Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [121]
“Fifth floor. Make a left out of the elevators. Ring the buzzer at the double doors.”
The nurse who opens the door to the ICU suite is dressed in pink, her hair covered by a paper, elastic-rimmed cap. The lights are low, her voice a whisper.
“Ms. Rinaldi?” the nurse says, squinting to read the name on my pass.
I nod. “This way,” she says, darting a furtive glance in the direction of the waiting room, a small alcove off the main area, where a man in a black leather jacket is stretched out on the loveseat, his arm covering his face.
She leads me along a wide, dimly lit hallway, stopping outside a large room separated from the corridor by a wall of glass. “What happened?” I ask her. “How is he?”
“He’s unconscious, but stable for now. He’s only a couple of hours post-op, so we’re still watching his vitals.”
“My God. What happened?”
“He passed out behind the wheel and crashed head-on into a section of guardrail on Bigelow Boulevard. The surgery was to repair a ruptured spleen and to stabilize a splintered sternum. He also sustained a severe head injury and hasn’t regained consciousness.” She places a hand on my back and gently pushes me inside.
“Squeeze his hand and talk to him. He may be able to hear you, and your presence will be comforting to him.” She moves toward the bed. The lights are dim, and the person in the bed, who I can hardly recognize as Richard, is covered in bandages. I’m unable to move. My legs are leaden, and I can feel the whooshing of the blood in my ears again.
“Richard, Richard,” the nurse calls to him, her voice loud and authoritative. “Mira is here. We found her. She’s here with you now.” She’s bending over him, shouting into his face, but Richard, who doesn’t like loud noise, who doesn’t like people invading his personal space, doesn’t react at all. She gestures for me to join her on the other side of the bed.
“I’ll be back in about ten minutes,” she says, her voice once again a whisper. “Ten minutes every hour are for visiting. The doctor should be around in a while and will want to speak with you.”
Richard is hooked up to a host of machines, wires and tubes dangling from several places. His face is bruised and swollen, his chin slack. I take his hand, gingerly wrapping my fingers around his, not wanting to upset him, unlike the nurse whose grasp had been firm, even rough.
“Richard, I’m here. I love you,” I whisper into his ear, bending low to brush my lips against his forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t answer the phone. I should have been there. I’m here. I’m here now.” There’s no sign that Richard has heard me, no encouraging pressure on my hand, no murmuring lips. I lean down into the bed, over the railings to rest my head against his, stroking his hand and whispering to him, until the nurse comes to the door and gestures to the clock over the bed.
“I need to go in and check his IVs and fluids. You can have a seat in the waiting area. The doctor will be with you shortly.”
The waiting alcove is empty, the sleeping man gone, perhaps spending his precious ten minutes in another of these horrible rooms, at the bedside of a wife, a parent, or, God forbid, a child.
I try to remember everything I can about Richard’s family. His parents live somewhere in the South, Florida maybe, but I have no idea how to reach them. The door to the ICU buzzes, but the nurses’ station is empty. The buzzer goes off again. This time I see a man craning his neck to look through the narrow window into the lounge. When he sees me, he holds two Styrofoam cups up to the window, as if to indicate his hands are full. Although I haven’t seen his face, I recognize the leather jacket. He’s the man who was sleeping on the couch when I arrived.
“Mira?” he asks, when I open the door. I nod, and he hands me a cup of coffee. “Here. I figured you could use this. I’m Nate.” He puts his coffee down on the table and begins emptying packets of various non-dairy