CHAPTER 11 #2
14:30. Cath-lab annex, Floor 8. He has come up from OR-3 and changed into a long-sleeved Henley and the white attending coat.
He is at the supply bench at the back of the annex with a clipboard.
The room holds only him. He hears me at the door and keeps his back to me.
He says, low, "If you would. The case-cart inventory. "
I step in. "Yes."
He hands me the clipboard. Our hands meet at the door of the supply cabinet — his right hand handing the clipboard, my right hand reaching up to take it, our knuckles brush at the edge of the metal.
His skin is dry. The cord at his left wrist drags against the cuff of the coat.
Our hands brush; they linger; the brush stays on the record between us.
His gaze stays on the cabinet door when his hand lets the clipboard go — his hazel eyes steady on the lock, the long second of a man giving me a courtesy.
Silence holds. We understand.
He moves down the bench. He starts the count at the suture rack. I start the count at the consumables drawer. We count. He counts in fours under his breath; I register in fours with him because I have started to and I will not stop. The sink drips once. Neither of us moves to fix it. We count.
I leave the annex at 15:00. Goodbye stays unsaid on both sides. At the door I touch the medallion at my sternum once — twice, today — and I go.
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15:30. Floor 8 supply requisition desk. I sit. I open the requisition system on the floor's terminal. Beatriz has cued the orders. I run them.
Twelve. Twelve supply orders, twelve different vendors, twelve confirmation codes I write down in the running yellow legal pad I keep clipped to the back of the clipboard for orders, twelve I will hand to the floor manager at end-of-shift.
I mark them as I send them. One — sterile lap pads, OR-1 restock.
Two — Yankauer suction tips, OR-3. Three — Bovie pencils.
Four — non-latex gloves, size seven. Five — Adson with teeth replacement tips.
Six — chest-tube collection systems. Seven — polyester suture, 2-0.
Eight — monofilament, 4-0. Nine — saline irrigation.
Ten — chlorhexidine prep, four-ounce. Eleven — fenestrated drapes for OR-3.
Twelve — pediatric endotracheal tubes for the days the trauma pediatric case comes in.
I write the twelfth confirmation code in the yellow pad. I look at it. Pediatric. I close the terminal. I sit for nine seconds.
I take the lanyard off. I take the pediatric pin off the lanyard.
I hold the pin in my right palm. The metal is cold; my palm is not.
I hold it until the cold has entered the metal.
Then I open the writing-desk drawer and set the pin in the back right corner, face-up, where I can find it without wearing it.
Sophia's photograph stays in my wallet. The pin stays in the room.
I close the drawer. I clip the empty lanyard back to the pocket.
The pin is moving rather than gone. The pin is mine in a place I keep. The wound is quieter today than yesterday. The reason can stay unsaid; I have decided it; the day's hours have been the why.
I touch the medallion at my sternum. I am still here, Saint Raphael. I am still the one in the room.
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17:00. End-of-shift. I hand the yellow pad to the floor manager. She nods. Her eyes pass over my face and move on without comment. I take the elevator down. I walk the forty-six steps from the elevator to the suite door. I mark them; the number holds.
I let myself in. The card-key scanner on the corridor side blinks green twice as my badge passes within range.
The door closes behind me; from inside I see the bleed of the red LED reset against the seal.
The corridor heartbeat starts again. The room is mine.
The thumb-turn is mine. The door does not lock from the inside.
I have a chief's office to retreat to if I need it. I have this room to be in if I do not.
I change. The heather T-shirt. The drawstring linen pants. Bare feet on the suite's industrial carpet. I make a cup of tea — the cinnamon Stefan labels in his vertical print as for you. I drink it standing at the writing desk. I take inventory.
At 20:30 I make a second cup. The first cabinet is the one with the cups; six cabinets to go before I have memorized the galley by heart.
At 21:00 there is a soft knock at the door.
---
21:00. Two knocks. Three seconds between them. He has decided the interval.
I open the door. Gabriel is in the corridor in the long white research-wing coat over the black roll-neck cashmere, the thin gold chain at his throat just visible above the collar, his hair tied back in the black elastic.
His feet are in the soft leather loafers.
He is not surprised that I have opened the door; he has counted on it the way men of his patience count on small reliable things.
He stays in the corridor.
He holds a book.
Italian — I see the cover before he speaks. Black cloth, the title in red sans-serif on the spine and front: LE COSMICOMICHE. Calvino. The book is small. It is not new; the spine has been cracked once at the middle and once at the three-quarter; he has read it more than once.
He hands it to me with both hands as he hands me anything. His fingers stay clear of mine. The book is enough.
"Read this. " His voice is low. The Naples-cadence English at its slowest. "I will ask you what you think next week."