Chapter 6

6

GINA

I had two days off. That wasn't abnormal—most people who work have two days off, but for the first time in my life, I didn't look forward to them. My new patient Porter was beginning to break through. I could see it when his eyes focused, when he teased me about my cat. He was coming out of the fog, and I wanted to be there when he did.

I knew it was unhealthy to get too attached to any particular client, but I couldn't help myself from wanting to see them succeed. I would tell absolutely no one about these feelings, not even Cindy. When we ate our lunch in the staff room and complained about patients like we really weren't supposed to do, I kept quiet. I spoke out about other patients or other situations, but never Porter.

"One of my patients," Cindy had said, gently skirting the patient privacy laws by refusing to name the person, "spread her poop all over the walls."

"Please." I waved my hand. "I'm eating."

Brad, one of the orderlies, launched into the grossest story I had ever heard, and I threatened to leave. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"What did you think of the movie?" Cindy changed the subject.

"I thought it was fun," I said.

"It wasn't really believable," Cindy pontificated. "I mean, who would go down into that cellar with only a candle? Didn't she have a cell phone?"

"Or a gun?" Brad offered.

"Did you see it?" I asked.

He shrugged. "You could be talking about any horror movie."

"It's true," I allowed. "But the point is to be scared, not to nitpick."

"What's with you?" Cindy pulled apart her string cheese. "You don't want to talk about the movie, you don't want to talk about work."

I pressed my lips shut. How could I tell my best friend that there was one particular thing I was trying not to share? How could I explain that I was having improper thoughts about one of the patients?

"Is it that new patient?" Cindy seemed to read my thoughts. "Porter?"

"No," I said quickly.

"He's hot," Cindy said.

"When did you see him?" Brad asked.

"During intake," Cindy said. "I was hoping I would get assigned to him, but no such luck. Have you seen him with his shirt off?"

"You know what?" I stood up, masking the truth behind her accusation with anger. "That is inappropriate. I can't stay here and listen to you guys talk about the patients like that."

"Like what?" She gaped, putting her hand down on my wrist to stop me from leaving. "Gina, I was just joking. No one's around to hear us."

I tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ears, feeling my cheeks heat up.

"You don't want to talk about the patients or the movie," Cindy decided. "You pick the topic."

"He works at my dad's lumberyard," I revealed, returning to my seat.

"Who?" Cindy gasped, leaning forward.

"Porter," I said, betraying myself with a grin.

"I knew it!" Cindy jumped up, clapping. "You have seen him without his shirt."

I motioned her to be calm. "That doesn't mean he cuts trees shirtless. Let's talk about peas."

"Peas?" She returned to her seat.

"Yeah, why is the supermarket always out of peas?" I offered the first topic of conversation I could think of.

"Right." She rolled her eyes. "I never noticed."

I had three sessions with Porter every day, and I looked forward to them. He was slowly coming out of his shell, and I had to admit, that rumpled just-out-of-bed look really worked for him. Since that first day, he had always been fully clothed, though I could imagine the washboard of his chest beneath the loose scrubs. It was shameful that I had those thoughts about a man struggling to save his own life. I admonished myself every time but couldn't deny that he was a very attractive man.

He sat perched on the side of the bed, legs parted just enough to attract my attention. His hands were wide and calloused, his fingers splayed across his own knee as we talked.

He wore no shoes, and I could see that his feet were large. That meant nothing, I told myself, but I couldn't help peeking at his crotch, wondering if the stereotype were true. He was like a breath of fresh air. Most of the clients tried my patience. I was kind and supportive to a fault, but they inevitably used foul language or acted out in anger. They were struggling with internal demons that made them unaccustomed to polite conversation and civil society.

Porter, on the other hand, probably through his continuing friendships with Mike and Dillon, was kind and thoughtful. He wasn't ill-mannered, and he didn't have a temper. He might have been boyfriend material, if not for the regulations governing treatment. People weren't supposed to get into new relationships within a year of beginning recovery. On top of that, nurses definitely weren't supposed to develop feelings for their patients. Any hint of a sexual relationship between me and Porter would be grounds for my dismissal and the loss of my license.

I liked my job and didn't want to jeopardize my career. The lunchroom talk that Cindy thought was so innocent could actually get me fired. It would be best to steer clear of Porter altogether. But I couldn't, or I wouldn't. Seeing him every day was better than coffee to wake me up in the morning and better than sugar to keep me going.

I wasn't sure why I had told him that I lived alone. That was way more information than I had ever shared with a patient before. But he had asked about my husband, and for some ridiculous reason, I wanted to assure him that I was free. As if there was any hope of a future for us, as if Porter were a real consideration when it came to potential boyfriends. No, there were men, and then there were patients, and Porter was definitely a patient.

I wasn't afraid of him. I wasn't afraid of any of the residents, but there were some I might have lied to and told them I was married. It was foolish of me to give Porter hope, and I considered rectifying it. But how could I backtrack on all the progress he had made by broaching some awkward subject that was better left alone? I would just have to be more careful in the future.

He was just so easy to talk to. So, it was with a heavy heart that I accepted the reality of my weekend. It wasn't technically the weekend; I had days off during the week. The treatment center was staffed 24/7, so not everyone could take off Saturday and Sunday. It had never been an issue for me since I didn't have a family. I agreed to take time off during the week so that other people could spend time with their kids and spouses.

I slept late, washed my hair, and had my favorite takeout while watching a romantic comedy. I did everything I could think of to take my mind off Porter. I read a book, and then I went on a walk. I cooked myself dinner in my tiny kitchen, sauteing the chicken and vegetables like the celebrity chef on TV said I should. I imagined cooking for Porter. I could have him over after his treatment was done and he was no longer a patient. I could cook for the two of us, and we could enjoy our feast, watching silly movies on the couch.

Unlike my family, Porter had known enough to ask for help. My mom and my older brother had both ridden their addiction into the ground, never wanting to stop. They didn't hear my voice when I spoke to them about the dangers of their substance of choice or of my own plans for a better life. My younger brother had just run away, and I had no way of knowing how he was doing. Porter did nothing but listen. When he was in his darkest hour, he opened himself up to my company in a way that no one had done before. I felt a connection with him that went deeper than the nurse-patient dynamic. I felt like he really cared, like he saw the real me in a way that no one else ever had.

I jerked my thoughts away from him and ate by myself, Evil curled up in my lap awaiting leftovers. When my break was finally over, I woke up with renewed invigoration. I was going to see Porter. And the other patients , I reminded myself. This forbidden love story was draining my energy, forcing me to corral my wayward thoughts even within my own mind.

Holding my heart steady, I hopped into my shoes, grabbed my lunch, and nearly skipped my way to work. I couldn't conceal my excitement from Cindy—she spotted me as soon as I came out of the locker room, a stupid grin on my face.

"What's got you so happy?" she said, cranky as always.

"I won the lottery," I blurted out.

"Really?" she gasped. "Are you going to put in your notice?"

"It was only ten dollars," I sputtered. I was really bad at this lying thing.

"Oh." Cindy's face fell. "I was gonna ask you for a loan, but I guess that's not going to happen."

"I've never won anything before." I shrugged, attempting to explain why winning ten dollars would put me in such a good mood.

"Well." She applauded tepidly. "Congratulations."

I grabbed my clipboard and checked my assignments. There were two new patients who would demand much of my attention. Porter was now a "regular," and so I was supposed to just drop in on him, making more time for patients who were either entering or exiting treatment. I calculated how much time I would have to give each new arrival to be fair to them, while still enabling me to have a conversation or two with Porter. It was no use hiding it; he had become my favorite patient.

I forced myself to attend to my new arrivals, giving them just as much of my time as they deserved. There was a woman who was contending with anorexia as well as addiction, and a man who had attempted suicide. Two desperate people who had landed here after losing their own personal battles. I sat with each of them, watching them go through the tremors of withdrawal.

The woman cried, feeling like she had let down her family and failed in her role as a mother. They were always hard to see, the mothers. They came in with the weight of the world on their shoulders, and I could see the destruction their addiction had wrought on their children and their families. They knew how much their babies were hurting, and it wasn't that they didn't care but that they felt helpless.

My experiences with mothers in the Westview Hospital had taught me a lot about my own situation. They did love their children, but they sometimes didn't believe their children loved them. They didn't think they could be loved. They considered themselves pariahs, as the police and their husbands and the general public viewed them. There was no fight left in them to stand up for their children, and that in itself was horrible to witness.

I made sure my first regular check-in was with Porter, picking up his medication from the pharmacy with a smile. Speeding up my steps to just above my normal pace, I hurried to room 204C. With any luck, he would have improved enough to move out of the locked wing and down onto the communal floor soon. I would have to be careful not to show favoritism or to engage in any affectionate banter, but then I would be able to see him more often. I knocked on his door to announce my arrival and slipped inside.

He looked up and smiled, a mixture of approval and relief shining through. I blushed; I couldn't help myself. When anyone is that happy to see you, it warms a part of your soul. I took two steps toward him, holding out the little cup of pills.

"I thought you had quit," he rumbled.

"It was my weekend," I explained.

"The other nurse was more intrusive," he said. "She forced me to finish all of my meals."

I looked away. Everyone had different styles of nursing. Mine was gentle, but there were others who believed in tough love. I had a pretty good idea who had been seeing him in my absence, and yes, she wouldn't put up with any leftovers. It was good news that he had been able to keep down entire meals, though, so I couldn't find any fault in her ways.

"I'm glad to hear you could keep it down," I said.

He sat straight up on his bed, as if listening for hidden meaning, ready to rise to his feet if necessary. I took my habitual spot in the chair, and then we were very close, our knees almost touching.

"Tell me about the real world," he asked.

"I don't know if you'd call it the real world, but I had a quiet weekend. I read some, I did some cooking, I watched a few movies."

"What movies?"

"Mostly romantic comedies," I answered.

"Have you ever seen Notting Hill ?" he asked, straight-faced.

"I love Notting Hill !" I gasped, unable to believe I had actually stumbled upon a man who enjoyed that sort of thing. "Do you like comedies?"

He nodded. "Takes some of the pressure off of life. I don't like movies that are too realistic."

"Me neither," I laughed. "I like it when they're funny or a little outlandish."

"Real life is harsh," he agreed. "I want my movies to be as far from real life as possible."

We had hit on an intimate subject, and I maneuvered back to the surface for professional talk. "You had your first group session yesterday," I read from his chart.

He nodded.

"How was it?"

"It was fine," he said. "Nice to see people in the same situation."

"I imagine," I empathized. I had my own trauma to deal with, and part of this job was an attempt to heal. But while all my patients were struggling with personal addictions, the rest of the staff and I attempted to understand our reactions to it. It was nice to have someone in the same boat.

"You said you had been in treatment before," I urged him to make the connection between his previous success and his future success.

"Yeah, it was a twelve-step program," he agreed. "It worked for a while, until I stopped going to meetings."

"Why do you think you stopped?" I asked.

"I don't know. Maybe it was a bit overwhelming."

"One day at a time." I repeated the mantra of the alcoholic treatment program.

"Yeah, except it became more than one day at a time." He shifted uncomfortably, relaxing onto the cot, moving his knee away from mine. I felt its absence like a sore tooth. "I rented a room from this guy I met in the program, and I got invited to all these cookouts, and people were really getting on with their lives. I felt like I didn't belong. Like no one knew what kind of scum I really was, and if they knew, they'd all abandon me."

"That's the addiction talking," I reminded him.

"I know," he sighed, as if he knew but he didn't really know.

"With feelings, it can get tangled," I began. My own feelings were that confused around him, but I dared not admit it. I resisted the urge to pat his hand, instead trying to communicate the same comfort through a simple smile. "My own family is, or was, difficult."

"Are they all gone?"

"No." I shook my head. "My mom is gone but I have two brothers that are still living." I didn't want to tell him that he worked for my father. I didn't want to build a larger connection with him. I kept that to myself. "My mother was an addict and so is my older brother, so I know some of what you're dealing with in terms of the thoughts of low self-worth."

"I'm sorry you had to deal with that." He saw through my professional posturing and spoke to the real me.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"Why did you choose to come to work at a treatment center?" he asked, curious now.

"I feel like I can help people like you." I chanced a look into his eyes and found only compassion.

"On behalf of people like me, thank you." He winked.

I couldn't believe he actually winked. Were we flirting? We absolutely should not be flirting. I blushed and turned away. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Seriously, doesn't it disturb you to see people relapse?" He asked a more lucid question than I would have thought possible at this point in his treatment.

"It disturbs me greatly," I admitted. "But I believe in second chances."

"What about third chances and fourth chances?"

"I believe in those too," I said.

He sighed and put his head into one palm. "I'm sure everyone you see feels the same way, but I can't help thinking I'm a lost cause."

I found my professional footing. "You are definitely not a lost cause. On average it takes people more than ten tries to quit drinking or using most drugs. If you're on try number four, you're way ahead of the game."

"I don't ever want to go back," he said seriously. "My life was a train wreck. I paid for three months on my room, but there's gonna be some heavy-duty cleaning to do when I get back. I can't even…" He trailed off, presumably imagining having to scrub floors and walls.

"Just the fact that you had a room puts you at an advantage," I told him. "Most people who come in here are homeless or couch surfing, or worse."

"What could be worse?" he wondered.

"On their way to jail, getting out of jail, kicked out of their family's home," I elaborated, spinning some of the more impressive tales I had heard.

"But I had a job and a room," he said haltingly, as if trying out the phrases.

"That's right—you have a job, if I understand correctly."

He nodded. "My boss said he'd save it for me."

"So, you're not a lost cause," I concluded, proud of my father for being so kind.

"It's just so hard," he murmured.

"We'll get through it together," I promised, though I didn't know why. It wasn't professional to make that kind of offer, but the words just tumbled out.

He looked up, meeting my gaze with hope. I didn't have the heart to put any distance between us, so I just smiled. My hand ached to reach out and touch his, to reassure him in that most basic human way that I was there for him. But I saw that he understood. More dangerously, I saw that he shared some of my forbidden desires. It was just a look, just a communication of lust across the space that divided us, but still, I could tell that he longed to touch me too.

I tore my mind from the gutter and broke off the exchange. I was terrified that he had seen it, the entire scene as it played out in my mind. He knew I harbored intentions that weren't professional. Could he see into my soul, or was I being foolish?

"I have to go make my rounds," I excused myself.

He said nothing, content to watch me gather my wits and leave.

I turned around. "I think you're going to get transferred to the low-risk area soon. No more locked doors."

He grinned. "Hooray. Thanks."

"It's not my call," I hastened to explain. "But I'll see what I can do." I slipped out of the room without waiting to see his response. I was in way over my head with this attraction. It would be a blessing in disguise to see him released into the communal area, where we could no longer be locked into a confined space together. And then he would check himself out, and I would never see him again. What a relief that would be, not having to contain my desire any longer. Then why didn't I feel relieved? Instead, I felt sad that our time together was at an end.