Sarah Durst - The Lost

A nurse comes in to check Mom’s monitors. She changes one of the IVs, as well as the catheter bag, and she pats Mom on the shoulder. “Nice you have a visitor. Must perk you up.” To me, she says, “Visiting hours are over in a half hour.”

“Oh, I’m not a visitor. I’m a patient.” I hold up my wrist to display the plastic band identifying me by name and number as an inpatient.

“She’s my daughter,” Mom says.

“Ahh, the one in the coma?”

“She woke up,” Mom says, as if this weren’t obvious.

The nurse smiles at me. “Visiting hours are over in a half hour. You both need your rest.”

Mom snorts. “You lot come in and poke and prod me every hour and then remind me to sleep. I’ll rest better if she’s here. Please, Mary. Turn a blind eye?”

The nurse Mary scowls, though I can sense she doesn’t really mean it. Mom must have charmed everyone in the entire hospital.

“Dr. Barrett brought her in,” Mom says. “You could always blame him.”

“Oh, did he now?” Mary’s scowl shifts into a smile. “He’s a good one. Works too hard, but they all do. Everyone does. Sometimes I think the whole world has its priorities out of whack. Yes, stay. I’ll let the next shift know.”

“Thank you, Mary,” Mom says. I echo her.

She waggles her finger at both of us. “Get your mother to eat.”

Mom makes a face.

After pricking Mom’s finger with a needle and then checking her temperature, Mary leaves. She pulls her nurse’s cart with her, and she sticks a clipboard in a holder by the door. She pulls the door mostly shut.

“Everyone makes exceptions when you’re dying,” Mom says with satisfaction. “It’s as if every statement I utter is a last request that has to be honored. I’m thinking of asking for something completely ludicrous, like for the entire staff to dress in medieval garb.”

“There might be rules against that.”

“Who would think to make a rule about not wearing medieval garb? I’m betting that it hasn’t come up before. After me, they might make a rule about it. Maybe they’ll name it after me. I’d be immortalized in the hospital employee handbook.”

“I wish you weren’t dying,” I say. I don’t know why I say the words out loud or so plainly. They float in the air like bubbles. Mom doesn’t say anything. There isn’t much to say back. She knows I don’t want to hear a platitude, and I doubt she’ll say one anyway. She has never been one for platitudes, unless they’re ironic or clever twists on clichés. Truthfully, I’m relieved she hasn’t said anything. I sneak a look at her. She looks serene. “How do you feel?” I ask. It isn’t really a question I ask much, I realize. I haven’t wanted to hear the answer.

“Sometimes sad. Sometimes angry. Usually tired. Mostly, though, I just feel like me, only with the inconvenience of this body that won’t cooperate with me. I forget occasionally, like when I wake up, that I’m too weak to walk, and I think I need to go to the bathroom to pee or brush my teeth. I miss being home.”

“Will they let you go home? I’m here. I can take care of you.” As I say it, there’s a part of me that cringes inside. I don’t want the responsibility. I’m not trained as a nurse. What if I do something wrong? What if I can’t take care of her? But I don’t take the words back.

“No, Lauren. No one wants to be a burden.”

I know she can’t be happy here, without her things, her plants, her home, her privacy. “Let me look into it. In the meantime, maybe we can make this room more homelike. Real plants. A few photos for the wall...” I trail off. I have the seed of an idea for what I can do to make it better here. Maybe I can ask Dr. Barrett to help me with the supplies I’ll need.

“Sounds nice.”

She sounds tired. I decide to stop talking. I listen to the beep of the monitor. It’s steady, reassuring. I feel my own tiredness in my bones.

Eventually, we both sleep.

I wake suddenly and stop myself from shooting upright in bed. I listen to the beep-beep of the monitor, and I exhale slowly. She’s still here. I twist in bed to look at her face. Her brow is furrowed, and I think she’s not having a good dream. I consider waking her, but I know she needs the rest. Maybe the dream will shift soon.

I slither out of bed as best I can without touching her or her wires or tubes. It isn’t easy because the bed is narrow, plus there’s a railing on the side. But I slip out. My knees shake as my legs remember that they’re supposed to support my weight. I wobble over to the chair. I have a crick in my neck, and my back feels sweaty from lying next to another person. It’s dark outside, but I can see the silhouette of the palm trees and the endless stream of car headlights and taillights. Always traffic in L.A.

The hospital isn’t asleep. Hospitals never sleep. Through the door, I hear the hushed voices of the staff. Carts roll past outside, everything in them clattering together as if a chef were tossing all his knives and pots and pans into a steel sink. My eyes feel gummy, and I feel sticky. I don’t think Mom would mind if I use her shower. I raid the supply of hospital gowns in one of the drawers and slip into the bathroom.

Stepping into the shower, I turn on the water. The water falls over me, and I feel as though I’m sloughing off my skin. It feels glorious, and I remember my first shower in Lost. And then I try not to remember it. I don’t want to cry. I’ve cried enough in showers to last me a lifetime. I let the water flow as hot as I can stand, and I feel my muscles begin to unknot.

I dry myself with the rough and not-big-enough towel. My hair is still dripping when I finish, but I do my best to mop up the puddles so that no one will slip and fall. I pull on a hospital gown and wish I had a bra and my own underwear instead of this knit hospital underwear. Maybe I can call someone—coworker? neighbor?—and ask them to fetch me clothes from home. I don’t know that I’ve stayed close enough to anyone to ask a favor like that. Combing my hair with my fingers, I wonder who has been taking care of our apartment with both of us here. Mom must have made arrangements to pay the rent and other bills. She’s the consummate worrier; I’m sure she thought of it. I’ll ask her when she wakes. In the meantime, I have a project.

I slip out of the room.

The nurse at the nurses’ station glances up at me as I pad across the hallway. There’s a doctor filling out a form. His back is to me, but I recognize his hair immediately. “Dr. Barrett?”

He turns. “Ms. Chase. Is everything all right?”

“Fine. She’s sleeping.”

His shoulders relax. I’m surprised I can tell under his doctor’s coat. “Are you all right?” he asks. “You should be resting. Do you need assistance back to your room? I’m on call so I can’t—”

“No, thanks. I’m fine. I’m actually looking for a pencil and paper.”

“That I can arrange.” He leans over the nurses’ station and tears off a few sheets from a pad of paper and then he plucks a no. 2 pencil out of a cup. He hands them to me. “Anything else?”

I shake my head, but then I think of something. “Can I look in your lost-and-found bin? For unclaimed clothes? It might be a while before I’m back in my apartment.”

“Of course.” He addresses the nurse. “Paula, would you mind?”

“Go ahead. It’s in supply closet 308.” She waves her hand. “You wouldn’t believe some of the things people leave behind and never claim.”

I think of the stuffed puffer fish and smile, a tight sad smile but the best that I have right now. “I’m sure it’s quite interesting.”

I meet Dr. Barrett in the hospital cafeteria at noon. I’m surprised to see him, though I suppose doctors have to eat, too. In line for the pasta Alfredo, I ask, “Isn’t there a doctors-only cafeteria where you don’t have to mix with us riffraff?”