rowdy for the staff last night.”
“What?”
“I take it you weren’t wanting to be here.”
“Who are you?”
“April.”
“This… You’re a nurse?”
“Uh huh.”
He tugged on the straps around his wrists. “What is… Why am I strapped down?” Roland glanced toward a shrunken reproduction of a Monet. “How did I get here?”
“An accident, Mr. Bax. You don’t remember? You had a concussion.”
“No. But how did I…? I don’t—”
“Nothing to worry about. Head traumas can be like that sometimes. It’s common to forget things.”
“Trauma?”
She reached up and patted her head. “You banged your head.”
“I… How?”
“Would you like some water?”
“I’d like to know what’s going on.” He jerked on the restraints.
The nurse pulled open a drawer below the bedside table—a pitcher of water and a cellophane-wrapped plastic cup sat on its surface. “Where are the straws?”
“Can you please take these off?”
The nurse sighed. “There we go.” She tore the plastic wrapper off a cup, filled it with water, dropped in a straw, then turned. “Oh, those.” She sighed. “I’m sorry, I can’t do that.” She pressed a button on the arm of the bed. “Not without the doctor’s permission.” The head of the bed began to rise.
“This is crazy.”
She held the cup up near his chin—the straw touched his lip. “It’s hospital policy.”
Roland turned his head, ignoring the straw, and quickly scanned the room. The hospital … He recalled an argument with a policeman. And a doctor. “What day is it?”
“Sunday.”
He looked at the window on his left. “Morning?”
A knock came from the door behind the nurse. She checked her watch. “8:06… evening. I’ll have them come back.”
“Who?”
“Your brother and sister. I’ll have them come back later.”
“My… No, no… I need to see them.” Another light tap came from the door.
The nurse lowered the cup of water. “You sure?”
Roland winced at a pulse of pain in his head. “Please.” His mouth and throat were so dry he could hardly swallow.
“Well…” She set the cup on the table by the bed, then went to the door and opened it just enough to slip through. Click —the door closed—a low murmur came from the other side. Snippets from the evening before flitted about in his mind: a car accident, an ambulance, police, questions, lots of questions, lots of confusion and craziness. He recalled going for a walk, then to someone’s house. Before … or after ? After . Whose house ? When was that ? Someone had asked for phone numbers, names, and peculiar things, questions that made little or no sense. Dana … where was she ? Another tap came. Roland squinted toward the door as it eased open.
“Hell-low.” His sister Kate’s face appeared. Then Brian’s, behind hers. “We tried to call and let you know we were coming, but they said you were out of it. How you doing?”
Roland blinked, then slowly shook his head. “I don’t know.” He tried to scoot to a sitting position, but the restraints held him. “What the fuck? They have me tied down.” He peered toward his feet, curled his toes and twisted his feet side to side.
“Why?” Kate said.
“I don’t know.”
“This is fucked up.” Brian furrowed his brow. “I’ll be right back.” He spun around and headed for the door.
“Where you going?” Roland said.
“To find a nurse.”
“You’ll need a doctor,” Roland said. “The nurses won’t help. I’ve already tried.”
“This is nuts.” His brother disappeared into the hallway.
Roland’s eyes burned. He blinked, pressed them shut, blinked again, then scanned the room as though seeing it for the first time—a hospital room like most any hospital room—white walls, an undersized reproduction of an Impressionist’s painting; a bathroom in the corner by the door; a small table to the right, and a couple of chairs. The curtains on his left were pulled to either side of a
“What?”
“I take it you weren’t wanting to be here.”
“Who are you?”
“April.”
“This… You’re a nurse?”
“Uh huh.”
He tugged on the straps around his wrists. “What is… Why am I strapped down?” Roland glanced toward a shrunken reproduction of a Monet. “How did I get here?”
“An accident, Mr. Bax. You don’t remember? You had a concussion.”
“No. But how did I…? I don’t—”
“Nothing to worry about. Head traumas can be like that sometimes. It’s common to forget things.”
“Trauma?”
She reached up and patted her head. “You banged your head.”
“I… How?”
“Would you like some water?”
“I’d like to know what’s going on.” He jerked on the restraints.
The nurse pulled open a drawer below the bedside table—a pitcher of water and a cellophane-wrapped plastic cup sat on its surface. “Where are the straws?”
“Can you please take these off?”
The nurse sighed. “There we go.” She tore the plastic wrapper off a cup, filled it with water, dropped in a straw, then turned. “Oh, those.” She sighed. “I’m sorry, I can’t do that.” She pressed a button on the arm of the bed. “Not without the doctor’s permission.” The head of the bed began to rise.
“This is crazy.”
She held the cup up near his chin—the straw touched his lip. “It’s hospital policy.”
Roland turned his head, ignoring the straw, and quickly scanned the room. The hospital … He recalled an argument with a policeman. And a doctor. “What day is it?”
“Sunday.”
He looked at the window on his left. “Morning?”
A knock came from the door behind the nurse. She checked her watch. “8:06… evening. I’ll have them come back.”
“Who?”
“Your brother and sister. I’ll have them come back later.”
“My… No, no… I need to see them.” Another light tap came from the door.
The nurse lowered the cup of water. “You sure?”
Roland winced at a pulse of pain in his head. “Please.” His mouth and throat were so dry he could hardly swallow.
“Well…” She set the cup on the table by the bed, then went to the door and opened it just enough to slip through. Click —the door closed—a low murmur came from the other side. Snippets from the evening before flitted about in his mind: a car accident, an ambulance, police, questions, lots of questions, lots of confusion and craziness. He recalled going for a walk, then to someone’s house. Before … or after ? After . Whose house ? When was that ? Someone had asked for phone numbers, names, and peculiar things, questions that made little or no sense. Dana … where was she ? Another tap came. Roland squinted toward the door as it eased open.
“Hell-low.” His sister Kate’s face appeared. Then Brian’s, behind hers. “We tried to call and let you know we were coming, but they said you were out of it. How you doing?”
Roland blinked, then slowly shook his head. “I don’t know.” He tried to scoot to a sitting position, but the restraints held him. “What the fuck? They have me tied down.” He peered toward his feet, curled his toes and twisted his feet side to side.
“Why?” Kate said.
“I don’t know.”
“This is fucked up.” Brian furrowed his brow. “I’ll be right back.” He spun around and headed for the door.
“Where you going?” Roland said.
“To find a nurse.”
“You’ll need a doctor,” Roland said. “The nurses won’t help. I’ve already tried.”
“This is nuts.” His brother disappeared into the hallway.
Roland’s eyes burned. He blinked, pressed them shut, blinked again, then scanned the room as though seeing it for the first time—a hospital room like most any hospital room—white walls, an undersized reproduction of an Impressionist’s painting; a bathroom in the corner by the door; a small table to the right, and a couple of chairs. The curtains on his left were pulled to either side of a
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