Chapter 4

4

GINA

T hat Wednesday started with a phone call on my antiquated landline. I didn't recognize the number that woke me up. I squinted at the caller ID and decided to ignore it. The same number rang three or four more times as I brushed my teeth and fed Evil. Finally, I decided to pick it up.

"Hello?" I answered.

Silence greeted me over the line. Silence, and the sound of someone breathing. I hung up. The same number called three more times as I took my shower and made my breakfast. I was thoroughly freaked-out by the time I was ready to leave. I considered pulling the plug on the darned thing, but I was leaving the apartment anyway. What did it matter if it rang to an empty living room?

The phone rang again, and I crossed the floor to put a stop to it when I stepped right in a lovely present Evil had left for me. A slick stain of cat vomit was smeared across my hardwood floors, probably from her eating too quickly. I groaned, hopping over to the kitchen to fetch some paper towels. Tearing off a fistful, I wiped the sole of my shoe before bending down to clean up the floor.

Great. I couldn't think of a better way to start the day. Cheer up , my sunny side encouraged me. It can only get better from here.

Unless it's a bad omen , my pessimistic side argued. I quieted both of them, pulled the phone cord out of the wall, and locked the apartment. There were no further incidents on my walk, and I coasted into work with most of the cobwebs dusted off. I appreciated the commute more than most people. Walking gave me a chance to decompress after a particularly hard day or to charge my batteries before the shift began. This particular day, walking gave me a chance to loosen my tense muscles.

Who the heck could be so interested in pestering me as to call six times and say nothing? Unfortunately there were a lot of creepers out in the world, and a single woman in a big city had to be careful. After five blocks of pavement pounding, the whole incident started to seem less important. It had just been a computer. I had been caught in an automatic call loop, that's all it was.

I clocked in late and added that to the list of things I was kicking myself about this morning. I tossed my bag into my locker, changed my shoes, and put up my hair. Facing the big whiteboard, I noticed that I had just one new patient that day. I flipped through my clipboard, searching for the new intake.

It was a man named Porter Hayes, thirty-three years old, and checked himself in yesterday. He had been through intake, though it had taken him a long time. He had the shakes when he first came in, a clear sign of alcoholism. They had gotten as much information from him as possible, including insurance, but they hadn't managed to get very much of his medical history. No previous surgeries, no information about allergies or family history of cancer.

It would be up to me to fill out the chart as much as I could when he was able to recall this information. They had put him in room 204C—that meant alcohol and drugs. I flipped down the pages of his chart, already empathizing with him. For him to check himself in with no additional supporters, when he had the shakes, nonetheless, spoke of power and self-awareness. Most of our patients came through court referrals or police commissions. We didn't get a lot of people who realized they had a problem and asked for help. That said a lot for Mr. Hayes' chances of a sustainable recovery.

After the initial visit, I had a few patients requiring daily monitoring and three who were being released. Porter's case was the most important, as he was in that vital seventy-two-hour window that could mean life or death to a recovering addict. I spritzed my hands with sanitizer and hiked up the stairs to the second floor.

Room 204C was opposite the nursing station, one of the first rooms in the critical wing. I checked inside through the safety glass in the door. I didn't see any movement inside, so I turned the knob and went in. There was hardly anything within the detox chamber except a cot and a chair, and both were bolted to the floor. There was a toilet with a sink and a curtain for privacy, but not a wall. I scanned the room carefully. Six years of experience had taught me that no matter how good my motives were, patients could still sometimes be dangerous.

What I discovered lying on the bed was far more dangerous than a man bent on destruction. The patient lying there was beautiful. Sometime during the night, he had removed his shirt. That was normal; in the extreme discomfort and profuse sweating that withdrawal causes, people often seek to make themselves feel better by casting off clothing. I was accustomed to finding patients, especially those in the early stages of detox, half-naked.

But this man was something else. He was cut, from his chest down to his waist, muscles clearly visible beneath tanned skin. The typical junkie body type was skinny, even wasted away. This man was strong, as if he had managed to get regular exercise while getting stoned out of his mind.

His sandy-brown hair was washed and spread out over the pillow, unlike so many who found their way to our doors. His jaw was unshaven, dark with stubble from one or two days' growth. He could be a former model for all I know.

I caught myself staring. I wondered if I had walked onto a television set, if I had been cast as an unsuspecting nurse in a police drama. But as soon as I realized I was ogling him, I cut myself off. It was absolutely unacceptable to have such thoughts about a patient.

He was here to save his life and at his most vulnerable, and I had to show him the respect he deserved. As I watched, he curled up around the pillow, and the spell was broken. He became another lost soul in anguish, landing here after hitting rock bottom. I sat down on the chair, leaning forward to smile encouragingly. He tracked me with his eyes, but I wasn't sure he was really seeing me.

"Porter?" I called.

He didn't answer but relaxed his grip on the pillow, seeming to sense another person in the room. I caught a glimpse of his striking features, his dark eyes soulful as they searched in vain for an anchor to reality. His lips parted, but no sound came out.

"Don't worry," I reassured him.

There were regulations about touching the patients, even gentle caresses or holding hands. Lawsuits happened when doctors took their privilege too far, and I didn't want to break any of the rules. I did want to reach out and stroke his hand, though. Something within me was moved to action by his quiet desperation. I wanted to comfort him, to speak to him with a language more basic than words. But that was forbidden, and I restrained myself.

Instead, I began speaking in soothing tones, using my voice rather than my touch to comfort. I went through the intake procedures, even read out parts of his chart. I used the training I had to give positive affirmations to help calm him.

I continued until my time was up, until I really should leave and finish my rounds. There was something about him, though, something mysterious and energizing. What had he done to maintain his figure? How had he decided to turn himself in? He was too far into the detoxification process to answer me with words. Instead, he just watched me, his eyes thirsty for human interaction. For the rest of the day, as I worked, I felt haunted by his soulful eyes.