Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [122]
Lee felt pleased with himself, and sank back into oblivion.
When he awoke again the light outside his window had faded into a twilight gray, and the blinds had been partially drawn. A suspended plastic bag dripped clear fluid into an IV line in his left arm. To his great relief, his right arm was unencumbered. He cleared his throat, startling the young nurse who was studying his chart at the foot of his bed. She let go of the chart and looked down at him. Her eyes were honey colored, just a shade lighter than her hair, which was the color of winter wheat, and very straight. It was pulled into an untidy ponytail fastened at the nape of her neck. She was very young, with a pointed chin and a sweet, heart-shaped face. The sound of his voice had startled her, but she tried to cover her surprise with a professional manner.
“Mr. Campbell, you’re awake.” She looked at him as if that were impossible. “How do you feel?”
“Well, let’s see. Sort of like I’ve been run over by a large vehicle, then thrown down several flights of stairs, and finally, been used as a punching bag.” His neck was so stiff he couldn’t move his head, and his whole body felt heavy and exhausted. “Is this the psych ward?”
She looked puzzled. “No, of course not.”
Relief flooded over him like rainwater. “Good. That’s good. So what’s wrong with me?”
The young nurse lowered her eyes. “I’d better let the doctor explain that to you.”
“Okay, can I see him—or her?”
The whole conversation seemed to take place underwater—dreamlike, through a dim haze. The nurse looked at him wistfully and walked out into the hall. Her expression puzzled Lee—was he really that sick, or was he misreading something else for pity? He sank back into sheets smelling faintly of bleach and closed his eyes. He dreamed of swimming in the indoor pool at his high school, where the aroma of Clorox pervaded the air.
When he opened his eyes again, Dr. Patel was standing beside his bed. He wore the same crooked name tag, and he looked tired. He had a dolorous, basset hound face with sad dark eyes and a sagging jaw line. His skin was very dark, and his heavy lips had a bluish tinge.
“Do you know why you are here, Mr. Campbell?” he asked. His voice was very British, very correct, with only a graceful twist of his r’s and slight roundness of vowels to suggest his Indian origins.
“I’m sick?”
“What can you remember?”
Lee tried to think, but all he could recall was being at home. There was some bad news, very bad news. He remembered hearing Butts’s voice outside his door, then falling—sinking?—to his knees on the living room rug.
“Eddie,” he said.
Dr. Patel looked puzzled. “Eddie? Who’s that?”
“I think I can help you, Doctor,” said a familiar voice behind Patel.
Nelson stepped forward into view. He didn’t look good. His blue eyes were rimmed with deep purple circles underneath them, and his skin was mottled and dull looking. He looked exhausted.
“You gave us bit of a scare, lad,” he said, leaning over the bed. The smell of alcohol oozed from his pores.
“So who is Eddie?” Dr. Patel demanded, his voice petulant.
“He was a good friend who died,” Nelson answered.
Dr. Patel reached for Lee’s wrist to take his pulse. He looked overworked and impatient, but held his personal feelings in check behind a firm professional façade.
“Are you my doctor?” Lee asked.
“I’m Dr. Patel, your neurologist.”
“Neurologist?”
“You have an infection of the brain,” Dr. Patel continued. “For a while it was touch and go, but we believe we now have it under control.”
The first thing Lee felt was relief. It wasn’t depression—an infection he could handle. He looked up at Nelson, and he wanted to tell him not to worry, that this was far better than mental illness, but he couldn’t think of how to communicate that.
He caught the nurse looking at him again as she fiddled with an IV line. Was that longing in her eyes, or just compassion?
“We’re treating you with a series of wide-spectrum antibiotics,” the doctor continued, “and so far you’ve been responding well. How do you feel?”
Like my head has been