Looking for Jane (61)

The nun consults a chart taped to her desk. “He’s up on the second floor, Dr. Taylor. Room 207.”

The Watchdog’s old room.

Her feet are rooted to the floor. She forces a wooden smile for the young nun. “Thank you.”

“It’s up the stairs here, and to the right.”

Evelyn turns toward the staircase, trying in vain to settle the flutter in her stomach. Her feet drag as though she’s just stepped in wet cement. The steps creak the same way they did all those years ago, and it sets her heart pounding in her ears. She turns right at the landing to head down the hall, passes two rooms, then a third. She freezes in her tracks at the doorway to her old dormitory. There’s a young woman leaning over a bed, her curtain of long brown hair blocking her face as she speaks softly to a patient.

The woman in the bed turns her head. She looks vaguely familiar, but Evelyn can’t place her. When she sees Evelyn through the doorway, she cries out as though burned. Evelyn jumps back, hastily walks away as a nurse darts past her into the room. The patient is whimpering faintly now, and Evelyn can hear the young woman and the nurse trying to soothe her.

Evelyn’s nerves are on edge again, and she takes a moment outside the door of Room 207 to steady herself. She stretches her features into a forced smile, then passes through the open door.

Dim light emanates from a small bedside table lamp. Chester is tucked underneath the bedcovers, sleeping in plaid pyjamas. He’s nearly bald now, with just a few wisps of white hair in a halo around his head. His grizzled beard cascades over a double chin.

A soft, rhythmic beeping issues from a monitor attached to an intravenous pole beside the bed. Dark brown curtains are pulled shut against the window, blocking the afternoon heat. The air is heavy with the fecal-chemical stench all hospitals share. It’s a smell she’s used to, of course. She can cope with it better than most. But the immediacy of Chester’s impending death isn’t something Evelyn has fully prepared herself for, and it catches her off guard. She sets her purse down on the floor, then reaches out and places her hand gently on the peak of Chester’s foot. She’s reluctant to wake him, but she knows how difficult it will be to convince herself to come back here a second time.

“Mr. Braithwaite?” she says loudly. “Mr. Braithwaite, it’s Dr. Taylor.”

She gives his foot a small squeeze, and his eyes flutter open. He blinks a few times, clearing the fog of sleep before a grin stretches across his face from ear to ear, like a cheerful hammock.

“Doc!” he wheezes. “Ah, love, thank ya for comin’.”

Evelyn smiles. “Of course, Chester.”

“Do an old man a favour and open them damn curtains, eh? Can’t see ya properly.”

“There isn’t any air conditioning. I think they’re closed to keep you cool.”

“Bah,” Chester scoffs, waving his meaty hand through the air in dismissal. “I’ll be stone-cold once I’m dead. Let me feel a bit o’ heat for now.”

Evelyn heeds his request, throwing wide the heavy curtains. The blaring light of the summer sun pours into the room.

“Ahh, ’at’s better,” Chester mutters.

It’s as though a dam has burst, and Evelyn feels it, too. She glances down into the back garden, taking in the lush greenery of the hedges and lawn, the roses and peonies happily sunbathing in full bloom, flaunting the peak of their glory. A lawn mower sputters in a neighbouring yard. Children laugh in the street. The twitter of birds fills the room. Evelyn wasn’t at the home during the summer months. She had no idea its surroundings were this idyllic. The curtains were almost always drawn to protect the identities of the residents. Why couldn’t there have been more light?

“Pull up the chair,” he says, somewhat indignantly. “Stay awhile. Not planning on leaving right away, are ya?”

Evelyn tears her eyes away from the window. “No. I can stay for a bit.”

“Good.”

She pulls the guest chair over to his bedside and settles down into it. They look at each other for several long moments.

“I’m on my way out, Doc,” Chester says.

Evelyn swallows a larger lump than she would have anticipated. “I know.”

“I’m all right with it, ya know. Dyin’. That isn’t botherin’ me too much. Everyone has their time. My clock’s just run out.” He chuckles, and it turns into a violent cough that lasts a full minute. He sips some water and shakes his head.

“Have you had a whiskey since you’ve been here?” Evelyn asks.

“Pff. No. Bunch o’ do-goodin’ prohibitionists ’round here. Won’t let me.”

“What medications are you on, Chester?”

“No idea.”

Evelyn consults the chart hanging at the end of the bed.

“Hey, now,” Chester says, “don’t bother yaself with all that nonsense. I wanted ya here for a visit, not a checkup. I got doctors in every bleedin’ hour lookin’ at that chart.”

Satisfied, Evelyn sets it back on the hook and reaches for her purse. “I was looking at it to see what meds you’re on, because…” She withdraws two minibar-sized bottles of whiskey and two rocks glasses from the depths of her bag. “I thought we might share a drink finally, after all these years.”