The Graceview Patient By Caitlin Starling - 9

Around two a.m., Isobel finally returned with stronger pain meds. Nothing wild, just a few tablets, but they were enough. I even slept, though with how much I’d been in and out of it during the day, I didn’t sleep for long. I think something woke me up—maybe an overhead code page, or some other noise from the hall. I kept the lights off. I didn’t want Isobel to know I was awake.

The phlebotomist came to take labs around five, just like the morning before. Quick, in and out, and it was simplest to act like I was half-asleep. But once she was gone, I grew restless. Both of my IVs had been disconnected while I was sleeping. I wasn’t attached to any monitors. The meds were more or less out of my system, and for the first time in almost twenty-four hours, I was myself again. I eased out of the hospital bed, took care of things in the bathroom, and stared into the mirror.

Still the same. Just me.

Going back to bed seemed impossible as I eyed the few steps between me and it. Not physically, though; it was my mind that screamed, not my muscles. I grabbed my robe, found my slippers, and crept over to the antechamber door.

It opened. The hallway beyond was dim, the lights turned down for the night shift. There was a warm glow down at the nurses’ station, enough that I could see that Isobel wasn’t there. Nobody was, actually, and a thrill went through me.

Louise had told me I could go wandering the night before. I’d just tell anybody who spotted me that I assumed that still held. It might even have been true.

Where to go, though? Not the lobby; I’d need somebody to buzz me out. The lounge, maybe. I hadn’t given it a good look yet. But on the way was Veronica’s room, and I found myself stopping at her door. The flag had been moved to the outer door, and it wasn’t green anymore. The bar was still there, but the plastic behind it was a bright, clear red.

Shit , I thought, because that couldn’t mean anything good.

But I didn’t hear anything through the door, no blaring machines or shouted instructions. No alert was being called over the PA. No disasters in progress. She was almost certainly asleep—but maybe she wasn’t, maybe I could go in and say hi. Maybe I could get a gut check on Isobel. On everything.

I tried the handle, half expecting it to be locked. It wasn’t; probably a fire safety thing. I slipped inside, telling myself I’d just peek through the inner door’s small window.

It had a surprisingly good view of the bed. Probably so the nurses could do exactly what I was doing now. And in that bed sat Veronica, illuminated by her bedside lamp, awake, fussing with her nails. Dark nails, which at first I thought were painted, before realizing the skin itself was discolored.

I had no idea how to turn on the video system, so I knocked.

Her head shot up, eyes wide, terrified. Her dusky hands dropped to the sheets and fisted in them. The antechamber was dark; I realized she couldn’t see me through the glass. I found the light switch and flicked it on.

Relief washed over her, though she still appeared wary as she reached for a remote.

The monitor next to me sprang to life, Veronica’s image looking away from the camera. At the real me, rather than my video feed. Maybe it wasn’t on?

“Hi,” I said, awkward and shamefaced. “Uh … can you hear me okay?”

“Yes, I can,” Veronica said. “Good … morning?”

“Phlebotomy came and went,” I said. “So yes?”

She smiled, experimentally. I searched for something wrong with her, some evidence of whatever had made them change the flag on her door. But she seemed … better. Tired, of course, and her hands looked strange, but better. Maybe a little less emaciated, maybe just more engaged. I’d thought she was fully alert when we met, but maybe I’d been wrong. For just a moment, it made me wonder how I appeared to my nurses when the meds were running.

I wonder about it a lot, now.

“Sorry,” I added, needing to get some kind of response out of her. “Sorry, I just—had a bad night. New nurse, we don’t get along well, I decided to stretch my legs. Your door, they changed the flag on it. Is everything okay?”

You can tell me to fuck off now , I added, silently.

But Veronica didn’t look irritated. She looked … hungry, maybe? Something needy. I don’t mean that in a bad way. Needful, perhaps? Not quite desperate, but getting there.

“We had a few setbacks, after you left,” she said, after taking a moment and wetting her lips. “They say it’s nothing to worry about, though. Just need to tweak the medication a little.”

“They can do that?” I asked. “It’s not all set in stone?”

She shrugged. “They change it pretty frequently. Adam explained it to me as medicine being as much an art as a science, and every patient is a little different. The team starts with the main version of the meds, then tailors it to fit how our bodies respond.”

And that made sense. Still makes sense, actually. That was never the problem.

But she didn’t sound as confident as she had two days prior. Dread pooled in my belly. Dread, not sadness, not empathy. I was still too focused on what might happen to me, soon enough.

“Actually,” she said, pushing forward, trying to sound nonchalant, “since you’re here—can you do something for me?”

I stepped closer to the monitor. Away from the door window. Her focus on the screen changed, shifting to her matching video feed now. “I can try, I guess?” How could I say no?

“Can you bring me some flowers?”

I blinked, certain I’d misheard. I don’t know what I was expecting to hear, but probably something related to her treatment. I don’t think I was paranoid enough yet to anticipate some call for help, some independent research, but maybe just asking my nurses about something. Getting another opinion.

“Flowers?” I asked.

The camera feed had a limited range of view, but no, there weren’t any flowers on her table. I couldn’t remember if there had been any the last time I’d seen her, either. It hadn’t stood out to me; nobody sends me flowers.

Except Adam. Adam had.

Veronica’s expression had shifted, gone introspective, sad. “It’s silly,” she conceded. “I know it’s silly. I just miss them.”

“Can’t you order them from the gift shop? Or ask your parents?”

That came out more bitterly than I’d intended. Maybe Isobel’s gruffness rubbing off on me, multiplying with my own.

“Oh. They went home yesterday,” she said. Yeah, that had hurt. I hadn’t actually wanted it to, I realized, too late. “It’s hard for them to get the time off work.”

“Shit, I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just—” But what did my objections matter? Why shouldn’t I go get her some flowers? I could still leave my room. I wasn’t stuck in bed, in isolation, wishing I had a nice bouquet to look at, to smell, to remind me of the rest of the world.

(I should have asked, Why doesn’t Adam bring you flowers? )

I rubbed at my scalp, fingernails grazing a few raised psoriatic patches. They itched dully in response as dead skin sloughed up beneath my short nails. “I’ll do it. Sorry. What kind?”

Veronica smiled. When was the last time I’d made somebody smile, not out of politeness but because I’d done something for them? And I hadn’t even actually gone anywhere yet. “Oh, anything. But—” She screwed up her face a little, scrunching her nose, and when she relaxed, her smile had turned sheepish. “What side of the hall are you on? Can you see the courtyard garden from your room?”

“No, other side. I’ve got the mountains. But I think I know the one. Tried to go out there the other night, security stopped me.” I held up my wrist so she could see the ID band.

“They don’t like us wandering,” she agreed.

“Do you want me to break in?” I offered. “I don’t think it’d be hard. Wear street clothes, try going out there during the day when I don’t have an infusion going, I think I could still pass as healthy. Ish.” The more I thought about it, the more I doubted there was even an actual rule about patients being forbidden. The security officer probably just hadn’t wanted to go out and keep an eye on me while I poked around.

The hospital maybe wouldn’t look kindly on every patient going down there and harvesting a handful of flowers, but just one? Just me?

Sure. No problem.

Veronica grinned, a flash of a thing, a tiny fish in a dark pool, then reined herself back in. “Oh,” she demurred. “I couldn’t ask.”

“No, I’m serious,” I said. “What kind do you want?”

It was so ridiculous I felt almost high. Childlike. For just that moment, everything seemed so much easier.

“There’s this bed with all sorts of purple flowers in it, towards the east tower side,” Veronica said. “Are you sure? It’s so silly. They probably won’t even let them in the room.”

“No reason not to try,” I said.

Veronica smiled, then looked away, sharply.

About to cry?

Or had she heard something again?

“It’s going to be okay,” I said, awkwardly. “You’re almost through it, right? Just a little longer.”

“Yeah,” she said, looking back at the camera and swiping at one watery eye. “Yeah, you’re right. Thank you. I…”

She trailed off.

Veronica’s eyes had gone glassy. Her mouth fell slack.

“Veronica?”

No response. She was so still, it was as if the camera feed had frozen. Without motion, her vivacity faded quickly. Her skin looked so pale. Her lips were cracked. Her hand, now by her throat, was clutching tight to her collarbone, and it looked like it might break, a twig snapping beneath a silk sheet. It would punch through her flesh if it broke. I could see it now, jagged and pearlescent and—

She needed help. I looked around for a red CALL button, and when I didn’t see it immediately, I flung open the antechamber door and yelled, “Help!”

Thankfully, there were people at the nurses’ station now. Isobel and another nurse shot up from their seats and hurried over. I stepped aside to let them in.

They crowded around the monitor, observing, and Isobel began gowning up. She didn’t even look at me.

“Another absence seizure,” the other nurse was saying, low, “second in under ten hours—”

And then there was a firm, large hand on my elbow, guiding me out of the room. I spotted the CALL button then, too late. Right by the light switch.

I looked at the person pulling at me.

It was Adam.

It couldn’t have been much past six in the morning, but he looked as immaculate as he had the day before. I could smell his aftershave, and the lingering scent of an abandoned coffee.

I twisted to look back in, but the nurses were sealing the hallway door. “What’s happening?”

“I’m so sorry you had to see that,” Adam said. “But you acted fast, that’s good. Thank you.”

“Is she okay?” I yanked my arm away from him. His fingers caught on my IV through my robe. It pinched, and I hissed, pulling my arm close to my chest.

He reached for my shoulders, then stopped himself. “It’s a side effect of the protocol. She’ll be fine, she just needs the exact balance of her medications tweaked. Let’s get you sitting down. Nurse Isobel said Dr. Santos will be by soon.”

I just stared at the door.

“Margaret?”

I’d never even told her my name.

“Margaret.”

He took my shoulder then, and I shivered, gaze slowly lifting to him. “That’s going to happen to me, too.”

“It’s a known side effect, yes,” Adam said. And then nothing more, no attempts to convince me I’d be different, or that it wouldn’t hurt, or even a reminder that it would be worth it.

I swallowed. “Did you know?”

He inclined his head quizzically. “Know what?”

“That she’d been having seizures. Is that why you’re here at ass o’clock in the morning?”

Because nothing else made sense. It was like something out of a nightmare, all the necessary players on the scene at just the right moment. Why did he have to look so perfect? Why was he so calm ?

Adam hesitated, and I thought I saw his tongue peek from between his teeth for just a moment, a dart of white and pink. Then he nodded. “Dr. Santos and I are monitoring her situation closely. I’m helping coordinate with the main development group on changes to her regimen.”

It was under control. But it didn’t feel like it from where I stood.

“The first time we spoke, she said she can barely read some days.” We were walking again. I didn’t protest, because where else did I have to go? Past the nurses’ station. Back to my room, with its own antechamber, its own hooks for gowns, its own inactive screen. “That she can’t remember. That there are days she wants to leave.”

And I thought about my own first day of treatment, of the floating, of the pain after.

It was already starting.

“Medicine is a game of hurting in just the right way to heal,” he said, and we were at the bed. I wanted to sit by the window instead, and I nearly flinched away from him. I remained standing. “The specific suffering you’ll experience, I can’t guess. Neither can you. But I can promise you that you will be safe here. If you don’t remember, you also won’t need to. Your nurses will remember for you. If you can’t read, I’ll read to you.”

I hate myself for it now, but I did want that. Yearn for it. Him, at my bedside. Maybe that’s why I got back into the hospital bed then, let him tuck the blanket up over my legs.

“Think of it,” he said, “like a cocoon. A caterpillar disassembles itself into a mass of cells, then reconstitutes itself into a butterfly. But it always remembers where it started. It remembers the taste of its favorite food. It is the same individual, no matter what happened in between.”

The same individual, maybe, but a different beast entirely.