THE THERAPIST

10

𝐂 𝐡 𝐚 𝐩 𝐭 𝐞 𝐫  𝟏𝟎

     The metal door slid open. Garry stepped off the elevator and made his way to the front door, immediately recognizing the uniformed nurse who sat behind a long desk and looking through a file.

     He neared the desk and cleared his throat. “Good day,” he said.

     The nurse looked up, a smile stretching across her slender face. “Hello, Mr. Garry. You’re early.”

     Garry reciprocated the smile. “How’s he doing?”

     She set the file aside. “Great. He just finished his breakfast and started reading again. Dr. Maynard should be here—” She looked briefly at her wristwatch, then at Garry. “In ten minutes. I’m certain he’ll be discharged tomorrow.”

     Garry fastened a button on his dark coat. “Can I see him?”

     “Of course.” She fingered one of the bright, sterile corridors. “First room on your right.”

     “Got it. Thanks!”

     Garry walked away, passing by the waiting area, and then he veered left and stopped behind a door. Through the glass panel window, he saw his friend and partner slumped on the hospital bed, a newspaper covering his face. He looked paler in the hospital johnny, a sharp contrast to the tall stout lawyer he’d established his firm with who won any case he took on. Garry was grateful to see his friend alive and kicking, although it would take a while for him to get back to his usual self. He suddenly realized how much he needed him in his life.

     With a sigh, he opened the door and entered, stepping into a spacious room with gleaming white floors. The continuous beeps from the machine echoed.

     He lowered the newspaper when he heard footsteps. His head was bandaged up, and his left hand was hooked up to intravenous tubes. “Hey.”

     The smell of antiseptic hit his nostrils so hard he wanted to sneeze. Garry looked around the place swiftly, shifting his eyes away from the flat-screen television, which showed a brunette in a gray suit giving the morning news to Robert.

     “Hey, man. How are you holding up?” Garry said, nearing his bed.

     “Well,” he sighed and sat up, “my head throbs and my thigh hurts very badly, but the doctor said I’d live.” He chuckled.

     Garry smiled.  “Yeah. I knew you would live.”

     “It’ll take more than one bullet to kill me.”

     Garry went over to a plush sofa and sat, crossing his legs. “The nurse told me you’ve been reading again.”

     “Oh my,” he let out, “that nurse is a pain in the neck. She insists I rest all the time.” He cast Garry a look. “I can’t believe she told you I’ve been reading.”

     “I asked her to keep an eye on you.”

     “You make me feel like an eight-year-old boy, you know,” Robert deadpanned.

     “You can’t be too careful. What’s that you’re reading?”

     He narrowed his brown eyes at him. “You look suspicious.”

     Garry smirked. “Of what?”

     “Sabotage.” He put the paper away. “Did you tell the nurse not to bring me more papers?”