Ghost Hand

by Ripley Patton

  “Olivia, you’re okay.”

  He sounded sure, so that was good.

  “I’ve got the girl over here,” he called over his shoulder as he fastened his fireman’s jacket closed. Several more firemen rounded the back corner of the house pulling a hose with them. Wayne Ramping, rooky fireman and only two years older than me, rushed over with what looked like a giant tackle box. He crouched at my other side, then froze as he suddenly realized I was half-naked.

  “A blanket,” Chief Palmer barked, and Wayne opened the tackle box and pulled out what looked like a huge piece of tin foil. He threw it over my legs, wrapping me up like a space-age burrito and started asking me questions as he and the Chief pulled various medical things out of the box and poked me with them.

  “Are you injured?” Wayne asked.

  I shook my head, though I wasn’t sure.

  “Can you breathe easily, or does it hurt?”

  “Hurts.” It hurt to breath. It hurt to talk. It just plain hurt.

  “What is today’s date?”

  “Friday.” I knew that was the day, not the date, but it was shorter.

  “Was your mother in the house?”

  “No,” the Chief answered before I could. “She was the only one inside.” Had I already told him that?

  “Do you know how the fire started?” Wayne went on.

  “She needs oxygen,” the Chief said, leaning across me to yank an oxygen mask from Wayne’s magic box, which must also contain a small oxygen tank. As Palmer’s arm passed over me, I caught a whiff of something familiar. Something muted, but strong enough to break through the smoky air and my singed nostrils. With the smell came a rush of memory. A flying ball of orange light. The torch on my rug. The man at my window trying to beat the fire out of his own shirt.

  I looked up at Chief Palmer as he stretched the oxygen mask’s band over my head, his hands leaving behind the faint but distinct smell of gasoline.

  11

  UMLOT MEMORIAL HOSPITAL

  I woke up in a sunny hospital room, which immediately annoyed me. I hated hospitals. They smelled like disinfected death, and were populated by curt, smiling nurses who never left you alone, and cold, cocky doctors who were never there when you needed them. This hospital, the Greenfield Umlot Memorial Hospital, I hated particularly well. It was where my dad had died. It was where I had spent months watching him waste away, and I had exerted a lot of effort over the last four years avoiding it, which hadn’t been easy because my mom actually worked at UMH three days a week.

  I looked around the room. It was a double, not a private, and they’d put me in the bed closest to the door. The other bed, near the window, was made up and its curtain was open which meant no roommate, so that was good. There was a chair pulled up to the other side of my bed. My mother’s purse was on the bedside table next to a half empty glass of water with lipstick on the rim.

  Seeing the water made me suddenly have to pee, probably thanks to the giant IV bag plugged into my arm. The bathroom door was only a few feet away, but in addition to the IV, I had one of those pinchy things clamped onto the end of my finger, its cord trailing off to a monitor near the head of the bed.

  I was still debating whether to push the nurse call button, when the door swung open and Nurse Jane came in, a familiar face from my dad’s hospital days. He had always referred to her as “one of the good ones.”

  “Hey, you’re awake,” Nurse Jane said, glancing down at the clipboard in her hands. “How are you feeling?”

  Right behind her came my mother.

  “Olivia,” she crossed quickly to the bedside and took my left hand in hers, finger clamp and all. “How are you, sweetheart? I’ve been so worried.”

  I opened my mouth to respond and croaked like a frog.

  My mother handed me her glass of water and after a healthy swig, I tried again.

  “My throat hurts,” I said, my voice still husky, “and I sound like a smoker.”

  My mother gave me a strange look and seemed about to say something, but Nurse Jane interjected, “That’s no surprise.” She pulled a pen from her shirt pocket, jotting something down. “You’re suffering from smoke inhalation, but it isn’t too bad. Your chest x-ray came back clear, and your pulse oximetry is good,” she rattled off, gesturing at the monitor. “We’re just waiting for some blood tests to come back, but Doctor Fineman thinks you can go ho—,” Nurse Jane stopped, quickly redirecting her sentence. “He thinks we’ll be able to release you tomorrow.”

  Release me to where? I no longer had a home, which was exactly why Nurse Jane had just corrected herself. My home had been set on fire and burned to the ground by Greenfield’s own Fire Chief, who apparently moonlighted as a secret CAMFer spy.

  “Where’s my backpack?” I asked, scanning the room.

  “What backpack?” my mother asked.

  “My school pack. The coffin one. I had it with me.”

  “I don’t know,” my mother said. “Did you see a backpack, Jane?”

  “Nope. Haven’t seen one, but I can go check at the nurse’s station. And I’ll bring you some food while I’m at it, kiddo,” she said, slipping out the door.

  “Are you sure you had it?” my mother asked doubtfully. “They said the only thing you had on was my old rain poncho. And where did you get that? I thought I’d buried it in the basement.”

  “You did. It’s a long story,” I rasped. “Listen, I had my backpack. I need my backpack.” Who had been with me in the ambulance? I tried to dredge up that memory, but everything was a blur. Chief Palmer and Wayne Ramping had stayed by my side giving me oxygen until the paramedics had arrived with a gurney. That much I remembered. I remembered knowing I should be afraid of the Chief, that I should guard myself and the bag of blades, and that was pretty much the last thing I remembered.

  “For goodness sake, Olivia, calm down. If you’d had a backpack, I’m sure they would have given it to me.”

  “No, I had it. I grabbed it out of my room when the fire started.”

  “Did you see how it started?” my mother asked.

  “Yes, I—” I stopped. What could I say? The Fire Chief threw a torch in my room. Mad CAMFers with PSS extracting devices are after me. My mother was never going to believe any of that unless I had some kind of proof. Which I didn’t. Plus, telling her about the CAMFers led right back to the problems with my ghost hand. I looked down at it, resting in my lap, all innocent looking and almost invisible against the white sheet. Everything had gotten so out of control. Maybe I should just tell my mother.

  “Honey,” she said gently. Too gently. “If you started the fire, even by accident, you need to tell me.”

  “Oh—my—God! You think I started it?”

  “The firemen found the remains of a pack of cigarettes in your room,” she said, “and they say that’s where the fire originated.”

  “Cigarettes,” I said, staring at her. First Mike Palmer had torched my house like some medieval villager, and now he was trying to frame me for it. Unbelievable. “You know I don’t smoke, but you think I burned down our house while smoking?”

  “What else am I supposed to think?”

  “And here we are,” Nurse Jane said, bumping the door open and coming in with a hospital tray sheathed in plastic. “I asked around about your backpack. No one remembers seeing it, but I can leave a note for the night shift. They’re the ones who were on duty when you came in.” She swung the bed table over my lap and placed the tray on it. There was red Jell-O, a juice cup, and something that might have been grits with gravy, or maybe oatmeal.

  My mother stood silently, looking out the window.

  If Nurse Jane could sense the tension in the air, she ignored it. “Your throat is going to hurt for a while,” she explained, “so you’re on liquids and soft solids for today. Are you hungry?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but I really have to use the bathroom.”

  “Well, let’s take care of that,” Nurse Jane said, pulling the table tray aw
ay and moving to help me out of bed.

  “I can help her,” my mother said.

  “No. I can do it myself,” I said.

  “Well, take it slow,” Nurse Jane warned. “Let your mother hold your arm until you’re steady, and don’t lock the door in case you get faint in there.” Something began to beep. Nurse Jane looked down at a call receiver on her belt. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said, taking the pinchy thing off my finger before she hurried out the door.

  My mother took my arm and my IV pole, and we shuffled to the bathroom. I was surprised how weak and out of breath I felt. My mother positioned the IV by the toilet. I shooed her out and closed the door. When I lifted the hospital gown to sit, I gasped at the sight of my legs. They were bruised and scratched and cut. Someone had bandaged my thigh where I’d pulled the glass out.

  When I was done peeing, I crossed to the sink and mirror. My face wasn’t much worse than before. The dark circles under the bloodshot eyes were new. My hair looked weird on one side. It was shorter and spikier and felt crunchy like plastic. That’s how close I’d been to the fire. It had singed my hair. With that thought it all came rushing back—the heat on my face, the garbagy stench of everything I owned going up in smoke, the feeling of it choking me, chasing me, consuming me, licking me. The house beams groaning and crashing over my head.

  A loud, sharp noise cracked me out of that waking nightmare. I was standing at the mirror. I was clutching the sink. Someone was knocking on the bathroom door.

  “Olivia,” said my mother, voice full of concern. “Are you all right in there?”

  “Yeah. Fine. I’ll be out in a sec.” I turned on the faucet and washed my hands, the crisp plastic hospital bracelet sliding down over my left wrist. I let water pool in the palm of my ghost hand, then run through it, then pool again. My ghost hand didn’t need washing since nothing ever really touched it, but it was force of habit. Normal people washed their hands, not their hand.

  I splashed some water on my face too, because it felt good, and because I felt like I needed to wake up from a bad dream. When everything was dry, I grabbed my IV and went out to face my mother.

  She didn’t bring up the cigarettes again, but I could tell she thought I had done it—burned down our house. If my mother didn’t believe me about that, why would she ever believe me about the rest?

  I felt exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep. I kept worrying about the missing bag of blades. Did the CAMFers have them? Probably. What would they do with them? Something bad. Maybe they would leave me alone now that they had something else to play with, but Marcus would be pissed. He’d warned me not to let my backpack fall into their hands, and that’s exactly what I’d done. There just wasn’t a lot I could do about it from a hospital bed. Of course, there probably wasn’t a lot I could do about it out of a hospital bed.

  Shortly after lunch, Nurse Jane removed my IV, and Emma and Mrs. Campbell showed up for a visit. As soon as Emma came into the room, she rushed to the bed and hugged me.

  “Oh my God, I’m so glad you’re all right,” she said, almost crying. “I can’t believe your house burned down. I’m so sorry, Liv.”

  “We brought you some clothes,” Mrs. Campbell said, setting a large bag at the side of the bed. “Just some things you’ve left at our place.”

  I eyed the bag skeptically. It was huge. There was no way I’d left that much over at the Campbells’. In fact, the shirt peeking out of the top was definitely Emma’s, a shirt I had frequently admired.

  “But that’s not mi—” I began to protest.

  “And if you need anything else,” Mrs. Campbell interrupted, “all you have to do is ask. Now Sophie,” she said, turning to my mother, “I’ve compiled a list of possible housing options for you. Of course, you’re both welcome to stay with us as long as you want, but I’m sure you’ll want a place of your own as soon as possible. You just tell me what you need, and I’ll take care of it.” She took my mother by the arm and led her to the far side of the room, where they continued to talk in hushed tones.

  “Are you really okay?” Emma asked, touching my arm.

  “I have smoke inhalation, but they say I’ll survive.”

  “What happened?” Emma’s voice dropped to a whisper. “It wasn’t the blades, was it?”

  “No,” I shook my head. “Well, sort of.” How much could I tell Emma with my mom and Mrs. Campbell so close? “After I left your place, someone was following me,” I whispered. “So I cut through the cemetery to get away, and then Marcus showed up.”

  “So, it was Marcus following you?” she asked, confused.

  “Yes. And some other guy. The blades were making that noise again, but Marcus was just trying to warn me.”

  “Warn you about what?”

  “Time for us to go, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Campbell said, crossing back to our side of the room, my mother trailing after her. “We don’t want to tire out the patient.”

  Emma looked at me, and I looked at her. We both knew there was no arguing with her mother when she was in director mode.

  Emma leaned over and hugged me goodbye.

  “I didn’t start the fire,” I whispered in her ear.

  “I know,” she said, squeezing me and then pulling back. “I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll talk more then.”

  After the Campbells left, my mother was scarce. Apparently, when your house burns down under suspicious circumstances, the insurance company has lots of questions. It pissed me off the way that made me feel, like I’d actually done something wrong.

  I must have slept until dinner, because the next thing I knew Nurse Jane was coming in with a tray of something mushy. She set it down in front of me, checked my chart and the monitor, and said, “Lookin’ good.”

  “Good enough to get out of here tonight?”

  “Not up to me,” she said, “but Dr. Fineman should be in any minute to update you. He’s taken over Dr. Mac’s patients since he retired.”

  As if on cue, Dr. Fineman came in with my mother and Nurse Jane stepped aside. I’d never met Dr. Fineman. He’d only been at UMH for a year. He looked like he was in his late forties with short brown hair and a hawkish nose. Of course, I had seen him before, around town, at the grocery store, out raking his yard, but I didn’t know him. In fact, this was the first time I’d seen him in his doctor garb or been introduced to him, which was kind of weird. Greenfield was a small community, and my mom worked with the guy. Why hadn’t I ever met him?

  “Hello, Olivia,” he said, his eyes wandering to my ghost hand. I had that effect on doctors. “Your lab tests are back and I’m very pleased with them. Your mother and I were pretty worried when you came in, but all things considered—”

  Something about the way he said “your mother and I” made me glance at my mother, who oddly, wouldn’t meet my eyes. She was standing awkwardly too, as if she didn’t know how much space to put between herself and the doctor, or what to do with her hands. What was wrong with her? Why was she looking as if she wanted to run away?

  She looked so vulnerable, standing there in her wrinkled clothes from the night before. She looked exhausted and beaten down and on the verge of tears. I had the sudden urge to interrupt Dr. Fineman, jump out of bed, and give her a big hug. But apparently, I wasn’t the only one tuned into my mother. As Dr. Fineman rattled on, he reached out his right hand and placed it on my mother’s back. Not on her shoulder or her upper back. Not where doctors touch people to express doctorly concern for their well-being. Dr. Fineman put his hand on my mother’s lower back. On the place just above a woman’s ass where men put their hands on their girlfriends, or wives, or lovers to say, “I am here. You belong to me.”

  It only lasted a split second, that intimate touch, but during that split second I saw her lean into it. I saw the dark cloud lift from her face and finally noticed the way Dr. Fineman’s body and my mother’s had been leaning toward one another since the moment they’d entered the room together.

  Then she subtly side-stepped away.
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  Dr. Fineman dropped his hand, stumbled in his medical rant for a moment, then continued on, obviously doing everything he could to avoid looking in my mother’s direction.

  And that’s when I realized that just when you think things can’t get any worse, they do.

  12

  DR FINEMAN'S HAND

  “So, I can leave?” I interrupted Dr. Fineman mid-sentence. “You’re saying I’m fine, so why can’t I leave tonight?”

  “You’re doing well,” Dr. Fineman paused, “but it’s hospital policy to keep you overnight for observation.”

  “I was here last night.”

  “Yes, but you were unconscious.”

  “And your point is?”

  “Olivia,” came my mother’s one word warning for “You’re being rude, child of mine. Don’t embarrass me.”

  “We need to keep you overnight as a conscious patient,” Dr. Fineman said.

  “Why? So you can keep waking me up to see if I’m conscious?”

  “Something like that,” Dr. Fineman said, smiling patronizingly.

  “No!” I blurted, feeling a giant ball of something awful rising in my throat. “I hate hospitals. And I hate doctors,” I shot that in the direction of my mother, wishing I could scream it in her face. “I just need to go home, okay?”

  They all just stood there looking at me, my mother, Dr. Fineman, even Nurse Jane. And then I re-remembered I had no home. No home. No backpack. No belongings. No mother. My mother belonged to that hand placed gently on her back—the hand she’d leaned into—Dr. Fineman’s hand.

  I glanced down at my ghost hand and slipped it under the white hospital sheet.

  “We should be able to release you first thing in the morning,” Dr. Fineman said, shooting a pleadingly apologetic look at my mother before he retreated out the door.