The Waiting Hours

by Shandi Mitchell

  ✓ nine suicides

  ✓ seven motor vehicle accidents

  ✓ three ODs

  ✓ one shot boy

  He looked back to the living room at the toys piled in the corner, the Kool-Aid-stained carpet, crooked family photos above the couch, and bag of empty beer bottles he was supposed to take to the curb.

  He would do better. He put on his hat and walked out the door.

  16

  Kate refused to open her eyes, fearful of the light threatening to pierce her brain’s throbbing membrane. She swallowed the aftertaste of too many beers and the acrid regret of illicit smokes. She should’ve had the IV.

  She tried to reconstruct the night but lost the trail after three bars. She retraced her steps back to the point last seen, her monthly girls’ night out—dinner and wine at a decent restaurant with five of her sister nurses. Much to the chagrin of the waiter and other patrons, their requisite anatomical stories were ribald, disgusting, and deliciously inappropriate for a public space. Apart from the snorts and belly laughs, it had begun as a respectable evening.

  There had been a cab ride to an unfamiliar club where they drank concoctions that tasted like orange popsicles. They got louder, more beautiful, and their legs longer. Amy tied a cherry stem with her tongue, which Kate thought could only happen in the movies. She remembered buying a round of something topped with whipped cream at the bar. Beside her, an older woman with teased blonde hair and a low-cut white tank top and a braying notice-me laugh was hitting on a much younger man.

  “I’m sixty-two, can you believe it? California, all my life.” Her breasts were more pert than Kate’s and perfectly symmetrical. “Belgium! Really?” The Californian leaned in with both hands on the man’s thighs, exposing her white lace bra and vodka-infused heart. “I’ve always, always wanted an international friend,” she slurred. “Speak French to me.” Instead, he asked to pay his tab.

  The woman laughed, wobbled herself upright, and downed her sex in a glass. “It’s been raining in California,” she said, her head held high. “The rain just keeps falling and falling…” She looked directly at Kate when she said these words.

  There was another club, but she couldn’t remember the where or how of getting there. She remembered strobes of nipple-shaped shooters, thumping music shocking their hearts, barefoot stomps, shouts of “I love you!” in each other’s ears. A small terrier of a man insinuated himself into their inner circle, hands groping.

  “Do you want to get out of here?” he hollered to her over the beats. He had soft eyes, and for a moment she undressed him and imagined them screwing. It might even have been nice.

  “It’s raining in California,” she said. “It just keeps raining and raining.” Laughing, she spun away, needing to pee. He grabbed her arm, too tight, and rubbed his crotch against her leg.

  “Live a little, babe.”

  “Fuck off,” she said and shook him off.

  “Stuck-up bitch.”

  It wasn’t the words but the tone. It had the same bile of the DUIs, crackheads, and SOBs with busted noses, heads, and knuckles who railed and spat at the nurses charged with revealing the secrets of their blood. She grabbed the man’s balls and twisted, snarled in his ear, “Down, boy.” A melee of arms and citrus perfumes yanked her out, out into the breathless night.

  She remembered squatting to pee on the sidewalk, shielded by staggering friends, horns honking, and then up, up into a hotel. Mini bottles were emptied and stale peanuts devoured. They danced a conga line to a Latvian polka over the beds, shedding their tops down to their bras. The two youngest puked in the bathtub. She remembered someone calling the Good Guys, and two gorgeous paramedics arrived with party packs of IV fluids, but they refused to come into the feral room or run the lines, citing professional limits and their own personal safety.

  The city’s finest ER nurses tried to find a vein and failed in fits of laughter and pin-cushioned arms. Finally, Betty, who didn’t drink and was on speed dial, was called. She replenished the young one’s fluids with one simple prick, which they all admired and profusely complimented her technique. With hindsight churning her head and stomach, Kate deeply regretted puncturing the other fluid bags for a raucous, pissing water fight. They had all agreed, “Save the young ones first.” Next time, frig the young ones.

  She opened one eye. She had made it home. Mounded in the corner was a tangle of blue scrubs in need of laundering. Splayed on the floor, her little black halter dress was inside out and her panties and bra were nestled beside a half-empty bottle of scotch. The trail of clothing led to the bed: jeans, sneakers, and a man’s black T-shirt.

  She reached behind her and met hot skin. An arm encircled her waist. Tattooed on the forearm, in black and grey, was the head of a Belgian Malinois, and scrolled beneath, “Annabelle” in commemorative cursive. On the strong, tanned hand was a wedding band.

  “Morning,” Riley said and kissed her shoulder. “I’m glad you called. I’ve missed you.”

  The room tilted and bile rose in her throat. “Where’s Zeus?”

  Tripping over her shoes, she swung open the bathroom door and Zeus scrambled to his feet, his tail wagging Good morning! On hands and knees, she made it to the toilet and vomited. Between retches, she fended off Zeus intent on herding her away from the thing that was hurting her.

  * * *

  —

  It was going to be a hell day and it was only mid-morning. Kate followed the red dots mapping the hospital’s floor to the elevator, disregarding the blues and yellows. It was a simple system, but she had already been accosted twice for directions. It astounded her that people could get lost inside a building.

  An aborted, stifling half-mile run and a too-long cold shower had failed to detox her pores, and she couldn’t stomach the eggs and bacon Riley had made in her kitchen, as though he belonged. Mercifully, she had no recollection of what he said was a mind-blowing night and she pushed away the tenderness of his see-ya-later kiss before he went home to his wife.

  Zeus’s nails clacked against the cool, polished floors. His light nylon “Working Dog” vest wasn’t deterring the delighted smiles and reaching hands of enamoured passersby. Without her scrubs or rescue gear, she was merely a woman with a dog. It didn’t help that Zeus looked everyone in the eye and wagged hello.

  A forceful, overweight woman with two canes blocked their path to the elevator. “Oh, my! What a beautiful pup!”

  Zeus submitted to a rash of sloppy head rubs, and Kate waited for it to be over. This was her penance. She had convinced administration to grant him therapy status and therefore access to her mother’s room, contravening hospital policy. Admin cited health concerns, which seemed absurd in a realm of superbugs. In the end, they made an exception for one of their own.

  The woman kissed Zeus’s nose and yammered on about how he looked exactly like her childhood Labrador. Gripping his snout, she stared into his eyes. She cooed and asked him if his name was Teddy, and actually waited for him to reply. Zeus glanced uncertainly to Kate. His tail swished the floor. “You have the same eyes as Teddy, don’t you, sweetness?” The elevator doors opened and Kate ushered Zeus in. She feared the woman would follow.

  “Teddy was the best dog,” the woman said. There were tears in her eyes and she waved until the elevator doors shut. Kate noted the woman’s yellow skin and swollen ankles, and triaged her as CTD—circling the drain. She caught a whiff of her own stale-alcohol breath. She should have had an Aspirin and more water. She really needed to take better care of her kidneys and stick with beers.

  It was rest period on the eighth floor. The hallway lights were dimmed and the corridors thankfully empty. She hated this floor, and they weren’t thrilled about her either. She ghosted past the nurses’ hub station, ringed by rooms and radiating corridors. There were no closed doors here, no expectations of privacy. Consults happened in the hallways and patients’ doors were always open. Everything could be seen and overheard. She didn’t like it.

  As a
visitor, she discovered she could walk the halls unseen. If by chance eyes met, she only had to look at the floor to regain invisibility. But everyone noticed Zeus. She’d see the questioning in their eyes as to whether rules were being breached. When this happened, Kate leaned back on her heels and walked as though this was her house. No one had ever questioned her.

  It was harder for her to be seen. The shunning felt deliberate when she was standing at the desk waiting to be acknowledged. It was worse in her civvies than her scrubs. The impatient look of What? infuriated her, even though she had given the same hard look to timid family members who dared open their STAFF ONLY door rather than ring the buzzer.

  Compared to the ER, this place was a slow-motion eddy of days and nights and rounds and shifts. It was a place in waiting. The indifference of day after day had infected the floor with a general malaise. There was no sense of team or pride, and the patient load was impossible. Nurses were doling out care five minutes per patient per hour. She had timed it. Inevitably, the insistent robbed from the meek. The unit jittered with an uncertainty that wasn’t eased by the false bravado and rabbit-shit fear of the rotating third- and fourth-year residents. She didn’t trust it.

  Zeus’s head swung towards every open door, indicating someone’s there. She looked too, drawn to the anonymous bodies curled tight, cloaked in blue gowns exposing vulnerable spines and buttocks, waiting for permission to go home. Here were the patients she didn’t see or think about. When patients left ER they were alive and that was the end of the story. There was nothing to gain knowing the outcome. But here, their stories were still being written.

  Their acquiescence and quiet resignation unnerved her. Buzzers—rung for help to pee, to stand, to lessen pain—often went unheeded until too late. Patients made their humiliations small and apologetic. Forgiving when nobody came and grateful when someone finally did. She wanted them to shout and throw things. Behaviour she wouldn’t tolerate downstairs in the ER.

  Zeus veered around a wheelchair laden with stuffed animals, chocolate boxes, and empty vases. Inside the room, a tense family awaiting discharge looked up expectantly. On the edge of the bed, a grey-skinned woman clutched a plastic bag stuffed with personal belongings, defying anyone to snatch it away. They’d hear the same parting words she so often said, “Good luck,” before their names were wiped from the board.

  She stopped at the threshold of her mother’s room. Zeus plopped to a tight sit with one paw on her boot. Kate breathed in the stringent chemicals and dead air and steeled herself with the armour of a nurse. Okay, she thought and breathed out.

  Zeus trotted to the bedside with his nose high, cocking his head to take in the person on the bed. He sniffed the motionless hand, nuzzled his snout under its palm, and coaxed it to pat his head. The hand flopped back onto the bed. He looked up at Kate.

  “She’s sleeping. Beddie-bye.”

  He lay down on the cool floor, chin on paws, eyes on her.

  Kate stepped closer. The ventilator had been replaced by an oxygen mask. The saturation levels were minimal, a good sign. She checked the urine bag. It was clear. Dried blood flecked the IV insertion site. The surrounding papery skin was mottled black and purple around old stabs. Kate wondered how many bruises she had inflicted in the ER. Bruising wasn’t a concern for them.

  She didn’t find anything amiss, unlike the day before when she had walked in on her mother bleeding out because a baby nurse hadn’t inserted the IV properly. When the nurse finally answered the buzzer, Kate was in the midst of inserting a new line. She didn’t give a shit that she made the newbie cry. Half the nurses on this unit wouldn’t last an hour in ER. And god help them, they knew not to send the baby doctors in while she was there. A special meeting was convened to address her concerns, but it wasn’t her job to train them up. Zeus’s head lifted. Kate smiled a fake calm and he settled back down. The upside was that Ruth was moved to a private room. Kate wasn’t sure if that was for her mother’s benefit or to mollify her.

  The woman in the hospital bed looked nothing like her mother. Her face was lax, and skin slumped over her cheekbones in a slight frown. Her mother always had a lipstick smile. This woman had chipped nail polish. Her mother’s nail polish was immaculate, cherry red to complement her hair, Clairol No. 5. Ruth would never go out into the world looking so exposed.

  Her mother’s brain was flooded with blood, but there was no outward sign of damage. In the scan, the blood appeared white in a terrain of x-ray grey. It reminded her of the satellite imagery used for ground searches. Somewhere in that vastness, her mother was lost. All they could do was wait. Some came back.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  The silence widened between them. Daughter was a harder role. She took a seat in the only chair in the corner and watched her mother breathe. The oversized clock mounted to the wall ticked away seconds. She squirmed in the sticky vinyl chair. Across the hall two young residents were in the room with Mr. Stroke Man. From her vantage point, she could see his sunken, off-kilter face. They asked him the same questions every day. “Do you know where you are?” “What time is it?” She wished they would close the door. “What day is it?” The day always stumped him. “Saturday,” his deep voice boomed. Once a week, he would be correct.

  It was Friday, she told herself. But she had to think about it. She flashed on Riley naked on her bed and the scars on his chest, and her standing above him. Had she danced for him? Ruth would be appalled if she knew her daughter. A dull headache pulsed behind her eyes. She still had to go to the house today.

  “What’s your name?” She should look away. Mr. Stroke’s mouth opened in a wordless, gaping O. They asked him again and his face twisted in mute anguish. They asked him if he was in pain. “Point to your nose.” He touched his forehead. A drawing was held up. He said the words loudly, so he’d be heard: “Teacup, dog, spoon.” “Point,” they said, and his finger drew aimless lines in the air. “Good job,” they said.

  Zeus laid his head on her lap and his soft eyes stared up into hers. She rubbed behind his ears. “It’s okay.” But her heart was beating fast.

  He spun around and his tail waved welcome. Nurse Pam of the floral scrubs, so much cheerier and hopeful than the utilitarian blues Kate wore, entered the room.

  “Hello, handsome boy!”

  His ears cupped the warmth of her voice.

  Nurse Pam had a natural ease with animals and people. She tried to answer every question, sought out what she didn’t know, smiled often, and remembered everyone’s names. She walked as though she knew she was the luckiest woman alive and by the grace of god she’d go home that night and had no right to complain. Pam would make a great ER nurse. She went directly to her mother’s bedside with Zeus trailing behind her. His vest had slipped slightly and his tail swooshed-swooshed against the thin fabric.

  “Hello, Ruth. I’m here to check your vitals. Oh, what a good strong heartbeat you have today. Some hot out there. You’re not too hot are you, dear? I’ll be back later to change your bed. That’ll feel good, won’t it? Nice clean sheets. I’m going to take your temperature now, it might be a bit cold.” She expertly inserted the thermometer into her mother’s ear. “Her vitals are good today.” It took Kate a moment to realize the warm voice was directed to her.

  “She did very well coming off the ventilator. Didn’t you, Ruth? It must feel so much better having that out.” She updated Kate on the stats, meds, fluids, and latest CT results. There was a small reduction in swelling and no indication of further bleeding. The docs were weaning blood pressure meds, but keeping her in an induced coma to allow the brain to rest and heal. She spoke to her nurse to nurse and knew every detail of Ruth’s chart. Pam had been at the special meeting, but didn’t seem to hold a grudge. She brushed aside the hair plastered to Ruth’s forehead, intimately touching her mother. Something Kate couldn’t yet do. In truth, she had never touched anyone as tenderly as Pam had just done. The thermometer beeped. “All done. It’s perfect. Good job.”

  She pat
ted Ruth’s arm, slipped the rubber tip off the thermometer, and tossed it into the bin without looking. “I think we’ll have a nice sponge bath later and moisturize your skin. And before I leave tonight I’ll do something with your pretty hair.”

  Kate looked to the thin red strands and grey roots pressed flat to her mother’s skull and the bangs brushed aside, revealing deep furrowed creases. Her mother had always been self-conscious about her forehead. A doctor had asked if she knew her mother’s wishes. Would she want to be resuscitated? She had wondered how many times she had heard that same question posed in the emergency room. Hearing it, though, was completely different from asking it.

  As a nurse, she knew what she was expected to say. This was a sixty-two-year-old woman with a brain hemorrhage and uncertain outcome. Consider the bed shortages, the costs of a prolonged hospital stay, the risks, and quality of life. She was supposed to draw on her medical training and be impartial. Instead she said, “Yes.”

  She said it with conviction and authority, not having the slightest idea if it was true. Ruth hadn’t liked to talk about death. It was too depressing. She preferred the small joys in life: discovering twenty dollars in a coat pocket, a ladybug alighting on her arm, the taste of vanilla ice cream melting on her tongue. Her mother believed in angels. “Yes,” she had said and saw the doctor’s eyes recategorizing her from “nurse” to “family.” She was emotionally involved and couldn’t be relied upon. Even Nurse Pam had looked away.

  “I’ll see you later, handsome boy.”

  Kate didn’t want her to leave. She wanted her to stay and keep talking to her mother. “Thank you.” The smallness and gratitude in her voice embarrassed her. She hoped Nurse Pam knew she meant it.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Zeus’s ears followed her footsteps down the hall and his tail thumped twice when Pam’s bright voice sang out another patient’s name. Kate checked the clock—under four minutes, a real pro.