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Chapter Five

I arrived at Wallace Hospital at half past noon, where I was then required to check in at security.

“Nature of your visit?” the guard asked me, his eyes flat. How many people did he process in a day, I wondered.

“I have an appointment with Head Nurse Tara Macrae.” I was given a visitor badge to clip onto my clothing. It bore a poor quality, grainy photo of my face, my name, and surprisingly, a bar code.

The security guard directed me to a bank of elevators, saying I should go to the sixth floor and the West Critical Care wing. Finding my way through the maze of the hospital made me feel a bit like the proverbial lab rat. When, at last, I found signage that designated the correct wing, I then navigated my way past metal carts stacked with stark white towels and bedding, rolling carts holding various medical equipment and some with fancy computer screens attached, gurneys, and an occasional nurse in uniform, face mask, and paper-booted feet. The cacophony was punctuated by ringing telephones and crying children. The sounds of suffering made me feel queasy. I approached the nurses’ pavilion. There were two men and a woman sitting behind computer screens, working busily.

“May I help you?” a nurse asked me. He seemed unconcerned that a non-staff person had entered into what is clearly a patient-doctor domain. His name badge identified him as “Steven Wiley, Trauma Nurse.”

“Hi, I’m JoAnne Edmunds, I’m here to meet with Tara Macrae and Doctor Cooper.”

Nurse Wiley glanced at the woman sitting in the desk chair next to him. She was on the phone, and upon overhearing me say her name, she looked up over her glasses and gestured “one minute,” by holding up one slender finger. “Yes, yes, thank you so much,” she smiled into the receiver. “No, I fully understand, sir.… Understood, sir,” she nodded as if the person on the other end of the line could see her. Nurse Macrae hung up the phone and blew out an exasperated breath. “Wow,” she said, looking directly at Nurse Wiley, then at me. “Could you excuse us just a moment Ms. Edmunds?” she asked me.

“Of course,” I said. I watched the two of them cross to the other side of the station and speak inaudibly to one another. Nurse Wiley reacted to whatever Nurse Macrae said by widening his eyes and mouthing what appeared to be what the fuck? I turned my back to them in an attempt to not eavesdrop any further.

“I am so sorry,” Nurse Macrae said to me after a moment or two.

“It’s no trouble,” I responded with a reassuring smile, although inside I was eager to get this business over with.

“If you could just follow me,” she began, glancing at her watch. “I believe Doctor Cooper is with a patient at the moment.” Nurse Macrae led me to a tiny office outfitted with a gray metal desk and a small round table that had two plastic chairs pushed haphazardly under it. “Have a seat and I’ll be back with Doctor Cooper in a few minutes.” As an afterthought, the nurse asked if there was anything she could get me. “Water, coffee?”

I said, “no, thank you.” I did not wish to be there any longer than I had to be.

She closed the door and suddenly I felt like an errant child awaiting a talk with the school headmaster. I shifted uncomfortably in the plastic chair and tried to relax. But as the minutes ticked by, first five, then ten, and then fifteen, I realized that this was like any other doctor visit where you arrive timely for your appointment and end up waiting a half hour for the doctor to show up. Your only sources of entertainment are old fly-fishing magazines and even older copies of People. When I had exhausted the slim supply of reading materials, I pulled out my phone and glanced at it. Did I actually expect to have any service in the middle of this concrete and steel fortress? Exasperated, I slid the phone back into my purse and began to pace, making a promise to myself: five more minutes. If Doctor Cooper didn’t show, I would slip out that door and quietly exit the building.

I stared at my watch. It was now ten past one. I groaned aloud. The roof repairmen would be back on the job by now. I heaved a sigh and steeled my resolve. I twisted the door’s knob and opened the door, peeking out. The hallway was empty. I stepped out, but then hesitated, pondering my next move. Did I want to retrace my steps and walk past the nurses’ station? Or should I try to find another way out? I decided on the latter and began walking in the direction that I hoped would lead me away from the nurses’ station.

The adjoining hallway was punctuated with a half dozen rooms, all with closed doors. Each bore a number and a letter, such as 6A, 6B, and so forth. Mounted next to the door frames were metal holders. Some were empty, but others held red folders. I wondered if they might be patient charts. I glanced around but saw no one. Impulsively, I pulled one of the folders free and opened it. I had my answer in a split second. Indeed, patient charts. As I replaced the folder, a thought burrowed into my brain. Did one of these rooms belong to Even?

Moving quickly, I began to check the other folders. I had reached room 6F when I heard footsteps clacking on the shiny linoleum floor, accompanied by voices. Just then, Nurse Macrae and (I assumed) Doctor Cooper turned the corner and appeared at the opposite end of the hall.

“Oh, there you are,” Nurse Macrae cried, and I felt color stain my cheeks. I just barely managed to slip 6F’s folder behind my handbag but couldn’t be certain they hadn’t noticed.

“Yes, sorry, I am hunting for the ladies’ room,” I managed to say, my heart pounding.

Nurse Macrae frowned, but said, “Take the next hall to your left, first door on your right.”

“Thank you, I won’t be a moment,” I said, and quickly turned in that direction, carrying the patient folder hidden under my handbag. I found the ladies’ room and locked the door behind me. I stood there for a moment, willing my heart to calm down. I looked down at the folder in my hand and sighed. Damn me. Against my better judgment, I opened it. At the top, scrawled in one corner it read John Doe. Could this be Even? I scanned the page trying to read the scrawling handwriting. Obviously John Doe was male, but how old would Even be? I pegged him in his early to mid-thirties. Unfortunately, the line next to “age” was blank. I found I couldn’t make heads or tails of the coded information on the form, except for two things: head trauma and amnesia. I grimaced. The idea of that poor man experiencing a head injury made me feel sick inside. If he had amnesia, though, how did he remember me?

Realizing I had already taken too much time, I closed the folder, flushed the toilet, and then washed my hands. I tucked the folder under my handbag and carried it out of the restroom. As I walked back to the meeting room, I tucked it back into its slot, saying a word of thanks that no one saw me.

The sterile white laboratory was excessively cold, and the man shivered in spite of the warm clothing he wore. A white robotic arm appeared from somewhere behind him. It twisted and placed a shiny golden cube into his bare hands. It was small enough to fit on his palm but was far more heavy than its dimensions would indicate. Not only that, but the metal felt alive. The man could feel it breathe and pulse against his skin. The sensation was terrible and wonderful at the same time. Lightning flashed abruptly and the air around him crackled with electricity. He then felt a searing heat that began in his hands and radiated rapidly in all directions, encompassing his entire body, all the way to the tips of his toes. Another flash and everything went entirely black. Then, a tiny pinprick of hazy white light appeared, burning as if it were a star hundreds of light years away. The star moved closer and closer. Bazigh! A voice called in his mind. Bazigh!

Even awoke from the dream with a gasp, but almost immediately he was gripped by involuntary spasms that wracked his battered body. Alarms began to sound, a shrill beeping that overwhelmed his senses. He slipped into unconsciousness, as his body continued to quake.

When Even next awoke, he was lying on his side. He squinted into the dim light and focused on understanding what his eyes were seeing. Equipment of some sort, tubes running from it to his hand, held in place with strips of white. Another snaked its way into his nose. He blinked slowly and tried to remember. Bazigh! A high voice echoed in his mind. And then flashes of the remnants of a nightmare. But no matter how hard he tried, the images refused to solidify in his mind. Only the name.

His name.

Bazigh.

And a white room.

A wave of nausea consumed him, and he thought he would vomit. His head swam and the blood roared in his ears. The machine next to him had begun to beep loudly. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to steady his breathing.

A woman dressed in a pale blue uniform entered his room. She touched a button on the machine, and it went blissfully silent. Gently, she lay a cool hand on his fevered brow. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said softly. “I am Nurse Debbie, and I’m going to check your vitals now, please don’t be alarmed.”

Nurse Debbie, he thought as comprehension dawned slowly. I am in hospital. Is this the white room? No, that’s not right. Where am I now? I smell water. A strange almost salty scent. The sea.

His eyes closed involuntarily then, and unconsciousness claimed him once again.

“He’s been like this since he arrived by ambulance. For now, we are keeping him sedated,” Nurse Macrae told me.

I stared at the broken man lying in the hospital bed, a multitude of tubes and things attached to his hand and chest, and an oxygen tube in his nose. His face was almost unrecognizable, it was so swollen with numerous cuts and bruises. His hair had been cut and a white bandage wrapped the circumference of his head. One shoulder and arm were encased in plaster, and his chest was also wrapped tightly. Two fractured ribs. Doctor Cooper told me that he had been attacked in his sleep at a homeless shelter. What was he doing there? Why didn’t he go to the Inn?

“He looks like he’s lucky to be alive,” I said, feeling helpless.

The nurse nodded her head in agreement. “At least five men have been brought on charges of assault,” she said. She then picked up his chart and flipped through the numerous pages there. “He had a seizure approximately one hour ago. It’s likely related to his head injury, but I’ll know more after Doctor Cooper checks him,” Nurse Macrae said.

I looked at her and sighed. I had really dug myself in deep this time. I had no idea who this man was, where he came from, or anything else about him. Yet, here I stood, agreeing to help him. I shook my head, at a loss to explain it to myself, much less to anyone else. Certainly not to Abby.

“You have him well in hand,” I said to the nurse. “I’ll be back this evening to check on him. Hopefully, Doctor Cooper will have an update.” I opened the door to leave.

“The police said they plan to run his fingerprints,” Nurse Macrae said.

This news brought me a measure of relief. I turned to the nurse and asked, “will you keep me posted?”

“Absolutely,” Nurse Macrae responded, then rolled her eyes heavenward. “Oh, I almost forgot!” She hurried to a cabinet and withdrew a large plastic bag. “These are his things, except for the clothes he was wearing during the attack – the police kept those,” she said, handing the bag to me.

I grimaced. I felt the hole I had dug for myself grow ten feet deeper.

9-Aug-2022 Edited to repair plot points.

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