Rest and Be Thankful

by Emma Glass

  His hair is sticking up. He takes his spectacles off and rubs his eyes with his fists. And then he slams a fist down on the desk and the papers jump and I jump. I have never seen him in emotion, he is always steady. Then he is calm, he reaches for his mug and puts it to his lips. He frowns when he tips it for liquid and nothing comes, realises it is empty, but he holds on to it. His face in concentration is sort of handsome. I could watch all day, I could stand on the edge of his life, but maybe I want to say, maybe I want to say something, and I disturb him by pushing the door open and the squeaking startles him and he drops his mug. It bounces on the carpet and I rush forward to catch it. I see stars when I straighten back up. I place the mug down and grip the desk with both hands, knuckles showing white as the bone beneath the skin.

  ‘Are you all right, Laura?’

  ‘He’s gone, isn’t he?’

  He nods.

  ‘When?’

  ‘This morning, just after five. He stopped breathing.’

  He stopped.

  ‘Tracy held him. Her parents came right away. Dr Lucas has been with them for most of the day, he left the ward to see his other patients and hasn’t made it back yet. I’m bringing together the last lab results and notes to make sure everything is in order. I don’t want him to come in tomorrow to deal with chaos. Tracy has gone home with her parents. She was clinging to the doorframe.’

  And I can see her, hanging on, long pale fingers snatching at the doorframe, gripping until her yellowed fingernails turn white and the blood cells in her nail beds begin to burst, gripping, grasping, holding on. Until the world stops. She will always be here and she will never leave him. Holding on. Holding.

  Was she grasping at my wrist somewhere in my dream, was she screaming? Pity floods and sinks my insides. No one should have to see their child die.

  Are you okay? He’s asking me and I’m asking him and I tell him the strangest thing has happened today, I tell him about the crow.

  He brings a chair over and folds me into it. He swings around to face me, his knees are almost touching mine. I tell him about the crow. His lips are drawn straight, two thin pink lines. His eyes grow wide and round as I tell him about the drilling beak and enormous wings, his brow has more furrows than ever before. I tell him I took a shower. I tell him I have eaten. When I finish speaking I meet his eyes fully and we are fixed for a long, slow moment. And then he cracks. His laugh is low and throaty. His eyes are glistening, glazed with tears as if I have tickled him. I watch him fold and unfold, his abdomen is an accordion, pushing out long notes of laughter.

  He puts his hand over his mouth to quieten himself. His cheeks are flushed.

  ‘I’m sorry, you poor thing. But that is the strangest and funniest thing I’ve ever heard. Are you all right? Let me take a look. I think you’re going to need a tetanus injection.’

  He stands and steps behind me. Without asking, he places both hands on my shoulders. He brings his face close to my head, I feel his breath on my flesh; the open, sensitive skin tingles at the lightest touch of air.

  ‘I’m sorry I laughed. This wound looks quite sore. I’ll clean it for you and go down to the pharmacy and see if they have any vaccinations in stock.’

  He is already out of the door as I say thanks quietly. I go to the staffroom for a glass of water. The rest of the night staff haven’t arrived yet. I glance up at the rota stuck to the fridge door with chipped souvenir magnets. Ancient faded fish and cocktail glasses. The fish has lost its goggly eyes. It swims blindly and I know how it feels. I look at the rota lines crawling incoherently around the page, long days into long, long nights, weekends whenever, annual leave dotted with smiley faces, lucky people going to sunny places, and cross-cover crossings out, cross lines that don’t match up, will you cover my night shift because I can’t work three in a row, I have children, don’t you know? I can’t give chemotherapy, I am not competent to look after tracheostomy patients, I have no patience left with the family in room 7, I’ve looked after them every shift, and please can you work next Saturday, someone is off sick, someone’s mother is coming to visit, someone has theatre tickets. I always say yes. To be useful and hoping that one day, when I need to swap a shift or when I need time off, someone will say yes to me. But nothing is ever pressing.

  I trace my rota line with my fingertip. It is erratic. It is antisocial. It doesn’t really matter any more. Without you, I have nowhere I need to be. I think about the letter I need to write later to Matron, to request a room in the nurses’ home. I don’t want to live in a single-bedded room with a hob and a sink. But you will stay in the flat. You have the money. What do I have? The split is raw, like my skin has been unzipped and my chest is open, my heart climbs up and clambers out on aortic arms, dragging ventricles and veins, squeezed dry, old, blue and used. My lonely lungs will continue to breathe. Blood will make its own way to where it needs to be. I will live without the thumping beat, the throbbing beast, it belongs to you now, for a while at least. Please send it back, half full, with no hard feelings.

  Wilf returns to wash out the wound and fill the void. I am grateful he hasn’t tried to send me to Accident and Emergency. He is taking his time, his own time, his shift should have finished an hour ago. He pulls me into the treatment room, he tries to help me up on to the couch and I clumsily decline and kick him in the shin. He shakes his head and says don’t worry. He pulls paper towels out of the dispenser and tucks them in the neck of my shirt.

  ‘I’ll try not to soak you,’ he says. He washes his hands, taking time over the creases between his fingers, he washes up to his elbows like he is scrubbing to perform surgery, he is lost in the motions. He pours little sachets of pink antiseptic into a plastic bowl and drops sterile gauze into the liquid. He pulls on purple gloves and rests the bowl on the couch next to me. He squeezes the gauze, the liquid tinkles in the bowl. He stands in front of me, leaning in to dab the wound. My face is close to his chest. I can’t help breathing in a little bit of him. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, a sprinkling of fine, coppery hairs curl over pale skin, glistening with moisture. He is slightly sweaty but his scent is not unpleasant. Defining the scent is dangerous. I will covet it, try to replicate it, wrongly crave it when comfort is all I wish for. He dabs gently, but the drips still sting and tingle. Cells shifting, invisible knitting, but I feel them creeping over my skull covering it like a cap. A drop of antiseptic dribbles down the side of my face, a pink tear from the pink fleshy tear. Wilf brings a gloved finger to my cheek to catch it, I look up at him, he looks down at me, touching my face, and then the real tears come. I weep into his chest. Shoulders shrugging, uncontrollable shuddering. He peels his gloves off and puts his arms around me. His fingers find their way to the nape of my neck, he strokes my skin gently. He lets me let it all out.

  His wet shirt clings to my cheek. He waits for me to speak. But nothing comes. I don’t know what to tell him. I’m a mess, my life is a mess, he knows already because we share this space where we are always on hold and are always on call. We are cotton buds sucking up the sadness of others, we are saturated, we are saviours. We absorb pain, too thick with mess to notice that everything around us is drying up and growing over. We will wake up one day in a wasteland, surrounded by the crumbling bones of those who loved us and waited for us to love them back. We did not forget but we were too busy being useful. We will crumble next to them but it will take forever, we will sit amongst the piles of dust alone.

  When I have finished shucking out my sorrow on to his shirt, he steps away to prepare the tetanus vaccine. I roll up my sleeve. He says nothing but looks me in my sore red eyes. I see redness around his too. He might have been crying. He wipes the top of my arm with an alcohol wipe, one swift swipe, he pinches my skin, puts the needle in, I feel the liquid push, the rush, the needle slip out and plaster patch.

  ‘Thank you for helping me,’ I say. I smile feebly at him.

  ‘It’s my pleasure. Your arm will ache for the next few days, your wound will hea
l quickly.’

  He reaches out his hand and it hovers above my head. For a moment I think he is going to ruffle my hair, but his hand remains still and he says through a smile, ‘Perhaps the crow was jealous of your glossy plumage.’ His finger drifts down towards my shoulder like a feather, he grasps a lock of hair between his thumb and forefinger, he gently smooths out the ends and drops it.

  ‘You need to go home,’ I say.

  He nods and rubs his eyes with clenched fists, he stretches, his head nearly touches the ceiling.

  ‘I’m back tomorrow night; you’re on too, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  Tomorrow night and forever.

  He says goodbye and leaves me in the treatment room, damp and sore and sad.

  I shuffle off the examination couch and go to get changed.

  I’m Not in Charge

  Rudy is in charge and the night is quiet. Florence is poorly and keeping him busy. He laughed when I told him about the crow, but when I told him about the break-up he hugged me and went easy on me and only allocated me Buddy.

  Everyone feels the loss. Everyone is quiet and careful, more careful than usual, to check the safety equipment, to double-check the medications, to watch their patients, eyes open, eyeing everything. I speak to Dad at the start of the shift and ask him not to play video games tonight, for peace and quiet. He nods, says of course, says poor little chap, his mother must be in bits. I warm to him a little bit, but he still doesn’t hold his baby, still doesn’t respond to his gurgles and giggles. I dim the lights in the room, the baby is settled and dozing in the cot, the television stays on and Dad is transfixed, staring at the muted scenes of a detective film. I leave them in their own kind of peace.

  I peer into the window of Danny’s room. Danny’s old room. The only light in the room bleeds through the half-drawn blind, rusty red glowing from the street lamp below. The cot has been stripped and cleaned, Tracy’s things are packed, the suitcase stands in the middle of the room. And soon it will be gone, the cot will be made up with clean, crisp white sheets and a new baby will appear, fresh sickness, old sadness, the cycle will begin again and everyone will try harder than ever.

  At midnight Rudy asks me to order pizza, he’ll pay, he says, so I call from the staffroom and everyone is ravenous. When it arrives, I offer to watch the ward whilst the others go and eat, but Rudy puts his arm around me and says absolutely not, Amir will stay with the patients and he really doesn’t mind if we take a break first.

  The box is damp and hot in my hands, I lift the lid and the smell of melted cheese overwhelms my nostrils, I almost dribble, my stomach sings to be fed.

  ‘Thank goodness we went large! Twice!’ says Rudy, he grabs a slice and ploughs it straight in his mouth. He shuts his eyes and chews quickly, cheese dangling, little strings stitching his lips together. I take smaller bites, enjoying the sharp tomato sauce on my tongue and the slightly chewy, slightly crispy crust between my teeth. My belly warms with the first slice, the second slice slips down quicker, tomato and cheese, everything on my chin, I don’t care, I wash it all down with strong coffee and I am satisfied.

  ‘Thanks, Rudy, that was good.’

  We take more coffees back to the ward. I place both our mugs beside the computer and put my hand on Amir’s shoulder.

  ‘You’re up,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry, there’s plenty left.’

  I wander up the corridor to check on my patient. I peer through the window. He is curled in his cot, the blanket is spread over his rump, slightly sticking up in the air. I can see his chest rise and fall, his little cheeks puffed in pure rest, sweet abandon, his pink lips in a perfect pout. To sleep so deeply – it warms me to see rest reviving the imperfect body. My eyes move across the room. Dad is sitting in the chair, with his head bent down. The glow from the grainy film casts only dim light, I see him in silhouette, he is bending forward, his black-hooded jacket pulled up over his head. At first he looks like he is slumped forward, sleeping, but then the slight movements of his arms show he is tying his shoes, I think he is tying his shoes, or leaning over to reach for something that has fallen to the floor.

  He’s a strange guy.

  I turn away from the window. I am stunned. The pizza in my stomach starts sliding back up my gullet. Dad is walking towards me, in a red jacket, hands jammed in his pockets, wrapped in ghostly blue wisps of cigarette smoke. I whirl around, looking back through the window, pivoting on hollow wobbling legs.

  The chair is empty.

  I press my face up against the glass, squinting into the darkness. The chair is completely empty. Light from the television streaks the wipe-clean vinyl cushion. Ghastly glowing green. Not black, not full of shape, not a form, leaning forward, face in shadow. Not Dad, not who I thought. My phantom heartbeat thuds in my ears. There was someone in the room. There was someone in that chair. And if they are no longer sitting there then they must still be in the room, in the corner, in the darkness. The baby sleeps on undisturbed.

  I rush into the antechamber and scrub my hands quickly, I throw on an apron. My hands aren’t properly dry, my grip slips on the door handle, I let the door slam shut. The doorframe shakes. I rush over to the cot, the baby has raised his hands in tiny fists to his face, but still sleeps soundly with little snores escaping every other breath. I don’t want to turn on the lights, they will be too bright. I pull my pen-torch out of my pocket and press and hold the button down with my thumb. I swipe the air, arm outstretched, throwing a pathetic glow into the corners of the room. I tiptoe behind the cot and reach out into the darkest corner, the weak yellow light shaking in my trembling hand. My plastic apron crunches and rustles with every movement. Light falls on precisely nothing. But I knew already. There is no one here. I am creeping around like a pathetic plastic-coated ninja. I laugh quietly. I am losing my mind. When I entered the room, I knew. I could sense the baby, smell his sweetness, feel the warmth of his rest. The room is small, small enough to feel the closeness of others, and I cannot feel anyone here. I can feel his father, I can smell his father, removing his smoky, damp jacket, pumping soap on to his hands, trying hard to leave the outside outside. But I saw someone sitting in the chair and I felt it. I felt sure of it. Tiredness is playing tricks and I’m tired of it now.

  I Have to Believe That It Is

  The ward is empty and silent. I try to sit for a moment at the nurses’ station but I’m too scared. I wait outside the antechamber where Rudy is washing his hands. When he comes out I tell him about the figure in the chair, about the black hood, the darkness. When we pass the baby’s room we stop and look through the window. Staring at the empty chair, he tells me he’s seen it too.

  The darkness?

  No.

  The figure.

  The ghost.

  Ridiculous.

  Nonsense.

  No no, it’s true.

  You are so full of shit.

  He laughs. I give him a shove.

  I’m so tired. I rub my eyes hard.

  ‘I don’t appreciate you winding me up when weird and bad things have happened to me today.’

  ‘I know, I know, I’m sorry.’ He rubs my shoulder.

  ‘Jennifer is crazy. Don’t tell her what you saw, she’ll be all over you! She sees ghosts every shift in this place.’ He smirks and shakes his head. ‘Can you do me a favour? I need to take blood from Florence and would really like to be able to hand over the results in the morning so Dr Lucas can make a decision on her antibiotics. Please can you run the samples up to the lab?’

  You have got to be kidding.

  But he’s not. He’s the nurse in charge tonight and he hands me the samples and holds the door open for me.

  I Follow the Footsteps

  The windows reflect the white walls and my white face, stark, strobe-like against my electric-blue uniform. I am a bluebottle fly buzzing inside a strip light. I move quickly along the corridor, I don’t like not being able to see outside, not seeing the night. The reflections are endless, like t
here is no world outside and there is only whiteness and sickness inside. At the end of the corridor is a heavy blue shiny door, with smooth shiny yellow acrylic handles. The colours are a small attempt at cheerfulness, but nobody notices. The doors open and the children don’t notice, the parents don’t notice, they are pulled into the white tunnel and there they stay.

  I pull the door open.

  A cool empty space. A cold empty silence. I realise that I have been hot all night, roasting red-faced, not thinking straight. This corridor is creepy like the tunnel but for a different reason. My footsteps echo. The huge glass windows sit loosely in peeling wood-panelled walls. The glass shakes, close to breaking, beaten by the wind, high and whistling. The shell of the hospital is crumbling, but they won’t tear it down. There is too much history here. I pass stones laid by lords and princes marking donations of ancient millions. I open another door, old and oak, that leads to the laboratory. I say hello to the domestic who is furiously mopping the floor, slopping water and suds over a black mark on the tiles. He nods and pauses whilst I tiptoe over the soapy puddle. I open another door and hear ‘Mind you don’t slip on the wet floor’ as it closes. I begin climbing the stairs to the sixth floor. The walls are washed in dirty beige, newly painted, the smell is still strong, I touch the wall and it is dry but slightly sticky. As I reach the second floor I see a sign for the nurses’ home, the inside entrance to my new flat. I think about how good it will feel to be able to collapse into bed so soon after a shift. Living here might not be so bad.

  I trudge up the third and fourth flights of stairs, the silence of the stairwell is broken by my breathlessness and the pounding of my pulses pushing blood around, rushing around, powering my tired legs. I grip the banister and drag my hand over the smooth wood, worn down by many hands, sanded down by sandpaper skin. The banister creaks as I rest my weight on it and catch my breath. I lean my head back into the open column of space, the air flows coolly from the ground up, and I look up to the ceiling of old wooden beams and cobwebs. I see blackness. Moving. I hear something brushing against the metal railing and see long fingers trailing over the banister two floors above me. Footsteps echo that aren’t my own.