The Wives(41)
“Easy,” she says, rushing over. “You have a concussion. It’s minor but—”
“Why am I in Queen County? Where’s the doctor? I need to speak to him.”
She opens my chart, glancing at me disapprovingly over the top of it. Her eyebrows are two sandy brown caterpillars—she’s in need of a good pluck. I don’t know why I’m being so mean except that she has answers and I don’t.
“Says here you came in by ambulance. That’s all I can tell you for now until you speak to your doctor.” She snaps it shut with an air of finality and I know it won’t do me any good to keep hounding her. I know her type; she has the whole nurse hard-ass thing going on. We have three or four of them at my hospital. They’re always assigned the more difficult patients as a mercy to the rest of us.
Momentarily defeated, I allow my back to rest against the flat hospital pillow and squeeze my eyes shut. What happened exactly? Why didn’t they take me to Seattle General? My friends and colleagues are there. I’d receive the best care among my own. Queen County has a reputation for bringing in a rougher sort of crowd. I know, because this isn’t the first time I’ve been here. Queen County is your criminal uncle you only see on holidays: grubby, sagging and tagged up. It’s the house whose lawn has soda cans and beer bottles dotting its yard like weeds, the shopping cart abandoned on the street corner. It’s a place where dreams never have the soil to grow, everything lost in the cracks.
I have a flash of memory: a wheelchair, blood—plenty of blood—and the tense face of my husband as he leaned over me, assuring me everything was going to be all right. I’d half believed him at the time because that’s what love does. It gives you a sense of well-being—like bad things will evaporate under the strength of two people who adore each other. But it hadn’t been all right, and I’m much emptier in my marriage than when I arrived that first time.
I grimace at the memory. I bunch the sheets up at my neck, suddenly cold, turning on my side as I lie as still as possible. My head feels tender, like even the slightest movement could make unbearable pain explode. I want to see Seth. I want my mother. I want someone to tell me that everything is going to be all right, even if it’s not true. Why would he leave me here alone with no note, no explanation?
My eyes snap open, and very carefully I look around the room for my handbag or phone. No, the nurse said I’d been brought in by ambulance; my phone would be at home. I have the faintest memory of my handbag sitting near the front door—in the foyer. I’m suddenly very tired. The drugs, I think to myself. They’ve given me something for the pain and it’s going to knock me out. I let my eyes close and drift backward like a leaf floating in water.
When I wake up, there is a different nurse in the room. Her back is to me, a narrow braid hanging down the center of it, almost reaching her waist. She’s young—I’d guess not a year out of nursing school. Sensing my eyes on her, she turns and sees that I’m awake.
“Hello there.” She moves fluidly, like a cat—her shoulders rolling forward as she walks. She checks the monitor while I watch her, still too out of it to speak.
“I’m Sarah,” she says. “You’ve been sleeping for a while. How do you feel?”
“Better,” I croak. “Groggy. Do I have a concussion?” My throat hurts and I glance at the plastic water jug to my right. Seeing my look of longing, she pours me a fresh cup and I glance at her gratefully. I already like her better than Nurse Hard-ass from yesterday.
“Let me get the doctor to come talk to you now that you’re awake.”
“Seth...?” I ask as she heads for the door.
“He was here while you were asleep. But I’m sure he’ll be back soon...”
My lips pull away from the straw and a line of water runs down my chin. I wipe it away with the back of my hand. “What day is it?”
“Friday.” And then with an almost embarrassed laugh, she says, “TGIF.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes—actually, I don’t think I can roll my eyes. I feel like I’m underwater, my body moving like a piece of seaweed dragged along the ocean floor.
“Sarah...?” I call out. She’s halfway out the door, an almost-escape, when she peeps her head around the corner.
“What medication do they have me on?” Is my voice slurring or am I imagining it?
She blinks and I can see she doesn’t want to answer without the doctor speaking to me first.
“Haldol.”
I struggle to sit up, the lines in my arm tugging uncomfortably as I push aside the sheets. Haldol, Haldol, Haldol! My brain is screaming. Where is Seth? What happened? I try to remember the events that led me here and I can’t. It’s like trying to pound through a brick wall.
Sarah comes rushing back in the room, her face pinched with worry. I’m the patient they trained her for—keep her calm, call for help. I see her glance over her shoulder, trying to catch a view of someone in the hallway. I don’t want her to do that; they’ll fill me with more medication until I can’t remember my own name. I calm, relaxing my hands, smoothing out my face. Sarah seems to buy my show because she slows down, approaching the bed like someone would approach a live scorpion.
“Why am I on Haldol?” I’ve been on it once before. An antipsychotic that doctors only use in extreme cases of violent behavior.