shift, things were more lax, I supposed.
I guess you could say I’ve always been a little bit classical and she was a little bit rock and roll. Not that I didn’t want to be rock and roll myself… I did like rock music, I just hadn’t had much opportunity to pursue that kind of lifestyle, not even in college. But at least I knew who Linkin Park was. I should get points for that, right?
Making a beeline for the nurse’s desk, I was gratified to find it deserted, except for the two of us. The entire floor was silent, but for the soft drone and beeps of equipment in the background. Her head bobbed to the music, casually flipping through a magazine on the counter, completely unaware of my approach until I touched her elbow and she jumped a foot.
“Jesus Christ, what are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?” she gasped, hand flying to cover her heart. I could practically hear it beating too, thump, thump, thump, it was almost hypnotic. “Hello? Earth to Anja…” She waggled her fingers in front of my face, and I snapped out of it.
“Oh, sorry. I was just… I’m having the weirdest night.” Talk about an understatement. Now that I’d found her, I wasn’t sure where to begin. It was obvious she had no idea I’d been down in the morgue. Hopefully that meant my family was blissfully unaware of the fact as well.
“Ah, it’s a little early for Halloween isn’t it? What’s with the ensemble?” Her fingers waved again in the general direction of my outfit.
“That is the least of my worries right now. Do you think we could sit down and talk for a bit?” I could see the aversion on her face. Maybe she thought I was having boyfriend troubles. Bridget wasn’t big on heart to hearts. “Please? It’s important.”
“Fine, you don’t have to be so dramatic,” she rolled her eyes, slouching against the counter.
My eyes darted up and down the length of the corridor. “Can we talk somewhere more private?” Anyone could come along and spot me at any moment and I still dreaded the questions that would come with it until I had more answers myself.
Another roll of the eyes was given, but she led me into a patient’s room. “Is this good enough for you?”
I looked at the old man occupying the bed, his eyes watching us with vague interest. “What about him?”
“Oh, don’t worry about him, he’s deaf as a post.”
“But won’t we keep him awake?” The idea of barging into his room didn’t sit well with me.
“Old people don’t sleep,” she scoffed as if it was a well known fact. “Hi, Mr. Gutterman!” she yelled. “Just ignore us, we’re having a little girl talk, okay?” she nodded and flashed him a thumbs up sign. The old man gave no indication he’d heard a single thing she said and Bridget turned her back on him. “See, we’re fine. So spill, what’s so important it’s got you out of bed past ten o’clock?”
My tongue darted out to moisten my lips. “I think… I think I died.”
