Ghost Hand (#Wattys2016)

Chapter 12, Dr. Fineman's Hand

"So, I can leave?" I interrupted Dr. Fineman mid-sentence. "You're saying I'm fine, so why can't I leave tonight?"

"You're doing well," Dr. Fineman paused, "but it's hospital policy to keep you overnight for observation."

"I was here last night."

"Yes, but you were unconscious."

"And your point is?"

"Olivia," came my mother's one word warning for "You're being rude, child of mine. Don't embarrass me."

"We need to keep you overnight as a conscious patient," Dr. Fineman said.

"Why? So you can keep waking me up to see if I'm conscious?"

"Something like that," Dr. Fineman said, smiling patronizingly.

"No!" I blurted, feeling a giant ball of something awful rising in my throat. "I hate hospitals. And I hate doctors," I shot that in the direction of my mother, wishing I could scream it in her face. "I just need to go home, okay?"

They all just stood there looking at me, my mother, Dr. Fineman, even Nurse Jane. And then I re-remembered I had no home. No home. No backpack. No belongings. No mother. My mother belonged to that hand placed gently on her back—the hand she'd leaned into—Dr. Fineman's hand.

I glanced down at my ghost hand and slipped it under the white hospital sheet.

"We should be able to release you first thing in the morning," Dr. Fineman said, shooting a pleadingly apologetic look at my mother before he retreated out the door.

"I'll ask the night shift to go easy on you," Nurse Jane offered. "You aren't on any meds, and your breathing is good, so there's no reason to check you too often. I'll see you in the morning," she finished with a sad smile and left as well, revealing the bustle of the evening shift-change as she slipped out the door.

"Olivia," my mother sighed, sitting heavily in the chair by the bed.

"I'm really tired." I said, turning my face away, "I think I need some rest."

"I tried to tell you," she said weakly.

"Really?" I looked at her, glaring. "When? When exactly did you try to tell me?"

"Last night," she glared back.

"Last night?"

"Yes, last night. That was why I wanted you home early. I was going to tell you, and then Ray was going to come over so you two could meet."

"Ray?" I gagged on the name.

"Don't make this more difficult than it already is," she said, taking my left hand in hers again. "He was there for me when I needed him."

I yanked my hand away. "You want to hold my hand?" I asked, my voice breaking on the last word. I slipped my ghost hand from under the sheet and thrust it at her, "Then hold this one."

She recoiled in surprise, fear flashing in her eyes.

"No?" I taunted, reaching out to touch her face, watching her flinch away from it.

"Olivia, don't!" She knocked my arm down with her forearm and pinned it to the bed rail.

We both looked down at my ghost hand, panting, stunned by our own actions.

I tried to yank my arm away because I could feel it happening—my hand beginning to un-form, to bleed, to reach toward my mother. It didn't like being pushed away and pinned down.