Bone Harvest - Mary Logue [75]
When she walked back to the front, a rolled-up napkin smeared with ketchup was sitting in the middle of the counter. She picked up the napkin to throw it away and it felt like part of a hot dog was still left inside it. She unrolled the napkin and stared at what she was holding in her hand. She couldn’t believe it.
Without thinking, she flung it back on the counter. She couldn’t even scream. She opened her mouth but the sound that came out was more like a whimper. She said, “No, no.”
This was it. This was enough. She hated this kind of thing. She didn’t even like watching scary movies.
The African American guy, Tyrone whatever his name, was walking in and looked over at her as she was whimpering. She pointed at the crumpled napkin.
“Look,” she managed to say.
He gingerly rolled back the napkin and saw the bloody stump of a finger that was tucked inside. Debby actually thought he turned paler. She didn’t know black people could do that, but he did. She swore he did. She stopped whimpering.
“How did this get here?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I went to the bathroom.”
“It happened right now?”
“Yes, in the last ten minutes.”
“You didn’t see anybody.”
“No. The napkin was just sitting here on the counter when I came back.”
“Would you get me a plastic bag to put it in? We don’t want anyone else touching it.”
The Tyrone guy seemed like he was holding his anger in. Debby didn’t give a hoot. He could throw a tantrum as far as she was concerned. She was tired of working here. This was it for her. Ned didn’t really like her working so much anyhow.
“I quit,” Debby said.
Tyrone stared at her for a moment as if looking through her. Then he said, “Yeah, I bet you do.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out plastic gloves. That alone gave Debby the creeps. Imagine living with a man who walked around with plastic gloves in his pocket.
He gently unrolled the napkin and moved the finger to one side and looked at what was written in black ink.
Point this at one of your own.
Marie Lowman woke and found herself curled up in the lounge chair next to Andy’s bed. Through sleep-heavy eyes, she looked up at the clock on the wall, which read eleven o’clock. The night air pressed against the window. She needed to go home. She hadn’t seen her children in twenty-four hours. She hadn’t changed her clothes in twice as long.
But the thought of leaving Andy tore at her heart. He hardly seemed to breathe in that white hospital bed. His hair was pushed back off his forehead, showing the tan line left by his Farmer’s Cooperative cap.
She couldn’t help herself. She put her finger in front of his nose and felt the gentle movement of air that meant he was still of the world. How long, she wondered, how long could he go on this way? If she thought of him being in a coma for weeks and then months and then years, she didn’t know if she could bear it. How would she keep her family going without him? He supported them in so many ways.
A nurse walked in and said, “Just need to take his vitals.”
Marie noticed how young the woman was. Maybe thirty, probably not. She had that clean-scrubbed look of a Wisconsin farmgirl: short bobbed blond hair, blue eyes, and pink skin. She wondered what it did to her to take care of people who were dying day after day.
Marie stood by and watched her go through the familiar routine: blood pressure, pulse, temperature. At first it had reassured her that they kept such a close watch on him, but when it all remained constant she wondered why they bothered.
“Do you expect it to change?”
“He could spike a fever. We need to watch for that.”
“He’s never sick,” Marie told the nurse. She wanted to go on and explain what a strong man he was, but she knew the nurse didn’t need to hear about it. Andy was only a patient to her.
When the nurse was done, Marie said, “I think I’m going to go home pretty soon. Just for a few hours.”
The nurse nodded.
“You will keep an eye on him, won’t you?”
“Yes, and if anything changes we will call you.”
“It helps to know that.”
The nurse was almost out the door when