Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
JADEN
I sneak a look at the clock. Our shift is over in fifteen minutes. My gaze drifts back to Nyla. With the results of Ms Rodriguez’s repeat potassium test tucked under her arm, she walks beside me.
She seems relaxed—in contrast to me. The questions she asked me yesterday at Spruce Hill Lake, the memory that suddenly felt so present I couldn’t push it away. Again and again it’s caught up with me—last night, this morning, late this morning. Along with Nyla.
What am I running from, she wanted to know. And I want to know how she would react if I told her. Could she really help me get out of there?
I take a deep breath, don’t know what to do with this thought, but I also know it won’t let me go.
‘What do you think about a drink after our shift?’ I ask Nyla, because here at the clinic we can’t talk about it anyway.
Hardly have the words left my mouth when I already see the two of us sitting in a bar.
Nyla’s fingers wander along the stem of her wineglass, so tenderly that I can’t stop staring at her.
She’s telling me something I don’t understand, but I hear her laughing vividly.
It’s a moment full of beauty, confidence, warmth.
Nyla pauses at the door to the treatment room and looks at me hesitantly. ‘I shouldn’t,’ she begins, but decides not to finish the sentence. ‘Or we could cook together,’ she then suggests.
‘As long as it’s not buckwheat with kale, I’m in.’ I wink at her, whereupon her cheeks turn pink. ‘Your place or mine?’
‘At my place we’d have to share the kitchen with up to four other doctors.’
So we’ll be cooking at my place. Which means I’ll have to skip training to tidy up. ‘Then eight o’clock at mine?’
That way I’ll have enough time to stuff everything that’s lying around into the storage room, vacuum, and polish the kitchen until it shines.
A mixture of anticipation and uncertainty flits across her face. ‘I’ll do the shopping.’
So, buckwheat with kale it is. I ought to protest, but instead I feel my features soften. ‘I’ll send you my address. The doorbell’s broken, take the spare key from under the drip tray for the shoes.’
Her smile makes my heart beat faster and I’d most like to kiss her on the spot. Unfortunately, she turns back to the door far too quickly. ‘Ms Rodriguez is waiting.’
We enter the treatment room, Nyla explains to our patient that the newly measured potassium level is within the normal range.
Ms Rodriguez beams. ‘So that means I can go home?’
Yes, she can. She probably just had a brief circulatory weakness. Thanks to the fluids she received via IV, everything has settled down again. I nod, and her smile grows even wider.
‘Well …’ Nyla leafs thoughtfully through her file. ‘Your values are largely fine, and over the last few hours your condition has stabilized.’
‘I’m feeling better again, too. No nausea, no heart palpitations,’ our patient adds eagerly.
Nyla studies her intently. ‘What about the feeling of weakness?’
‘Nowhere near as bad as before,’ Ms Rodriguez replies, then lowers her voice conspiratorially. ‘My grandchildren are already waiting for me. I promised them I’d cook paella for them today, you know?’
Nyla puts the earpieces of her stethoscope into her ears. ‘I’ll listen to your heart again.’
Any other doctor would have discharged the woman long ago, I’m sure of it. Nyla instead checks the patient’s heartbeat. But she no longer has that deadly serious expression she used to wear; she seems more caring now.
With easy movements, she loops her stethoscope back around her neck. ‘Okay, Ms Rodriguez, you may go home,’ she says then. ‘But someone else is cooking the paella today, all right?’
‘I’ll take it easy, I promise,’ the old lady replies, getting up from the examination couch.
‘We’ll see each other in three days for a checkup.’ Smiling, Nyla sets the file aside.
I hand our patient her handbag, and she says goodbye with a hug. Once she has left the room, Nyla leans against one of the cabinets. Satisfaction is written across her face.
I step up to her, very close, and gently stroke her arm. ‘Done for the day?’ I ask.
She nods. ‘See you at eight.’
The pizza boxes, the dirty hoodies, the frayed-at-the-corners cushions, the old dish towels, the drying rack, the rickety dish drainer by the sink—all of it has already disappeared into the storage closet. The dishwasher is running at full throttle.
Standing in the middle of the living room, I look around and marvel at how different my apartment feels. No more chaos, no clothes lying around, no pile of dishes in the sink. The kitchen counter is gleaming, and the light under the wall cabinets is brighter than it has been in a long time.
I stroll over to the bistro table and straighten the two chairs. I don’t own a tablecloth, but I might still have some candles somewhere.
Does Nyla like candlelight?
Nyla.
A tingling spreads in my chest and turns into something that would have scared me only two weeks ago.
That fear hasn’t disappeared, but there is also a longing.
For the kind of freedom they gave me for a moment yesterday.
For the hope of one day being able to be more again and to have more than just the moment.
But can I do that? Is that actually possible?
‘Maybe,’ I murmur absentmindedly and walk into the bedroom.
I made the bed earlier, the window is open. Fresh air mixes with the faint scent of laundry detergent. Looking for a shirt for tonight, I open the wardrobe.
Plain or with a cool print? Thoughtfully, I let my fingers glide over the shirts. Blue or green or maybe black after all?
Abruptly, I stop.
Somewhere behind this stack, it lies. The thing that is really just a piece of paper but at the same time so much more. Carefully I push the shirts aside; in the darkness of the wardrobe I can only make out the sheet, yet I can feel its presence.
What are you running from?
That’s what Nyla wanted to know. Then suddenly it was there, the memory, and with it the pain. Still, I’m here today. Torn, but not broken.
My breathing quickens, my pulse speeds up, yet I reach out my hand and feel for the paper.
There.
I feel it, it crackles softly.
Until yesterday I thought I was still the man I had been at Camee’s funeral. The one who broke his promise to her. The one who doesn’t know how to cope with her absence. But maybe I don’t have to be that man any longer.
Up to now I’ve been running away. From the pain. From the memory. From the grief.
What would happen if I stopped?
I should do it. Pull out this sheet, hold it up to the light and read what’s written on it. I should find out whether I can bear it, and catch a glimpse of what might come after.
A tomorrow that, as of yesterday, had still been impossible to imagine.
A life that outlasts the moment.
A future that is now taking shape before my mind’s eye.
The house – with a new facade instead of the cracked walls, colorful shutters instead of the tattered blinds, and a garden in the once-neglected backyard.
Nyla – with a contented smile on her lips, dancing in a summer dress, flowers in her hair. Her hands gently stroke the small curve of her belly.
Me – sitting hunched over a medical textbook at my desk, a picture of Camee in my line of sight. I can feel how proud it makes her to see me studying again.
None of this is real, I know that, and yet I lose myself in this vision and wish it could become real. That one day I could be a man who has more than just the now.
The paper in my hand is the key to that. I feel the rough surface, the sharp edges, the many creases I have added to the sheet since Camee’s death. Carefully I pull it forward, but before it can be caught in the cone of light from the lamp, I hear the apartment door being unlocked.
‘Hello?’ Nyla calls.
I let go of the paper, grab a T-shirt, and close the wardrobe door.