by Liz Lawler
Emily had been his patient for the last year and he had come to greatly admire her; her quiet dignity and inner strength had pulled her through this miserable time and he hated the fact that just as she had turned a corner, giving shape to her life again, she was causing him new concerns. He wondered if it was too soon for her to be back at work, especially in a hospital. He could not ignore the fact that her job was to care for others – people that were vulnerable, in need of someone that was capable. Many health workers suffered with mental disorders, as one in four of the UK population did, and they were able to function fully, with or without support. Some even fully recovered. Emily’s GP had been satisfied that she was fit to work, and he had been too – until today. He had hoped that eventually their sessions could come to an end and Emily would be signed off as his patient.
He would now have to re-evaluate the situation and monitor her more closely. For starters, he would be keen to re-establish weekly sessions, even if it meant them taking place over the phone. If she was intent on searching for an imaginary woman it could lead her into all sorts of trouble, such as misunderstandings with her work colleagues who had no perception of her traumatic loss. He would hate for her situation to become unmanageable, for her to fail just when she had started living again. He had dealt with many forms of loss: survivors of car accidents that had been fatal to others, parents who had lost a child, people who had lost someone through illness. Recently he had begun counselling a woman whose husband had been diagnosed with early-onset dementia in his sixties. She was grieving ahead of time for the loss of what was yet to come; the loss of her husband’s mind. Emily’s loss was one of the worst kinds – to not know what had happened – possibly for ever.
Chapter Ten
Emily could see that the phlebotomist was having difficulty drawing blood from the man’s fat arm. The woman had tried in the crook of his arm twice and at both attempts the needle had missed the vein and caused the two puncture sites to bleed. The problem with fat arms was that it was difficult to see or even palpate a vein. Now Emily watched her tighten the tourniquet on his forearm and could see that she was going to stab him blindly and fail a third time.
‘Would you like me to try?’ she offered. She had been in the middle of admitting Mr Patel, who was booked for surgery the next morning, when the phlebotomist had arrived with her trolley. Emily was surprised to see that they worked past five o’clock. In the NHS this role would be a nine to five job, Monday to Friday.
Mr Patel looked from one woman to the other. ‘I’m not a pin cushion, you know. Please, whoever does it better do the job.’
Her face pinched with resentment, the phlebotomist untied her rubber tourniquet. Her eyes coolly appraised Emily. ‘Be my guest.’
Strapping on her own tourniquet where the phlebotomist had positioned hers, she went down on one knee and gently tapped the back of the man’s hand and waited till she could feel the fatness of a vein plump up with blood.
‘That’s getting too tight,’ Mr Patel complained.
Emily smiled at him kindly, before lowering her eyes back to the job. ‘I’m sorry. Just another few seconds and it will be over. Then no more needles.’
‘Just get on with it, girly, I want to have some feeling back in my hand.’
‘It’s already done, Mr Patel,’ she answered, snapping off the tourniquet.
‘Good job. I didn’t feel a bloody thing.’
He smiled at her closed-mouthed, curving his black moustache. His bald head, small ears and dark-shadowed nut-brown eyes reminded her of a meerkat. He patted his round stomach. ‘I’m fat because I’m a diabetic and I’m a diabetic because I’m fat.’
Handing the tubes of blood to the phlebotomist, she mumbled a quiet apology, aware that the technician was peeved at being shown up. Square-jawed and with an overbite, her hair saved her from being plain with its salon-smooth brown bob.
The woman smiled at last. ‘Don’t be. I rushed it. Thanks for your help. I’ve heard that you’re good.’ She gave a mock-stern look as she placed the tubes in a clear plastic bag. ‘Just don’t do me out of a job.’
Emily finished off admitting the patient. He had come in the night before surgery as he lived alone and they wanted to ensure he omitted his morning insulin and also stayed nil by mouth. He had arrived on the ward while she was in the middle of getting a handover of the other patients and now she was behind on their care. At eleven o’clock she had nearly finished dishing out the medicines and was grateful that she’d been given Shelly to work with, who’d gone around taking patients’ observations, settling them into bed, giving out fresh water jugs, hot drinks and generally making Emily’s workload lighter.
‘Coffee or tea?’ Shelly called down the corridor in a loud whisper.
‘Tea, please.’ Emily made a T with her two forefingers.
After last night the atmosphere on the ward felt calmer. She had heard nothing about Jim Lanning from Barrows and apart from the new nurse, a stunning Spanish woman named Zita, who was also an agency member, the team was as it was the night before.
Shelly was checking her face in a small compact mirror when Emily joined her at the nurses’ workstation, an area carved out in the corridor of private rooms. The area was open-plan, providing work space, a monitor displaying the current data of all the patients on the ward, telephones and stationery. The station had a counter and on the nurses’ side where they sat, night lights had been fitted to shine down on the desk and not in their faces.
‘This lipstick is so good I’m going to get it again. I have to scrub it off most of the time. You’d suit this colour with your black hair and blue eyes. You know, you have a really interesting face. You remind me of someone.’
Emily stiffened, holding her breath as she waited for Shelly to realise her gaff and recollect again who she was.
She clicked her fingers. ‘The girl with the green tattoo.’
Emily released her breath, annoyed with herself for being foolish. Shelly was just having a normal conversation with her. She smiled noncommittally and hoped the level of conversation was going to be a little more stimulating. This was the first time she had been alone with Shelly since being a patient here. It was her first chance to ask her some questions.
‘The girl with the dragon tattoo, you mean. The book’s good.’
Shelly put away her mirror and scrunched up her nose. ‘Nah, I’d rather see it on the telly. Yeah, you look like her. The foreign film, not the one with Daniel Craig. Though you look a bit like her too.’
An image of multiple face piercings came to mind and Emily wondered who she would prefer to look like: her mother’s choice, Anne Hathaway, with her cut-off hair and pulled-out teeth; or Shelly’s, the Swedish actress with her fierce face. ‘Shelly,’ she said casually, trying to steer the conversation away from makeup and movies. ‘You know the day I was a patient here?’
Shelly fluttered her eyelashes dramatically. ‘How could I not, when it was me who doled out all that TLC on you?’
‘You remember the next day when I woke up and you gave me tea? Do you remember me asking you about what happened to the patient in the bed beside me and telling me that you guessed she’d been moved during the night?’
‘Nurse Jacobs?’
Emily jumped and hot tea splashed her hand. She quickly put down her mug and wiped the liquid away with her other hand. She had not heard the ward sister approaching and wondered how much she’d heard.
‘Is everything alright down this end?’ Barrows asked.
‘Yes, Sister. Shelly and I have just sat down. The patients are all settled.’
‘Well if that’s the case, I’ll borrow you if I may, Shelly, to give me a hand with some of my patients. I’m a little behind.’
Shelly stood up. ‘Of course.’
‘Bring your tea with you, dear, you can drink it down my end. I’ll follow you shortly. I just want a quick word with Nurse Jacobs.’
Emily felt tense as Shelly departed, and hoped the ‘quick word�
�� was going to be about the patients.
Barrows didn’t keep her in suspense. ‘I’m afraid I overheard some of your conversation, Nurse Jacobs, and I think perhaps we should discuss this . . . concern of yours. This patient you believe you saw?’
Emily felt her face turn scarlet and was glad the main lights were dimmed, offering some coverage. ‘I . . . I just wanted to check if perhaps Shelly might have seen her too.’
Barrows stood perfectly still, her next words spoken softly, almost to herself. ‘Dear oh dear.’
Emily spoke before thinking. ‘You must surely understand that if you think you’ve seen someone, you would want to check. I’m not saying she was definitely there. I just wanted to be completely sure in my mind that she wasn’t.’
‘Nurse Jacobs, am I right in thinking this isn’t the first time you’ve imagined seeing someone?’
Emily stared at her, bewildered. How could she know that? Surely she didn’t have access to her counsellor’s notes?
‘Hospital gossip is deplorable, my dear, but nonetheless these things have been said about you, and while I have sympathy with what you’ve gone through, I simply cannot have you working here if such behaviours are still happening.’
Emily’s face must have shown her shock and she so regretted bringing up the subject with Shelly. She could not lose her job and go back to the endless days of alone time ruminating about Zoe. She wanted this structure in her life; she wanted to keep going forward, to have a different focus each day, people to talk to about normal things. She was surprised when Barrows passed her a tissue. ‘Don’t cry, my dear. Would it surprise you to know that I once thought I saw a ghost in my old hospital when I was a student nurse?’
Emily dabbed her eyes and stared at the woman in disbelief.
‘It’s true, my dear. Old tales told by others fuelled my imagination into believing it was true. The ghost was reputedly a patient who haunted the ward at night, having died there many years ago as an old man. It was said he came and sat with the nurses at night or was found by bedsides talking to the patients. For weeks I was terrified of walking into that ward at night for fear of seeing him. The night I thought I saw him standing at the end of the ward rooted me with fear. I had no intention of going up to him. Then a patient rang their call bell and I was forced to go and check on them. I kept my eyes fixed to the floor as I made my way down the ward and when I eventually looked up he was gone. It was a good job I did go and answer that call bell. The patient who called was in urgent need of help. She was having a post-operative bleed following a tonsillectomy.’
Emily felt calmer after hearing the story. Perhaps Barrows wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe she was just old school and went by the book.
‘I’m sorry for my behaviour, Sister Barrows. I really will pull myself together.’
Barrows nodded. ‘Good. I hope you can. And I don’t think The Windsor Bridge Hospital is old enough yet to warrant ghosts,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘You really were the only patient in that room that night, so I hope that puts your mind at rest.’
After she’d gone, Emily felt embarrassed and yet relieved. She also felt more settled. She was grateful Barrows had shared something so personal. Even if it was completely different to her own ‘ghost’, it at least showed a different side to her. And Eric could be right too, of course. She may well have seen that young woman before; maybe as a past patient? Or she may even have been a visitor that day who had wandered into Emily’s room for a short time, felt tired or unwell and had lain on the bed briefly. This wouldn’t have been normal behaviour, but who knew how people behaved? She could also have been a patient that day, newly arrived like her, but in the wrong room, like she herself had been, and then lost her bracelet as she was hurried out of it. It was just the wrong room. The wrong room. Emily suddenly cringed as the thought took hold. The woman had simply been in the wrong room!
She felt stupid for not thinking sooner about this logical reason for her being there. She could have saved herself this stress, and she hoped Barrows wasn’t thinking of getting rid of her. She was almost tempted to go and speak to her again, to put forth this realisation, but that would give the ward sister reason to think her mind wasn’t on her job. She was now glad she had told no one other than Eric about the bracelet she found.
Perhaps she could find the patient to give it back to her. She could look in the property book and see if her name was in there. A duplicate carbon copy would be there if the girl handed over her bracelet for minding or had any other valuables recorded. It would be dated and countersigned by the patient.
The log book was kept in a drawer at the nurses’ workstation. Emily flicked back to the date of her operation and saw several entries. Four of them were female names, including her own: Emily Jacobs, next to which it said, ‘White metal belly-button ring with stone’. She had forgotten to remove it before coming into hospital and only put it in for safekeeping because it was a real diamond, real white gold. In the property book jewellery was described as yellow metal or white metal to save the risk of being wrong – a gold bracelet could turn out to be brass, a diamond ring merely a crystal. The three other names sounded English, not that that was anything to go by. For all she knew, given that she hadn’t spoken, the young woman could well have been English and called Linda Parker or Julie Donald. She would search their names, check back through records, get their dates of birth to at least show if they were of a similar age. For now, though, she would keep her mind on her job. She could relax. She had worked out the reason the girl had been there and she could accept that what she had seen in the night was in fact just a nightmare. How foolish she had been to have become so worked up by something so easily explained. She smiled to herself, relieved that it all finally made sense.
Chapter Eleven
‘Slow down, Nurse Jacobs. Anyone would think there was a fire!’ Barrows said as Emily rushed past her, head down, carrying an injection tray.
‘Sorry, Sister Barrows, can’t stop. A patient in room three has been waiting for a commode for the last ten minutes,’ Emily cried, gritting her teeth. She was sick of hearing herself addressed as Nurse Jacobs. The overuse of titles made her feel as if she was playing a part in a drama from the 1980s. Nurse this, Doctor that. Only the healthcare assistants were addressed by their first name, as if their rank didn’t qualify them for surname use. Even their name badges only gave their first names, which she thought was an insult. Emily sorely missed her old department where everything was familiar, less starchy – filled with real people. Nurses who burped and farted and sweated. Doctors who scratched their armpits and ate rubbish food and moaned about ordinary things. They ran, even if there wasn’t a fire, because speed was of the essence. She’d revised her opinion that A&E was the busiest place on earth to work. All areas of nursing were probably equally busy, including The Windsor Bridge Hospital. Today, though, everything was getting on her nerves, especially this over the top correctness. The hospital felt like a place built for The Stepford Wives – everything had to be perfect and proper.
She dumped the used injection tray on the counter in the treatment room and rushed back out, heading for the sluice to fetch a commode. This was her first shift back on days, with only one day off after finishing nights, and she was tired and felt as if she were doing all the work. Why weren’t the other nurses answering the call bells? She had enough to do with prepping patients for theatre, giving out morning medicines, sorting out discharges. Ricky was on a shift and so was Shelly. They should be making sure the patients’ other needs were met.
Setting the commode by the patient’s bed, she juggled drip lines and drainage bags before helping the overweight woman onto it. The woman peed as soon as her bottom hit the seat.
‘Would you like me to leave you for a minute?’ Emily asked.
The woman shook her head. ‘I’ll only be a second. If you leave me I’ll be stuck here for ten minutes. I’m not meant to strain, the doctor says. But all the tablets you keep giving me
bung me up.’
Emily nodded sympathetically. ‘I’ll get the doctors to look at your medicines. See if they can give you something.’
‘My Cora goes to one of them clinics and has her bowels washed out.’ She chuckled. ‘Treats it like she were having her nails done. It’s a bit like having a jet wash, I should imagine. Fancy paying good money for that. Surely it can’t do your insides any good.’
Emily smiled patiently, willing the woman to hurry. Her first patient was due to go to theatre in five minutes.
As she scooted back along to the sluice, she spied Dalloway stepping into one of the patients’ rooms – the first patient on the list of people to be seen to. Dalloway would be checking to see that he was ready for theatre. She quickly emptied the commode, washed her hands and headed after him. He was in the middle of pulling the patient’s theatre gown back in place, the brief examination over. The patient’s wife stood next to him.
‘So we’ll see you shortly then,’ said Dalloway. ‘Do you have any questions?’
The man’s eyes looked bleak. He shook his head. ‘There’s no turning back now, is there?’
Dalloway shook his head.
‘I’m going to have to live with a bag for the rest of my days.’
The man’s wife stepped forward and squeezed her husband’s hand. ‘Neil, don’t think about that, think about the fact that you won’t be in pain anymore.’