At the Seams

Chapter 7: Day 1 - 10:13 am

Chapter 7: Day 1 – 10:13 am

Sam walks down the neurology wing corridor, past countless rooms in which people creep motionlessly toward death. He looks at his feet, to prevent peeking, but morbid fascination forces his eyes up more than once.

One of these nosy glances brings Sam to a dead stop outside a patient's room—Rose, permanent zucchini, according to the chart by her door. Unable to stop himself, Sam steps into the room. From the looks of the room—empty chairs and tables, no balloons or flowers, even wilted ones—no family had visited Rose in a long time. Rose herself is but a comma of human components, a skeleton in a leather coat. Her lips pull back tightly; Sam can see every tooth. Her eyes bug and roll horribly, pivoting in their sockets, around and around, roaming, stuttering, but never seeing. Is this what Mary's going to look like, he wonders before he can stop himself.

When a nurse enters the room and inquires whether he’s family, Sam dashes from the room and through the door to the stairs, running down three flights to the lobby door. He forces himself to stop, catching his breath and smoothing his hair before emerging into the lobby.

He has forgotten his cell but needs to call Mary’s mom, so he heads to the gift shop for quarters. While in line, he notices the gift shop sells cigarettes. And lighters. Sam shakes his head at the ludicrous irony. When he reaches the counter, Sam wonders if he should take up smoking but asks only for five dollars worth of quarters.

He crosses the lobby to a small payphone bank, considering himself fortunate such things still exist. The phone rings twice (but could have been two hundred, Sam dreads this call so) before Mary's mom answers.

"Bueno!" she says in a cheerful voice.

"Ginger? Hey, it's Sam."

"What's up, Sam? Is Mary okay?" Ginger's perceptivity always astounds Sam. Through either something in his voice or sheer Mom instinct, Ginger had gotten to the point for him.

"No," Sam says, gagging on the word. "Mary's not okay."

"What happened?" The pleasantness leeches from Ginger's voice; now speaks the hard-nosed Mom automaton. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I'm at the hospital with Mary—"

"The hospital! Jesus, Sam, what is going on?"

"I’m not really sure how to tell you this, so I’ll just out with it. Mary hit her head last night and now she’s unresponsive, comatose or something. When I woke up this morning, she was…I don't know…gone. She’s had an MRI but I haven’t gotten the results yet."

"Sam, why the hell didn't you take her to the hospital last night when she bumped her head? Are you a complete fucking moron?"

Sam leans his forehead against the phone and resigns himself to Ginger's tirade. Ginger is normally pleasant, endlessly loving and supportive of her son-in-law, and seldom curses. Today, however, her tongue is a poisoned blade, scathing and brutal. Sam feels a suspicious pulling in his pants where a new anus forms, but he bears the discomfort silently. Ginger needs this, so Sam grits his teeth.

Ginger's storm blows out after a few long minutes, and she begins to ask questions. "Sam, do the doctor's know anything conclusive?"

"I haven’t even talked to the neurologist, yet. I have no details, Ginger. I’m sorry."

"I'm flying there right now." Ginger says with finality. Sam knows what would happen. Ginger would come down here, start throwing her weight and RN knowledge around like a bloody war hammer, and make things a whole lot worse.

As delicately as he can manage, Sam declines. "Ginger, hold off just a couple more days, okay? Just until they run more tests, have a better idea of what's wrong with her. I don't even know if they'll release her yet or not. Is that okay? I promise to call at every development."

“Sam, no!” she cries, her voice angry and struggling with tears. “Don’t make me stay away. She’s my baby girl, I have to help her.”

Sam cringes, feeling the weight of this new sin. But he cannot handle Ginger in Colorado, not yet. “Ginger, you can’t help her, not until we know what’s wrong. I promise, as soon as possible, I’ll fly you out.”

She remains silent a long moment. Sam feels an icy chill emanating from the earpiece of the phone. “You’re being a selfish prick, aren’t you? Fine. Be a selfish prick. If you don’t call me with a flight number in forty-eight hours, I’m showing up on your doorstep. And I won’t be happy.” Ginger hangs up the phone without waiting for a response.

"I promise," Sam says into the buzzing receiver and drops the phone into its cradle. He heads back toward the gift shop. He wants to try that smoke after all. Mary and fifty million others can't be wrong, can they?