Here After

chapter three

Monday, June 4

HE ARRIVED EARLY ON HIS first day of work, intending to change quickly and get to his room, thereby limiting the number of people he ran into. By some strange blessing, the first person he did see was Brent Chamberlain, a chubby guy who smoked too much and worked on the cleaning staff. He and Brent had grown close over the years, sharing an offbeat sense of humor and an abiding love of movies. And though they rarely socialized outside of the hospital, they were always pleased to see one another. At the funeral Brent had approached Peter with tears in his eyes. “I’m only gonna say this once, chum,” he said, “then I’m never gonna talk about it again, unless you tell me you want to, in which case I’m there for you night or day.” He wrapped his big hand around Peter’s arm. “This is unbelievably shitty. And if I could, believe me, I’d trade places with your boy this very minute. No man should have to bury his child. I love you, Pete. You’re a good friend. Decent. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” Then he hugged Peter and said, “That’s it.” He’d been the last to leave before Peter, who asked him for some time alone with his boy.

 He met Brent in the hallway outside the Ophthalmology suite, which was located one level down from the main OR, in an older part of the hospital. Wendell had seen to it that Peter got an easy room his first day back. A list of fourteen cataracts was usually finished by one o’clock.

 Brent, who’d been servicing a sterilizer, smiled when he saw Peter coming. “You dog,” he said, gripping Peter’s hand, shaking it hard. “Good to have you back.”

 “Good to be back,” Peter said. “I think.”

 “I hear that,” Brent said. He released Peter’s hand, then, eyes twinkling, told him a goofy joke—something about a Newfie, a leopard skin Speedo and a potato—and Peter lost it. For a moment he feared it would be the same breed of crazed laughter that had possessed him in the shower the other day, but it turned out to be just a good old belly laugh, and he wanted to hug Brent for bringing it out of him.

 Shaking his head, Brent picked up his mop and headed off down the hall. “See you around, Doc,” he said without looking back.

 “You bet,” Peter said and walked into his room, feeling human for the first time since his son got sick.

                                                                                * * *

The staff in Ophthalmology seemed to sense Peter’s apprehension, and each in their own way got it over with quickly: a whispered, “Good to have you back,” an affectionate hug, a brisk handshake and it was done. Surprisingly, the familiar rhythms of routine had a soothing effect. Unlike the numb hours spent in front of the tube, the work brought a sense of purpose, and at times Peter found himself distanced from the pain, a welcome but strangely guilt-inducing sensation. He’d grown so accustomed to the weight of his loss, setting it down even for a moment seemed a betrayal. Still, it was a relief to concentrate on the needs of others for a change. Cataract patients were often elderly, old school in their attitudes, and Peter welcomed their warm expressions of gratitude.

 One old gal in her eighties squeezed his hand while he was starting her IV, and when Peter met her milky gaze he thought he saw something there—pity? empathy?—as if the years and her own losses had allowed her to see beyond the visible. She startled him further when he tried to take his hand away and she held on with spidery strength, saying, “It’ll be okay,” through a toothless grin. She released him as the nurse started to prep her eye, leaving Peter to wonder if the old woman had been referring to her surgery or if she was somehow privy to what he was going through. He wanted to ask her about it later, but her son was waiting for her in the recovery area and the turn-over in Ophthalmology was brisk. By the time he started the IV on the next patient, the woman was gone.