The Ward

by S. L. Grey

  Ring-ring. Ring-ring. I haven’t heard that sound for more than a week and it makes me feel part of the world again.

  ‘Hello? Hello? Who is this?’

  I recognise June’s voice instantly. June always sounds like this: both timid and stoned, but she’s always liked me. Which is more than I can say for Glenn. So Katya went home to her parents. But why isn’t she answering her phone?

  ‘Hello, June. It’s Josh.’ Now that I open my mouth the nerves hit me. If these memories I’ve been having are true, I’m probably the last person Katya wants to speak to.

  A long pause, and then an almost whispered ‘Josh’.

  ‘Uh, hello, um. I wanted to find out… Is Katya there?’

  June sighs. ‘She’s not, Josh.’ Now she sounds angry – fuck, I’ve never heard June use that tone of voice. I can imagine Katya sitting there behind her, that furious look on her face making her even more gorgeous, folding her arms and shaking her head.

  ‘Do you know where she is? I need to talk to her. Find out if—’

  ‘Where are you calling from, Josh?’

  Of course! They don’t know. ‘I’m in hospital. I’ve been here since Monday.’

  ‘Oh, Josh. I didn’t know. Why didn’t you answer your phone? The po— What’s the matter?’

  ‘I had measles. But it was quite bad. I couldn’t see. Could barely walk. I was completely out of it for a few days. I’m getting better now.’

  ‘We tried to get hold of you. There was no answer.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. I got taken to New Hope Hospital, and my phone’s dead. Nobody came. I’ve been desperate to get hold of Katya.’

  Another pause. Someone talking in the background. A muffled whisper. ‘She’s missing, Josh.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We couldn’t get hold of her on Monday so we went round to the flat. She wasn’t there.’

  ‘I can’t remember what happened, June. I think we had… a fight. I don’t know about what. Didn’t she go home to you?’

  ‘She didn’t,’ June says in an eerie, dead tone. More muffled talking. ‘When we went to your flat, there were… signs of a struggle. Her phone was lying on the floor. Tell me honestly, Josh. What happened?’

  ‘I can’t…’ I can’t remember? How does that sound? I have no fucking idea. Where the fuck is Katya?

  ‘And she was supposed to do the L’Oréal shoot this week,’ June says in that same weird voice. ‘There’s no way she would have just…’

  That’s it! Maybe she was so upset after we broke up that she went on a coke binge or something. That would be like her. Fucking Noli and the other hangers on are always dragging her back. But June’s right. She would never have missed the L’Oréal shoot. Never in a million years.

  ‘Do you have any idea—?’

  ‘If you hurt our girl, you piece of turd’ – Glenn has come on the line – ‘I will kill you. Do you understand me?’

  I don’t say anything. Of course I understand him. I know Glenn would do it, is just waiting for an excuse, in fact. He’s always hated me; I’m not fit for his favourite daughter. And he could kill me and get away with it. Glenn has a lot of money, a lot of people in his pocket.

  ‘Please stop, Glenn,’ I hear June saying in the background. ‘We don’t know tha––’

  ‘June’s had her way and called the police,’ Glenn continues. ‘And when they fuck it up, I will find you and make an example of you. Do you understand me, Farrell?’

  I disconnect the call.

  I send a text back to Katya’s phone, hoping June will receive it.

  My legs are quivering again and there’s a sharp pain in my chest. I slump back against the wall. Until I remember exactly what happened that morning, I’m in serious shit. A harried doctor jogs through, pausing when he spots me. ‘Are there nurses on duty in this section?’ he asks, as if I’m in charge here.

  ‘Sorry, I haven’t seen anyone.’ I’m amazed at how normal my voice sounds. ‘I think they’re on skeleton staff. The train. How are things in casualty?’

  ‘They just keep pouring in. Two coaches jammed in the mouth of the tunnel until the middle of last night. So many dead. So many badly injured.’ He looks like he’s about to cry. His eyes are wild, unfocussed, like someone on a bad drug trip. ‘If only we had got to them earlier…’ he mumbles as he wanders off.

  I think of what we passed through yesterday. I think of that mess getting worse. I can’t shake the sound of the kids whimpering quietly. That sound cut through all the running and shouting and screaming. Up here in Green Section, we’re safe. That’s why the old women are lying so still. The world outside has gone insane.

  Shit! I told June I was here in New Hope and now Glenn will come looking for me. Who knows what they found at the flat? I don’t even know what happened. I glance at the dozing security guard. Will he be able to stop Glenn from getting in? Or the cops?

  Glenn’s going to get here sooner or later, and I have to have a plan for when he does.

  The ward is silent and still. I can hardly imagine the chaos just three floors down. The air-conditioning hum mutes any sound from outside. The lumbering orderly has mopped his way halfway up to my closet door.

  I return to Lisa’s room to give the phone back to Gertie but she’s asleep, her teeth floating in the glass next to her bed. It’s only got one bar of battery life left, so, if I want to use it again, now’s my chance. I can’t think of anywhere else Katya would be. Or, rather, I can think of a hundred places she could be bingeing with those strung-out bitches she calls her friends but there’s no phone access in cocaine heaven. And her cellphone’s with June and Glenn.

  None of this is getting me any closer to finding Katya. The fact is she’s not with her phone and nobody can get hold of her. Who else might know anything?

  The phone’s time display reads 15.27. I dial work.

  ‘Da Bomb Studios, hello?’

  ‘Yeah, hi, Lizzie. It’s Farrell.’

  ‘Farrell. My God. Are you okay? Where are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. But in New Hope Hospital.’

  ‘No Hope? What the fuck are you doing there?’

  ‘Maybe I should ask you. They said there was a medical-aid fuck-up… You’re supposed to handle that shit.’

  ‘But Mike said that he’d checked you in at Morningside.’

  ‘Who the fuck’s Mike?’

  ‘The new guy in accounts. You know…’

  ‘No. Anyway, thanks for coming to visit.’

  ‘We tried! Christ, Farrell. Eduardo and I have been going out of our minds. We went to Morningside, they said you weren’t there. We thought maybe you’d been discharged. We’ve tried your phone a hundred times. I even went to your flat on Wednesday. Nothing.’

  ‘Jesus. Who’s this Mike guy again?’

  ‘That little guy, you know. The one with the limp. He actually hasn’t been in for a few days.’

  ‘Christ, Lizzie. Jesus fucking Christ. You should have checked. You should have taken me.’

  ‘I know, Farrell, I’m sorry. We’ve been so worried. Are you sure you’re fine?’

  ‘Ja, I’m feeling better. I’m hoping to get out of here soon. But now all the fucking doctors are busy on this fucking train thing… Tell me, Lizzie. What happened on Monday? I can’t really remember anything.’

  ‘You came in about nine, said Katya had left you. You were seriously bummed. Then next thing you’re all grey and sweaty and you collapsed. That’s all, really. Are things okay? I mean, with Katya?’ Lizzie knows as well as anyone that Katya has left me a number of times.

  ‘No… um, that’s what I was… She hasn’t phoned, has she? At work? My phone’s been dead.’

  ‘No. No messages. Sorry. Fuck, Farrell, can I do anything?’

  ‘Nah. Soon as I’m home it’ll be okay. See you soon. Tell Eduardo for me?’

  ‘Sure. Take care, boss.’

  I disconnect, processing what I’ve heard. So Kat
ya hasn’t tried the studio. Where the hell is she?

  ‘How are you feeling today, Mr Farrell?’

  ‘Nomsa. Jesus.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Farrell. I should try to walk louder.’

  ‘I just heard… I just got some bad news. My girlfriend’s missing.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that, Mr Farrell. How did you find out?’

  ‘I borrowed a phone from Gertie.’

  ‘I didn’t know she had a phone.’

  What’s this fucking interrogation about? ‘Is it important?’

  ‘It’s not, Mr Farrell. How are your eyes?’

  ‘Oh yes! I’m seeing just fine now. I’d say about eighty per cent normal.’

  ‘Excellent news. But you must keep using the drops twice a day, all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see you’re moving around a lot better too. But take it easy; don’t overdo it. Small steps. You’ll almost be ready.’

  ‘Nomsa?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Farrell.’

  ‘How’s Lisa? How did the surgery go?’

  ‘Oh, very well.’

  ‘Is she in ICU?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why isn’t she back in the ward?’

  ‘We’ve transferred her, Mr Farrell.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘The Wards.’

  ‘Yes, but which ward?’

  Nomsa hesitates. ‘I mean… In the new wing.’

  There’s a new wing? Lucky Lisa. I hope it’s fucking cleaner than this dump. ‘Can I go and see her?’

  ‘Not at the moment, Mr Farrell.’ Nomsa smiles. ‘She’ll need more time. Then you can join her. In the meantime, your job is just to get strong.’ Nomsa says this often.

  I look at her, a thought on the edge of my consciousness. I can’t grab it.

  ‘You’re doing very well, Mr Farrell. You’ll soon be ready. Remember those drops!’

  All the stuff I’ve just heard – about Katya and collapsing at work – is muzzing loudly in my head. I feel like it’s going to explode. Nomsa’s right. I need to take it easy. I’ve done more this afternoon than I have for days. I need to lie down. Then I can sort through all this information.

  I get back to my room and check in the cubby that my stinking clothes are still there. I check on the top of the makeshift nightstand for the eye drops. Thank God they’re still there. But something else catches my eye, something I haven’t noticed before.

  A stack of Polaroids.

  Holy shit. They’re pictures of my body, lying on this very bed, marked out in segments. Just like Lisa said. In the pictures the sheet is folded aside and I’m stark naked. In seven of the pictures the drip tube is still shunted into my arm. In the rest it isn’t. In the corner of one of the pictures I make out a small hand. A woman’s hand.

  I ruck my gown up. The fading black lines are clear as a map on my skin.

  Chapter 10

  LISA

  There are no windows in here, so I haven’t got a clue of the time. But for now I’m happy just to lie here in this comfortable bed, safe and warm, savouring the fact that there’s no one around to look at me, talk to me or judge me.

  I wiggle my toes again. All present and accounted for.

  For now, a wicked voice whispers in my head. Snip, snip.

  Stupid. It was just a crazy dream – a warped nightmare. Dr Meka says that I should write down all my dreams, but I won’t be telling her about that one in a hurry. She’ll only assume that I’ve started fixating on other parts of my body as well as my face. And the mall nightmare – well of course that makes sense. It’s been years since I’ve felt confident enough to just ‘pop to the mall’ without hiding behind a hoodie, sunglasses and layers of make-up.

  And it’s hardly surprising that I freaked out after what Farrell and I saw in the morgue and casualty. But what did I expect? There had just been a major tragedy. Of course there would be blood everywhere and people screaming. And now that I’m in here, in this civilised, clean room, it’s mortifying to think about how I over reacted. Like Gertie is always saying, people die in hospitals all the time, and that awful grey-faced guy was just some pervert who tried to spy on me while I was showering. Big deal.

  But what about the photographs of Farrell? And the lines on his body?

  Some nurse’s idea of a sick joke. Has to be.

  Farrell must think I’m some kind of neurotic loser. God, it’s embarrassing.

  Cringe-worthy. When I see him again the first thing I’ll do is apologise.

  If I ever see him again, that is.

  But why shouldn’t I? I must still be somewhere in New Hope. Sure, it doesn’t feel like the same place, but the idea I cooked up that Dad moved me to another hospital is mental. I was careful. Very careful. I deleted the flight information and all the hospital details off my hard drive, and I even cleared out the computer’s recycle bin and browsing history. I paid the first instalment personally with a bank deposit, so there’s no way he’d be able to trace it to New Hope’s accounts department.

  No. The only way he could have tracked me down was if he’d phoned every hospital in South Africa, and I really can’t see him doing that. The last thing he’d expect me to do is hop on a plane to Joburg, especially as just before I made the decision to go under the knife again I was going through another one of my ‘social isolation’ periods, reluctant to leave the house, unable to stand seeing anyone but Dad and Sharon; freaking out when Sharon’s school friends came over. The only time I actually ventured outside was when Dad insisted that I keep my cognitive-therapy appointments with Dr Meka, ramping up the emotional blackmail to force me into the car.

  And I know how Dad’s mind works. He’ll probably assume that I took our last argument to heart and that this time I’ve left for good (one way or the other). Maybe he feels guilty now for leaving the latest batch of hospital bills on the kitchen table for everyone to see. My last trip to Margate Private Hospital’s emergency department wasn’t covered by the dwindling medical aid. Getting your stomach pumped isn’t cheap.

  I can hear his voice now: ‘It’s not just you I have to think about, Lisa. What about Sharon? You’re tearing this family apart, bankrupting us! How many therapists and shrinks and God knows what have you been to in the last two years? Seven? Eight? How could you do this to us after your mother suffered like she did?’ And the last thing he said to me, a note of finality in his voice: ‘You have to get over this, or get the hell out. You’re twenty-four, for Christ’s sake.’ Perhaps he meant it this time.

  I try to imagine what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. Worry? Relief that he won’t have to shell out for any more of Dr Meka’s sessions and Luvox prescriptions? I’m not exactly sure how many appointments I’ve missed since I left the South Coast, but it has to be at least four. Good. Her last therapeutic exercise, designed so that I’d ‘get an objective reaction to my appearance’ was beyond stupid. How is taking a photograph of my face and showing it to random people in the mall going to help? People are hardly going to tell the truth, are they? If some stranger came up to me and showed me a picture of a freak, I’m hardly going to admit that I think she’s a monster, am I?

  No one gets it. Dad and Sharon just think I’m self-involved and neurotic to the point of madness, and Dr Meka thinks she knows what I’m going through with her ‘change your behaviour patterns and learn to deal with your anxiety issues’ spiel, but she actually doesn’t have a clue. They should be glad I’m not like the other BDD people I’ve read about on the forums. The ones who don’t have the cash for conventional procedures and who perform their own surgeries, cut into their bodies and make things worse. Like the girl from the States who was hospitalised after hacking away at her thighs with a paring knife – her version of DIY liposuction; the guy from Ireland who filed his teeth down to the nerves because he thought they stuck out too much.

  So, if it wasn’t Dad who moved me here, who was it?

  It has to be someone connected with New Hope. The doctors here know th
at I lied to them about my previous surgeries. Oh God. What if they’ve figured out I’ve got a ‘problem’ and have moved me to some sort of psychiatric ward?

  That’s just stupid. I’m just being paranoid.

  I trace my fingers over my face again. The material covering my skin is perfectly smooth and reminds me of the silkiness of scar tissue. It’s some sort of hi-tech surgical mask. I can feel the slight raised edges of it around my hairline and below my chin, and it’s extremely light and flexible. I can move my mouth and blink, but when I press my fingers over my cheek, the skin beneath still feels numb and tingly, almost as if it’s gone to sleep. It’s not an unpleasant feeling. And I’m almost positive that my nose has changed shape. I’ve been down this road before, but this time… this time I think it might have worked. Can I allow myself to hope? Why not?

  My bladder is aching, but what I really need – even more – is to find a mirror. There must be a bathroom behind the door on the other side of the bed. I suppose I should really see if I can locate a nurse or a doctor, but first things first.

  I kick the covers off and slide down off the bed. My legs are still slightly shaky, but I can use the drip stand for support. At least my head is no longer woolly, and after the first couple of steps it gets easier. I’m tempted to look at my reflection in the darkened screen of the television, but I resist. It will only give me a false impression, and I want my first glimpse of my new face to be perfect.

  Yuk. My mouth is dry and there’s a slight medicinal taste on my tongue. If I can find where they’ve stashed my stuff I can brush my teeth and hair before I look in the mirror. I try the cupboard next to the bathroom door, but it’s empty. Dammit. Where are my clothes? There’s no robe to cover the skimpy hospital gown I’m wearing, but at least it’s warm in here, and there’s no one to see me.

  It’s pitch black inside the bathroom. I’m hit with the strong scent of cleaning fluid – I can smell again! I slide my fingers over the wall until they touch the light switch. I breathe in deeply, and manoeuvre the drip stand into the bathroom. There’s plenty of space in here; it’s much larger than most of the hospital en suites I’ve been in. It’s decorated floor to ceiling in pale-pink ceramic tiles, and there’s even a sunken bath and a bidet next to the toilet. It’s just the kind of bathroom you’d find in a plush hotel, except there’s a contraption suspended from the ceiling above the bath. I push the shower curtain aside. Ugh. It doesn’t look anything like the orthopaedic hand rails and equipment Dad installed for Mom after she got sick. Six curved and spiky stainless steel arms hang down from some sort of hydraulic mechanism, like a giant metal spider waiting to pounce. I don’t like the thought of lying in the bath and staring up at that thing. It must be a hi-tech lifting device, maybe for paraplegics.