Night Shift

Night Shift

It is after midnight. Blue light flickers against the curtains and the sound of canned laughter spills out into the hall. Mr. Garcia, fighting the sleeping pill I gave him two hours ago, fuels his wakefulness with reruns and infomercials. Like many of my older patients, he is afraid to go to sleep. I give him a reassuring pat, pull up the side rails on his bed and tiptoe from the room.

The nurses’ station is a quiet oasis of light. Leona is hunched over the desk, doing chart checks. I grab a handful of leftover Halloween candy and sit down to do mine. “Where’s Ed?” I ask.

“Bergman’s IV infiltrated. He’s starting a new one. Get many trick-or-treaters?”

“Nope. Just a few. Hope you like Milk Duds. How about you?”

“Didn’t bother. Turned off the porch light. Who wants a bunch of snot-nosed kids ringing your doorbell? To hell with ’em,” Leona says.

“Right,” I reply. Unlike those of us who need the extra money, I suspect that Leona works at night because it suits the darkness of her personality. She has no social life that we know of, never talks about family and is the bitch queen of the night shift.

A call light rings. I glance at the board and sigh. Mrs. Pittman. “Damn. The old bat’s starting early. I’ll get it,” I volunteer. I am not being altruistic. I am escaping from Leona.

“Get me another blanket. It’s freezing in here,” Mrs. Pittman whines.

I head down the hall to the supply room with its green tile and long bank of tall windows, a room once used long ago for gynecological exams when this was an OB-GYN floor. I cannot imagine hunkering down, knees spread, in front of these windows, even if it is on the third floor. The room is now lined with storage shelves and cluttered with equipment. I flick on the dim overhead light and make my way through a forest of IV poles, their shadows falling like barren branches across the wall. I get Mrs. Pittman’s blanket from the linen cart.

I stop. Something isn’t right. An icy chill. A flicker in the corner of my eye. The periphery of my vision catches the brief reflection of a man in one of the windows. Hairs prickle on the back of my neck. I clutch the blanket to me and slowly turn. There is no one there. I am alone. A trick of the light.

Or maybe I’ve had my very first glimpse of Bob. I’ve heard the story since my first day on the job. Part of the initiation rites to working on the third floor is learning about our resident ghost. Supposedly he was a patient who fell in love with Rosa, a former supply clerk for the floor. When he died, he just refused to leave and he’s been hanging around the supply room ever since. No one seems to know what happened to Rosa. Probably scared her into early retirement.

“Well, Bob, Halloween is officially over and I am not in any mood for trick-or-treat,” I announce. “No more visits, whoever*or whatever*you are.”

I force myself to look out that same window and down onto the stark, empty hospital parking lot bathed in cold incandescence. A mist is falling. Red shimmering light pulsates from the Emergency Room side of the building. Sirens wail in the distance. I am so envious. Down there, they are busy with more than the Mrs. Pittmans of this world. I deliver the blanket and tuck it around her, then head back toward the nurses’ station.

I am halfway down the hall when a bony hand reaches from a doorway and grabs my arm. “Get that man out of my room!” a gruff voice demands.

“What man, Mr. Moreno? You’re in a private room.”

“I’m gonna report this. That guy was rummaging around in my stuff. Good thing I woke up to pee when I did. When I turned around to grab my cane, he disappeared. He’s gotta still be in there hiding somewhere. I want him out*now.”

“You wait here, Mr. Moreno, and I’ll check it out.” I cautiously peek around the door of his room. It is dark except for the soft night light above the bed and a shaft of yellow falling from the open bathroom door. I see no one.

I slowly take a step into the room. No one in the bathroom. Another step. No one behind the door. Another. No one crouching behind the bed*or under it. Either Mr. Moreno’s imagination has been working overtime, or I’m thinking Bob has been way too busy tonight. “There’s no one here,” I reassure him. “You must’ve had a bad dream.”

“The hell I did! There was someone in my room.”

“What seems to be the trouble?”

“Oh, Officer Andrews.” I am relieved to see our elderly night security guard coming down the hall. “Mr. Moreno thinks*”

“I know what I saw, missy.”

“Mr. Moreno states he saw a man in his room just now, but I checked it out. There’s no one in there.”

“Yeah? Well, I think I’ll just have a look for myself.” Officer Andrews emerges after a quick inspection. “It’s okay, Mr. Moreno, she’s right. Nobody there. You can go back to bed.”

“The administration is gonna hear about this. I’m paying good money for this room.” The door slams behind him.

“Too much Halloween candy,” I joke.

“Uh, . . . not necessarily, miss. Was just coming to tell you to stay on your toes. We have a bit of a situation. Had a prisoner escape from the Emergency Room a short while ago.”

“You’ve got to be kidding! They don’t bring prisoners here. They go to County.”

“Yeah, but seems a city officer was injured in a rollover. Pretty bad shape. This was the nearest hospital. Guess the prisoner he was transporting was okay, only got banged up a little. That figures, doesn’t it? Anyhow, in the excitement they somehow lost track of him. He’s probably long gone, but we’re searching the hospital, just in case. Let us know if anything else like Mr. Moreno’s mystery intruder comes up . . . and, ma’am, don’t you be going into dark rooms by yourself like that anymore. You call us. We’ll come and check things out. Better safe than sorry.”

Ed and Leona are both at the nurses’ station when I get back. “Did you hear the news?” I ask.

Ed is unscrewing the top off his thermos. “Yeah. Cool, huh?”

“Cool, my ass,” Leona says. “It’s bad enough we have some old decrepit, retired guy for night security, but now we’ve got a goddamn criminal running around loose. He could be a bank robber or a murderer.”

“They usually don’t rob banks in the middle of the night,” I say. I ignore her other suggestion. “Probably just some alcoholic on his way to the drunk tank.”

“Well, I’m gonna be ready, just in case. I’m getting my pepper spray,” Leona announces, heading for the locker room.

“Jesus, is that legal?” I ask.

Ed shrugs. “She’s nuts. What more can I say? Just don’t sneak up on her. She’s armed and dangerous.”

A call light goes on. Ed has taken a big bite of sandwich. He’s not going anywhere. I am headed back down the hall. Mrs. Pittman. Again. Second call in her nightly litany of complaints.

“Did you think that one thin, extra blanket would keep me warm? It’s colder than ever in here. Turn up the heat!”

I am mentally assigning Mrs. Pittman to a place where she will never be cold again, but say, “Sorry. I’ll check the thermostat and get another blanket.” The thermostat shows the room temperature right where it should be, but I pretend to change the setting. I hear a “sniff” and know she’s watching my every move. Back down the hall for one more blanket.

The supply room light is on. Could swear I turned it off. My close encounter with Bob must’ve shook me up more than I realized. I glance out the windows. The mist has turned to a light rain that falls in pale glittery drops against the panes. I shiver. There’s a feel of dampness in the air. I’m reaching for Mrs. Pittman’s blanket when I hear movement behind me. Footsteps. I feel breath on my neck.

“Don’t move. Just do as I say.”

No problem. I am frozen in place. The man sounds agitated and I sense that he’s a lot bigger than I am. The blanket slips through my fingers and I grab for it.

“I told you not to move!” He shoves me away from the shelves and hurls me against the windows, slamming me hard against the marble sill.

I focus on his eyes. Angry. Not the unfocused eyes of a drunk. Angry and mean. Then I spot the scalpel he’s holding in his still hand-cuffed hands. Shit.

“L-l-look, I have about seven bucks and some change in my purse. I can get it for you,” I stammer.

He laughs. A laugh that isn’t a laugh. Sarcastic. Mocking. “Nice try, babe. Don’t need the money, and if I did, seven bucks wouldn’t exactly cut it.” Another laugh that isn’t one. “Drugs, darlin’. I need some of that good stuff you guys keep around here. Now, you’re gonna be a nice little nursie-nurse and get me some.”

I see it in his eyes. He means it. “But I don’t have the narcotics key,” I say. My voice is shaking. I am shaking.

“Well, now, I guess that’s just one of the little problems you’re gonna have to solve, lady. We’re not gonna end this here encounter until I have everything I want.”

Everything? He wants something besides drugs? Oh, God . . . please . . . no.

“You stay here. I’ll go get the drugs for you. I’ll just get the keys and get whatever you want . . . you just tell me . . . and I’ll come right back. I’ll . . . ”

I am babbling like an idiot.

“Do you think I’m stupid, bitch?” No laugh this time. He takes a step forward. The scalpel is pointed straight at me. I press harder against the marble sill.

“Maybe we’ll have a little fun first. Put you in a better mood to cooperate. Then you can take me to your stash.” He takes another step toward me. He is staring into my eyes and I am caught in that horrible, icy glare.

His gaze suddenly shifts. He looks past me, toward the windows. His eyes grow wide. “What the hell?” he says and glances over his shoulder. He swings around, waving the scalpel in the air. Distracted. His back to me.

I see my chance. I shove hard. Send him flying. He slams into a metal cart. It crashes to the floor, him with it, tangled in its legs. An avalanche of boxes, bedpans and bottles all tumble down on him.

“You bitch,” he snarls.

He kicks a bedpan. It caroms off the wall and clatters to the floor next to me. I take a step toward the door. Not fast enough. He struggles to his feet. The scalpel . . . oh, God, he still has the damn scalpel. It’s nicked his arm and he’s bleeding. But that doesn’t stop him. He lunges. I dodge the blade. So close. Barely misses.

I pull away and am reaching for the door when it swings open. Leona, wild-eyed, jaw thrust forward, takes one look at me and then at my attacker. She raises the object in her hand. Pepper spray. Right in his eyes.

“Sonofabitch!” he cries. He raises his hands to protect himself. Too late. He screams and claws at his eyes. The scalpel clatters to the floor. Leona grabs it.

“Stay put, you asshole, or I’ll give ya some more where that came from.” She has the scalpel in one hand and the pepper spray in the other. Rambo in a nurse’s uniform. She looks at me and nods toward the door. “The cops are on the way. When you didn’t come back from answering that light, we went looking for ya. Heard voices in here. Ed went to call security. When I heard that crash, figured I’d better not wait for ’em to get here.”

“Thanks,” I say, beginning to see Leona in a whole new light. Several officers charge past us and grab the escaped prisoner. One of them relieves Leona of her pepper spray and scalpel. All this is starting to sink in. I am trembling. The officers tell us they have questions. We have to go and talk with them. I just want to sit down and have a cup of coffee. I follow Leona out of the room.

* * *.

The police are gone now, and the patients have finally quieted down. Ed and Leona are in the nurses’ station, trying to catch up on charting. I have tucked in Mrs. Pittman yet again, hopefully for the last time, and am headed back down the hall.

I stop at the supply room door and gently shove it open. I don’t turn on the light. The rain has stopped. Soft grays of dawn play across the room. All the supplies have been neatly restored to their shelves. The linen cart is restocked. IV poles stand upright in the corner. I walk over to the windows, running my hand along the cold marble sill, and think back to just a few hours ago.

I remember those eyes. So hard. So cruel. Then I remember them shifting away from me. Distracted. Surprised. Surprised by something they saw reflected in these windows. I smile. I know what they saw.

“Thanks, Bob,” I whisper and close the door.