by Emerson Rose
He turns when he hears the door. Beads of sweat cover his bald head and slide down his thick muscular neck before disappearing into his shirt. He holds a steel rod with hot gooey glass against the anvil twirling and molding it into his latest creation.
Dax is one of the only men in my life that I trust. I’ve known him for going on six years. He was careful with me when I started coming here. It was like he knew I needed this hobby to escape something that was haunting me, and he was right.
He kept his distance for almost a year. He only spoke to me if I asked him a question. He gave me a wide berth when we worked on a project together, and he never touched me. When he finally felt he had gained my trust, he taught me all he knew about glass blowing.
“Hey, Imani, long time no see.”
“Hey, Dax, nice vase.”
“Practice makes perfect, eh?” He shrugs his broad shoulders.
“Well, your vases should be flawless by now. You must give your wife flowers every day.”
“Nah, she puts them all away. I think she’s sick of me, too.”
“Maybe you should branch out, make a candy dish or something.”
“I don’t think so. I’ll stick to what I know.”
“Suit yourself.” I shed my sweatshirt and grab a steel rod. Gathering molten glass from the first oven, my vision becomes clear in my mind.
Inspiration hit me when I saw a picture of Marcus’s nightclub in Miami. The trendy décor was fabulous. The wild colors and tropical ambiance made me think of a sea urchin with an explosion of colors bursting out in all directions.
I go to work turning the glass onto the steel rod like caramel onto an apple, and my mind wanders to where it always does lately.
I wonder what he’s like when he’s awake. What does he do for fun? Is he even capable of having fun? The pictures I saw online portray a stuffy grouchy man who is all work and no play.
I wonder what he’s into? Extreme sports, travel, kinky sex? His favorite food is probably Italian since that’s what his restaurants are known for.
Before I saw his pictures this morning, I might have been able to imagine Marcus as a kind, loving man. I did, in fact. But now that I’ve had a look at the man behind the eyelids. I’m pretty sure his personality is as chiseled and hard as his body.
Part of me wants him to wake up so I can find out. But another tiny, selfish part enjoys the mystery and intrigue of the sleeping Marcus Castillo.
It’s nice to admire him without blood rushing through my veins at a million miles an hour. Or blushing so hard it looks like I’ve spent the day at the beach getting sunburned. He is as gorgeous as he is intimidating, and I don’t do well with either.
I carry my glass to the marker and begin shaping the molten glass. I repeat the process with every color until I’ve formed the glass into an enormous, beautiful hollow globe with spikes of every color of the rainbow spiraling out in all directions.
I step back and admire my work. I can imagine it hanging in the lobby of Dominus in Miami. Dax looks at me with wide eyes and sets his vase aside.
“Holy hell, Imani, that thing’s a monster! It’s gorgeous, though. I’ve never seen you make anything like that before!”
“Yeah, inspiration hit me this week.” Six feet and four inches of inspiration named Marcus Castillo, to be exact.
I place the light into the anneal to cool overnight. Overnight… shit, I need to get out of here so I can get home and shower before work. Dax gives me a little wave as I’m cleaning up.
“You heading out?”
“Yep, I work tonight.”
“Okay, see ya next time, Imani. Come by more often. I miss seeing you around here.”
“I will, promise,” I say touching his sweaty bicep, “Have fun making your millionth vase.”
“Yeah, I will,” he says, holding up his finished vase. “But it’s perfect, yeah?”
“Yeah, Dax, it really is.”
It’s a delicate purple vase, and I wasn’t lying to him. It’s perfect, and I love it.
“Hey, do you have plans for that?”
“Nope, just gonna give it to the wife so it can collect dust in the cupboard.”
“Can I have it then? I have a comatose patient that’s going to be with us for a while, and he could use something beautiful in his room when he comes around.”
“Yeah, sure, you got a little thing for this guy? Shame on you for taking advantage of a man in a coma.” He chuckles, and my mouth drops open. How could he know that? God, am I that transparent?
“Of course not.” I feel the heat of my blush spread up my neck to my face.
“I’m just messin’ with ya, Imani. You can have it, just take it out of the anneal tomorrow when you pick up your piece.”
“Thanks.” I pull my hood up over my sweaty hair and hurry out before Dax can tease me anymore. I don't want to be late for work because that would mean being late for Marcus.
Five
After I braid my long damp hair and apply a touch of mascara, I dash out the door.
At the hospital, I request to have Marcus as a patient tonight, and I’ve also been assigned a woman with a gunshot wound to the head that isn’t expected to live.
She was hit by a stray bullet at a stop light. It was a simple case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Multiple family members are wandering aimlessly around in the lobby, some in shock and some crying at the news of her impending death. Her husband is at her bedside, openly sobbing. He looks lost and devastated holding her hand.
It makes me think about losing a loved one, a partner, a husband, or even a soulmate. I shudder. Even though I have never known that kind of love, it’s easy to see how crushing it is.
I leave my patient’s grieving husband and family alone, for now, to go and check on Marcus.
A handsome blonde man dressed in a sharp, dark pinstriped suit is speaking quietly with Elena when I knock on the door and enter.
“Oh, Imani, I’m so glad you’re finally here. This is Elijah,” she says, introducing me to an incredibly handsome man with crystal blue eyes.
“Nice to meet you, Elijah. I’m glad you could come. It’s always good to have friends visit. Maybe it will spark something that will wake him up.”
“Oh, we aren’t friends,” he says, glancing at Marcus and back at me. “I work for Mr. Castillo.”
“Elijah is Marcus’s right-hand man, and he manages one of his restaurants located here in Seattle; he is invaluable to him. I’m sure he considers you his friend, Elijah.” Elena’s words are reassuring, but her body language says she’s uncomfortable. She fidgets in her chair crossing and uncrossing her legs, shooting quick glances in Marcus’s direction.
It’s almost as if Elijah is afraid Marcus might hear him claiming to be his friend, what could be wrong with that?
“Well, a familiar voice can be helpful, too.”
Elijah gives me a lopsided smile and shifts his gaze to the floor. With his hands in his pockets, he shuffles his feet.
What kind of man strikes this kind of fear in his most valued employee?
After I perform a quick assessment of Marcus and grab his vital signs, I leave the two of them to finish talking. For the first time since he's arrived, I’m anxious to leave Marcus’s room.
Elijah doesn’t stay long. After looking over some paperwork with Elena, they step into the hall and join me at my charting station.
“Imani, I’m going back to the hotel. I’ll be back in the morning.”
“Okay, I’ll keep an eye on him; don’t worry. I work tomorrow night again. I imagine I’ll see you.”
“Oh, you will, I’ve requested that you always be Marcus’s nurse if you’re working.”
“Oh, well, okay, that sounds good.”
“I know it’s silly, and you probably won’t believe me,” she says, looking into Marcus’s room and back at me. “But I feel he’s more comfortable when you’re here.” She pauses for effect, and I’m not sure how to react so I don't, and she continues.
> “His color is better, and I swear his heart rate goes up when you are with him.”
I must be one hundred percent transparent. First Dax and now Elena think I have a thing for Marcus, which I do, but damn, it must be more noticeable than I expected.
“Thank you, I do enjoy taking care of him.” More than she could ever know.
With a quick sigh, she adjusts her purse on her arm. “Ok then, see you tomorrow.”
“Bye,” I say as she strides to the elevator.
I wonder if she's right, does his heart rate actually go up when I’m around? I don’t recall any noticeable fluctuations.
Note to self, go back and look at Marcus’s heart rate on the computer and see if Elena is right. He’s running at about seventy beats per minute right now, which is normal. I sigh, wouldn’t it be flattering if a man of his magnitude recognized my presence while he’s in a coma?
I lean close to Marcus’s face and whisper, “Your sister thinks you like me, funny, huh?”
I look up at the monitors. No change in heart rate, so much for that experiment. Time to get this guy adjusted in bed. I move him carefully with the turn sheet, but not too far as his leg is still in traction.
Two hundred pounds of solid muscle fills the bed top to bottom, making the job of moving him difficult. The nursing assistants on the night shift usually bathe our patients to ease the load of work on day shift. Our assistant isn’t here tonight, though, and Marcus needs a bath.
I can’t help but smile.
His bruising is turning yellow, and the knot on his head is significantly smaller. Now that most of the swelling has gone down, his face is more angular. I can see the resemblance between him and his sister. He looks even more like Elena then I thought before.
That’s got to decrease his sex appeal, doesn’t it? Yeah, no, not so much.
I gather up what I need for his bath and run some warm water in a washbasin and make sure his blinds and door are both closed. I start by gently washing his face. He has more than a five o’clock shadow going on today, but I’ll save shaving for tomorrow. A little something to look forward to, unless he wakes up of course.
With the back of my hand, I brush a thick curl from his face resisting the urge to run my fingers through his thick, soft brown hair.
I fold his sheet down exposing his chest, and it feels like I’m unwrapping the best gift under the tree on Christmas day. I slide my hands behind his neck and untie his hospital gown to remove it.
While washing his chest, I revel in feeling every abdominal muscle through the thin washcloth.
He’s just a patient in a coma, he’s just a patient in a coma, I chant to myself in my head.
Oh, who am I kidding? He is so much more than a patient to me. As bizarre and ridiculous as it is, I think I’m developing feelings for him.
I pat him dry. In the back of my mind, I know I need to make this snappy so I can check on my other patient. But he is irresistible, and I continue down his arms to his hands. I wonder how it must feel to be held by these arms, touched by these fingers.
I move the sheet further down past his waist and sigh. The V I anticipated is there under the sheet, and it’s pointing straight at the area of his body I’m most apprehensive about.
He is perfect, the symmetry and proportion of every part of his body remind me of the man on the front of my anatomy book in college with his arms and legs spread into an X. Some people just get it all, and Marcus is one of the few who are blessed with phenomenal looks.
I finish washing and drying his body above the waist and work a clean hospital gown back onto him. Okay, halfway there, now the nerve-wracking part. I bathe his long muscular leg that isn’t in a cast. I happen to be a foot woman, so I stop to admire his smooth well-cared-for foot. I can tell he must have regular pedicures, no dry skin or calluses for this guy. I meticulously wash his leg and foot. Something tells me he wouldn’t be happy to wake up to neglected feet.
I cover him up and feel guilty for not cleaning around his catheter and all of the other parts below his waist, but as much as I hate the thought, someone else is going to have to do it. I just can’t.
Having feelings for him makes everything I do less clinical and more personal. This doesn’t feel like I’m taking care of a patient anymore.
I know what it's like to be helpless and taken advantage of. I can’t bring myself to do the most intimate parts of my job. What if he is aware of everything that’s happening around him? What if he’s been listening to the twinge of longing in my voice when I speak to him? How would it make him feel to have me touching him that way?
It’s part of being a nurse, I’ve done it a thousand times, but I’ve never been even the least bit attracted to my patients. Not the hot athletes and attractive actors, or the male models, none of them. I had a healthy admiration for their buffed and polished skin. I could respect the physique of a man who spent a good portion of his life in a gym, but they never made me feel breathless and confused like Marcus does.
The responsible, logical side of my brain says what I’m doing, or not doing rather, is neglect. I wish that side of my brain would shut the hell up.
I should have had another nurse help me with his bath, but I’m not sharing him with anyone. I’ll get to those parts tomorrow.
I gaze down at my handy work, and I’m satisfied. He looks like the metrosexual that I suspect he is when he’s awake. He smells like soap, a vast improvement over the smelly lake water that clung to his skin.
I could stand here all night watching him, but I need to see my other patient. She needs my attention too, even if I can’t do anything to save her.
I turn the lights down and open the blinds that face the nurse's station so I will be able to see him. Before I go, I lean in close and press my cheek against his to whisper into his ear, “I’m waiting for you Marcus, wake up.”
I go back to work, real work, not gawking, and alternate my time equally between Marcus and my shooting victim for the rest of the night.
When the day crew arrives, I turn over my infatuation to the next nurse and sit down at a computer where no one will see me. I’ve been thinking about Elena’s comment last night. Do I really have an effect on Marcus’s heart rate?
I click through the electronically recorded vital signs and compare notes from my shift with those of other nurses during other shifts. His pulse does elevate whenever I’m in his room. It is directly correlated to my presence.
Every shift that I work, his pulse spikes up from seventy bpm to one-hundred bpm around assessment time when I’m in his room. She was right, I affect him. No, it can’t be. I’m sure this happens when any nurse is in his room.
I go back through his chart and check. It’s only me. His heart rate was the same all day long yesterday and the night shift results are all over the place.
Maybe it’s because I’m the only one that talks to him? That has to be it. Tomorrow night, I’ll test it out. I’ll come in and chat with Elena without talking to him directly. I’m sure this is all a big coincidence.
It has to be.
Six
I feel like I'm walking through waist-high water. It’s dark here, wherever ‘here’ is. The black ink engulfs me. I can’t see my hand in front of my face if I could even lift my hand.
Maybe I’m dreaming? Am I even alive? If I’m dead, this has got to be hell. A man like me would never end up in heaven.
This is all so fucking confusing. I think someone is speaking to me. Her voice floats in and out through my clouded mind, but I can’t make out the words.
They calm the raging storm going on in my head. It's not a voice I recognize. It's soothing and pleasant. I need that voice to survive. I try to hold on to the fraying edges of consciousness, but it drifts away. No, don't go! I need something to hold onto. That voice, I know it’s the key to my survival, my way back. Stay with me! I scream until I can’t hold on any longer and I succumb to the darkness, and her voice is gone again.
She’s back. I think I
’m back. She is telling me something. Focus, damn it, what is she saying? Her voice floats in and out like the waves of the ocean. Every time I try to reach out to her she's slipping away, what the hell is happening to me?
I detest the feeling that control is just out of my grasp.
I swear she just said she’s taking care of me. No one takes care of me, and that is exactly the way I like it. I hate being dependent on anyone but this woman’s voice is undeniable as she draws me in.
Yes, she is taking care of me, that’s definitely what she’s saying, but who the hell are you and what has happened to me that I need to be taken care of?
I feel pain, yes pain, finally, something I am familiar with. This I can relate to; this is something I can firmly hold onto. The pain in my head, my God, it’s indescribable. I’ve felt a million different kinds of pain throughout my life, but this, this is misery.
Her voice plunges through the darkness like two arms reaching into the depths to rescue me. I feel her words wrap me in a warm blanket of safety and comfort.
She is saying something about my injuries. I must have been in an accident, yes that’s it.
The pieces of the puzzle are starting to fall into place. I was driving, wasn’t I? Yes, we went off of a bridge. We, shit, Megan. I remember when we hit the water looking over and seeing her floating in front of me. Her hair was floating around her beautiful face. She was staring at me with expressionless brown eyes. Her beautiful skin was as pale as a ghost, soulless and empty.
I can’t hold on any longer. I mentally clutch at the edges of what little sanity I have left, but it’s no use, the darkness washes over me again and swallows me up.
Warm hands are touching me. She’s back, and I wish she would talk louder, damn it! Hang on to the pain, it's the anchor that makes it possible to hear her voice. I grip tightly to familiar sensation of pain. Someone is touching my face, no, not just touching, shaving. No one has ever shaved my face before, and I don’t like the idea of being taken care of.
Although her warm breath near my face does feel nice, and her soft touch isn't completely intolerable.