Breathe Again

by Bonnie R. Paulson

  Annoyance, like syrup on a sundae, drizzled on top of my exhaustion. Muttering to the cassettes in the holder, I pushed the portable to the first curtained room.

  The stench of impatience and sickness varied around each tiny cubicle. People expect to be in and out when they head to the emergency room. I dealt with surly patients all the time—the highlight of my job.

  Out of eighteen cases on my list in the ER, thirteen were chest X-rays—my favorite because of the simple positioning and fast examination time.

  Of course, my luck held up. After developing two patients’ films, the processor broke down and I had to run up to my department, develop the film, return to the ER for the next two, then sprint back up for processing. The cycle, never-ending, exhausted my legs but kept my mind from too much thought.

  Two hours into the constant up, down, snap the picture, up, down, I stopped to take a break. Mingled with the desperation on the air, my baby-powder deodorant didn’t smell as fresh as it should.

  Ducking into the nearest restroom, I folded a makeshift washcloth from the cheap paper towels in the dispenser above the sink. A deep breath and the dampened square wiped across my brow helped cool my skin.

  The mirror would reflect an overflushed Mag. I tended to avoid the things since I’d stopped recognizing myself. Lack of appetite and too many nights—or rather days—without sleep had imprinted my pale face and lackluster auburn hair with fatigue.

  I gave in to the vision in the mirror while I washed my hands. The abhorred hospital scrubs hung loosely off her frame. Dark hollows shadowed her green eyes. The woman in the reflection glared at me, while I stared back.

  She looked as though she’d scratch my face off if I let her. I never do. So she turns her anger on others and the self-pity on me.

  Come on, Mag. How do you expect to feel better, be better if you never tell anyone how you feel?

  I’d set up and then canceled each therapy appointment. I had nothing to pity, no one to blame but myself. The rage acted like my own personal brand of speed, gave me focus, boosted the adrenaline and staved off sleepiness that much more. But if I didn’t get a grip, I’d keep taking out my exasperation on the patients. They didn’t deserve the treatment…but it was all I had to give.

  The woman in the mirror would have to wait. I was too tired to deal with her today. I used my dampened hands to tame the stray curls struggling free from my ponytail.

  I pushed the door open and walked the few steps to the portable. My stack of patients had dwindled considerably due to the mad stair-a-thon. The remaining X-rays slept in the darkened rooms on the floor above me.

  The elevator doors secluded me from the hustling anxiety of the ER. I breathed in the conditioned air devoid of the smells from the overpriced bandages and iodine swabs.

  For a considerable time after Dean’s—well, after, I’d thought about naming the elevator. I have no idea why. Maybe Freud would blame it on my dead husband or my gun-shy awareness of the opposite sex. I just wanted someone to talk to. Someone to get me or take away the loneliness, someone I searched for even when Dean had been alive. I needed someone who wouldn’t run at the first sign of trouble and gave me an iota of interest.

  I had developed a similar relationship with the machine. It’d become a silent, pitiless friend but I couldn’t seem to define exactly how I relied on it. Confided in it, yes. Cried on its paneled shoulders, okay. Rode up and down for no reason at all, maybe. Hated it for being too slow, you bet. Point is, the box befriended me and I always thought of naming it. Never actually did. The act seemed too similar to choosing a name for a baby—another thing Dean blamed on me.

  The no-name elevator opened its doors to the second floor, indifferent to its passenger. My friend who never judged me or reacted to me or regarded me at all.

  I sucked in a deep breath. The night wasn’t even half-over. I stepped onto the second floor and waited a moment to fully gather my bearings. With a clang, my buddy closed his doors.

  My detour the night before had taken me to the left, so I headed to the right. If I started my exams farthest from that room, maybe I’d be able to time it just right and the occupant would be unable to see me when I passed.

  The door of the first room on my list stood slightly ajar. Knowing normal people, hospitalized or otherwise, prefer to sleep during the night hours, I prepared for one of the detestable responsibilities of my job—waking people from the small bit of sleep they managed in a hospital.

  I rapped lightly before slowly pushing it open to tiptoe inside. The last thing I needed would be startling a patient into having a myocardial infarction.

  A little old man with tufts of white hair pointing this way and that lay asleep in the hospital bed. A clear plastic oxygen tube mapped the line from above his ears to below his nose on paper-thin skin. The neck of his gown hung below his protruding collarbones and colored wires indicated a heart monitor would add to the exhaustive tasks before me.

  I quietly made my way to the side of his bed, moving items that would hinder the approach of my machine. His limp IV’d hand lay next to the metal railing and was warm and delicate when I lifted it to inspect the ID bracelet he wore. I compared the name on the order slip to the one on his arm.

  “Can I ask what you’re doing to an old man in the middle of the night?” His voice, solid and lacking any vestige of sleep, startled me. I jumped, dropping his hand.

  “I—I’m sorry, Mr. Cappune. I didn’t mean to wake you. Well, I mean, I meant to wake you, just not, well, not—”

  “Young lady, I’m in a hospital. I have yet to experience normal sleeping hours in this place.” He interrupted my stammering, teasing while allowing me a moment to collect my wits.

  “Yes, sir. I can only imagine.” I proffered my name badge. “My name’s Maggie and I’m from Radiology. Your doctor ordered a chest X-ray for you and—” I grabbed his chart, pausing to make sure, “—since you’re scheduled to be discharged tomorrow, they sent out orders to be done during the night so you aren’t waiting to get out of here.”

  The tolerance on his face gave way to excitement and his voice rose an octave. “My chart says I’m going home?”

  “Uh, sir, didn’t your doctor tell you that?” For the love. What have I done now?

  “Yes, yes. I just didn’t believe him.” He pushed at the railing of his bed, attempting to sit up. “What do I need to do to help you?”

  Appreciating his gumption while understanding his weakened state, I replied, “Actually, you relax right now and let me get things set up. Once I’m ready, we’ll move you into position. All right?”

  Mr. Cappune nodded, relaxing against the reclined mattress. I bustled around his bed, quiet while readjusting the tubes and wires monitoring him. Arranging things as needed, I shot the film and reclaimed the cassette from behind the patient’s back.

  With a handful of Steri-Wipes I wiped down the film, tube and panel. I washed my hands, dried them and smiled at the patient as I backed the portable out. I returned to finish restoring the room to its previous state.

  A tornado and maid in one. Tear apart on my way in. Clean up on my way out.

  The man had slipped into sleep before I turned the light off and closed the door. I marked the cassette with his name and piled it in with the unused ones.

  The next nine patients mirrored my first. In, out and on my way. Each had their own idiosyncrasies to add to the brief contact we shared. But all in all, they blurred together and made the time pass faster. Fortunately the processor on the second floor worked well, sparing my legs from more stairs. For once, I thought my luck was changing for the better. They’d all been a breeze. I could deal with one more patient.

  I yawned, thankful to be going to the last one. I watched my feet, one step then another, until I stopped and looked up.

  C26U.

  Crap. Furtively, I glanced around the empty hall before sneaking back the way I’d come and around a corner. Safely out of sight, I leaned against the wall and groaned.
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  Maybe my mind thought it would be funny to play tricks on me and I was, in fact, dreaming. To test the theory, I pinched my arm and yelped at the pain. Okay, not dreaming.

  I remembered the encounter from the night before. Idiot. Idiot. My bad luck had apparently decided to stick around after all.

  Come on, Mag. Let’s do this. The pep talks work, I swear. Pushing away from the wall, I forced my feet to propel me to the next room belonging to Ryan Stewart.

  Donning my ultra-professional armor and prepared for anything he might say or do, I knuckle-knocked on his door and walked in.

  The lights, low but on, could be used to prevent some wild woman from stopping in and having a nervous breakdown. I glared at the chair by the sink. His curtain had been strapped to the wall, leaving the room open to view. The tables and counters were still devoid of flowers or well-wishes. I glanced at his order sheet. He’d been in the ICU long enough to get something from someone. Poor kid seemed as lonely as I was.

  Seeking the patient lying in bed, I nearly missed the figure sitting in the seat beside the window. Had he not moved to stand, he could have remained in the shadows for a few minutes more until I became aware of his presence.

  Prepared for anything…but this. I stopped midstep and looked from Ryan to the new unknown.

  Doubting my ability to be humiliated by two people rather than one, I spoke with quiet firmness, forming my thoughts as the words worked themselves out. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m from Radiology and I need to take Mr. Stewart’s chest X-ray—”

  “Ma’am, I know why you’re here.” He motioned toward the man I’d come for, his irritation palpable on the chilled air. “He’s sleeping. You can come back later.” He nodded pointedly toward the door behind me and returned his attention to the TV hanging on the wall.

  My jaw dropped a centimeter. Anger, fueled by exhaustion and the buildup prior to entering the room, grew fast. I opened my mouth to retort, but apparently I moved too slowly for the shadowed jerk.

  He stepped toward me, into the bluish-white circle of light, and pointed toward the door with both hands.

  Definite stubble shadowed his jawline below eyes hooded by a strong brow, their color lost to the weak light in the room. Deep brown hair melded into the night sky framed in the window behind him. When I remained in place he tapped a wide-brimmed hat against his thigh, making his annoyance all the more pronounced.

  The man’s size, however, pushed me over the edge. Tall and sturdy, his outlined form could have been Dean’s. The broad shoulders and straight, proud back spoke of a military history identical to Dean’s.

  The Irish in me took over. Red hair comes with a warning label.

  “Excuse me. I’m here to do my job, cowboy.” I looked him up and down, ignoring the breadth of his chest and slim hips. “Shouldn’t you be getting back to your sheep now? It’s late and I’m sure they don’t like to be left alone at night.” Inspecting him, I leaned in a bit. I waited a second, as if I expected him to answer. Hadn’t met a Montana man yet who didn’t get riled up with the suggestion of sheep as a life partner. I shook my head. I waved in the general direction of the door. “I’ll let you know when he’s all done.”

  His expression of impatience slid to confusion then heated anger. I feigned busyness by washing my hands at the sink and slipping on gloves. I bit the inside of my cheek to hide the gloating smile threatening to spread.

  The man hadn’t necessarily deserved that. But I needed to remind him of his place. No man, ever again, would boss me around the way Dean had. I’d thought I liked it before. But who really likes having their free will taken away and trodden under work boots?

  I loved gaining the upper hand, it happened so rarely. Had the room not been so quiet, I would have chortled at the livestock reference. A local joke I’d thrown at Dean had been “Montana—where the men are men and the sheep are scared.” I bit my lip.

  Gloves on, I turned and joined the patient on the other side of the room. From my peripheral view I caught the man glaring at me, retribution promised in his gaze. Amusement instead of fear added a briskness to my step.

  Knowing he could do little, I gave in and smirked in spite of myself.

  Ryan, in fact, did sleep. His breathing enunciated with each puff of oxygen hissing through his tube.

  I moved around the bed for better access to Ryan’s bracelet. Having confirmed his identity, I pushed the IV pole toward the head of the bed.

  As if made from little iron shards, my skin prickled with magnetic wonder. The other man moved closer to the bed, closer to me, and my body was aware.

  Softly, so as not to wake Ryan, I allowed, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It was very unprofessional of me.” I turned to face him. “But I am taking his X-rays unless he tells me otherwise. Since radiation is going to be used, sir, I need you to leave the room for a few moments.”

  He looked at the patient and then at me. A glint in his eyes—their color matched the blue of my left marker, deep and crystalline—offered just enough arrogance to suggest that I find my way to a warmer southern climate.

  Sweetheart, I’ve been there for the better part of a year.

  “I don’t care what you think you need to do. You’re not waking my brother.” Through a smile, deceptive in its beauty, he bit out the words. “We can call your manager, if you’d like.”

  His brow arched questioningly over dark lashes. His hair, up close, was brushed haphazardly away from his face. Waves, deep chocolate brown, curled to the collar of his button-up flannel shirt. His clenched jaw threatened that something stirred under his calm exterior. He waited for my reply.

  Blaming my fascination on exhaustion and the similarities between the stranger and my late husband, I snapped my attention from his face, looking elsewhere while I answered. “Sure, we can call my manager. You’ll have to speak loudly, though. He doesn’t hear well.” I pointed to the phone and gave a sweet smile. “If you call from here, you’ll most likely wake Ryan. Can I suggest the phone down the hall?”

  In a stalemate, we faced each other, waiting for the other’s next move.

  The moment dragged on with no sign of ending. I recognized in him a match of my own famous stubbornness. I lifted my chin as if to say, “let’s do this.”

  A knock at the door signaled the end to our private game. In unison, we turned to watch a nurse poke her head inside.

  We must have looked guilty or rather I must have looked guilty. Her polite expression tensed and she stepped into the room.

  Mortified, I’d been caught in a less than professional confrontation with a patient’s family member, and there was little I could besides watch her pad into the room. Soundless nursing shoes, no squeaking, unlike mine. Covert.

  So tired, I had paranoia setting in.

  “Maggie.” The nurse nodded to me and looked exaggeratedly from my face to the man next to me.

  “Hey, Matilda.” She had been one of the few I’d maintained a halfway jovial relationship with. I relaxed my stance and gestured toward the patient. “I came to do Mr. Stewart’s chest X-ray.” I refused to look at the jerk next to me. How embarrassing to be asked to explain my presence—maybe not in so many words, but come on.

  Her plain face smoothed and she seemed mollified by my answer. Not that I could be doing much more with my portable right outside the door. I didn’t come to steal organs with a tube—wrong equipment and all that.

  “Mr. Steele, radiation is going to be used. I’m sure Maggie explained the necessity for you to step outside the room until the exam is complete. Can I suggest a cup of coffee while you wait?” She adjusted her body to suggest he lead the way.

  “I’m sorry—Matilda, was it?—I don’t think Ryan should be awakened when he’s barely getting any sleep as it is. I want him left alone. I think this can wait until morning, don’t you?” His words dripped charm. I dug my nails into my palms. The plastic rubbed together, squeaking into the silence after he issued his command phrased like a request.


  Matilda paused briefly, thinking. Standard procedure dictated that in-house exams needed to be done after-hours. The possibility of clogging the comings and goings of outpatients during the day didn’t appeal to any of us.

  On the flip side, guests of the hospital, along with their visitors, held the needed position of customer. They paid the bills.

  The decision couldn’t be more obvious. She deferred to the customer and simpered her agreement. Gritting my teeth, I grimaced, failing to achieve grace. Too tired for this.

  Trying my utmost to appear, I don’t know, anything other than infuriated, I refrained from stomping and stepped carefully to the sink. The gloves, dampened by my perspiring palms, fought me before releasing to my grasp. I barely noted their landing in the trash bin.

  Matilda’s low voice murmured behind me, but I didn’t care. I walked out of the room without looking back.

  Yes, I behaved like a spoiled brat to someone visiting a loved one in the ICU. And yes, I could have, maybe even should have, given in easily on the point at the beginning. It would have meant less work for me. What did I care if the day shift had to deal with a cramped lobby?

  But…I did care. I wanted to see if Ryan remembered me, if he’d recognize my face. I recalled little of how Ryan looked from the night before. The code call had elicited more images and memories than I could handle and I’d been on sensory overload, unprepared to cope.

  He’d been the only witness to my breakdown, and my self-esteem needed some sort of reassurance I hadn’t been judged too harshly. If he saw me again, I might have caught a glimpse of…anything—straws to help allay my fears of embarrassment or remind me of foolish acts in the night, a snippet of wakefulness to remind me I had human reactions and it was okay.

  But nope. That brute had to disturb my mission. He was lucky Matilda had shown up when she had or I might have kicked him in a painful part and lost my job.