The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [14]
With every muscle tensed, she set the scrap of paper in front of her and dialed. After two rings, a click sounded, then a short beep. A female voice, nearly neuter on the recording, said, “Good day. Ten seconds after my voice goes off, you will hear a tone. There will then be thirty seconds for you to leave your message, the time of your call, and a number where you can be reached. Your call will be returned as soon as possible. Thank you.”
Christine waited for the tone. “This is Christine Beall, evening shift, Four South, Boston Doctors Hospital. I would like to submit a patient for evaluation. The number at this pay phone is five, five, five-seven, one, eight, one. It is now three fifty P.M. I’ll be available at this number until eleven o’clock tonight. After that I can …” Before she could leave her home number there was a sharp click as the recording machine shut off. She moved to place the call again and finish her message. Then, overcome by renewed uncertainty, she returned the receiver to its cradle. If it’s supposed to happen, it will happen, she thought.
Harrison Weller stared vacantly at the ceiling, unaware of Christine’s entrance. The tiny Sony television suspended over his bed by a metal arm flashed the logo and closing music of “The Guiding Light.” He took no obvious notice of it. He was seventy-five, but his narrow, craggy face had a serene, ageless quality.
“Mr. Weller, how are you doing?” Christine asked, crossing over to him. “Why do you have the drapes closed? It’s just beautiful outside. The sunlight will do you good.”
He looked at her and forced a smile. “Charlene, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Mr. Weller, you know my name. I’ve been in here nearly every day since you arrived. It’s Christine.”
“Sunny out, you say?” Weller’s creaking voice reminded Christine of a high school actor trying to imitate an old man. He had arrived on the floor following repair of a fractured hip and immediately had become a pet of the nurses. Although he never seemed to mind their endearments, neither had he responded to them. He often appeared confused or withdrawn, behavior that had led his orthopedic surgeon to label him senile.
Christine opened the drapes, flooding the room with late afternoon sun. She raised Weller to a sitting position and set herself down next to him so that he could see her face. The old man squinted at her for a moment, then broke out in a grin.
“Well, aren’t you a pretty one,” he said, reaching up and lightly pinching her cheek.
Christine smiled and took his hand in hers. “How’s your hip feeling, Mr. Weller?” she asked.
“My what?”
“Your hip,” she said more deliberately in a voice that was nearly a shout. “You had an operation on your hip. I want to know if you are having any pain.”
“Pain? In my hip?”
She was about to try again when Weller added, “Nope. Not a twinge, ’cept sometimes when I move my foot over to the left.”
Christine gasped. It was by far the most complicated response he had made to any question since she had met him. All at once realization sparkled across her face.
“Mr. Weller,” she shouted. “Do you have a hearing aid?”
“Hearing aid?” Weller creaked. “Of course I have a hearing aid. Had one for years.”
“Why aren’t you wearing it?”
“Can’t very well wear something that’s in a drawer at home, now, can I?” he said, as if the conclusion should have been obvious to her.
“What about your wife? Can’t she bring it in for you?”
“Who, Sarah? Her arthritis has acted up so bad, she hasn’t even been able to get out of the house to come see me.”
“Mr. Weller, I can send someone out to your house to get your hearing aid. Would you like that?”
“Why sure I would, Charlene,” he said, squeezing her hand. “And while they’re at it, tell ’em to fetch my glasses too. Sarah knows where they are. Can’t see past the tip a my nose without ’em.”
Christine’s glow had blossomed to an excited smile. “Mr. Weller, who’s helping Sarah at home while she’s sick?