Page 26 of Maybe in Another Life

I notice that he has a large tattoo on his left forearm. It appears to be some sort of formal script, large cursive letters, but I can’t make out exactly what it says. “She won’t wake up,” I whisper back.

He looks at Gabby and winces. “Geez,” he says softly. “She sounds like a bulldozer.”

I smile at him. He’s right.

“I won’t be too long,” he says. He moves toward my machines. I’ve been hooked up to these things all day, to the point where they are starting to feel like a part of me.

He starts checking things off his list just as Deanna did earlier today. I can hear the sound of the pen on the clipboard.Check. Check. Check. Scribble.He puts my chart back into the pocket. I wonder if it says in that file that I lost a baby. I push the thought out of my head.

“Would you mind?” he asks me, gesturing to the stethoscope in his hand.

“Oh,” I say. “Sure. Whatever you gotta do.”

He pushes the neck of my gown down and slips his hand between my skin and the cloth, resting the stethoscope over my heart. He asks me to breathe normally.

Deanna did this earlier, and I didn’t even notice. But now, with him, it feels intimate, almost inappropriate. But of course, it’s not. Obviously, it’s not. Still, I find myself slightly embarrassed. He’s handsome, and he’s my age, and his hand is on my bare chest. I am now acutely aware of the fact that I am not wearing a bra. I turn my head so I’m not looking at him. He smells like men’s body wash, something that would be called Alpine Rush or Clean Arctic.

He pulls the stethoscope off me when he’s satisfied with his findings. He scribbles something on the chart. I find myself desperate to change the mood. A mood he’s probably not even aware of.

“How long have you worked here?” I ask, whispering so as not to wake up Gabby. I like that I have to whisper. At a whisper, you can’t tell my voice is shot.

“Oh, I’ve been here since I moved to L.A. about two years ago,” he whispers as he stares at my chart. “Originally from Texas.”

“Whereabouts?” I ask.

“Lockhart,” he says. “You wouldn’t have heard of it. Small town just outside of Austin.”

“I lived in Austin,” I say. “For a little while.”

He looks up at me and smiles. “Oh, yeah? When did you move here?”

It’s hard to answer succinctly, and I don’t have the voice to give him the whole story, so I simplify it. “I grew up here, but I moved back last week.”

He tries to hide it, but I can see his eyes go wide. “Last week?”

I nod. “Last Friday night,” I say.

He shakes his head. “Wow.”

“Seems sort of unfair, doesn’t it?”

He shakes his head and looks back down at the chart. He clicks his pen. “Nope, you can’t think about that,” he says, looking back up at me. “From experience, I can tell you that if you go around trying to figure out what’s fair in life or whether you deserve something or not, that’s a rabbit hole that is hard to climb out of.”

I smile at him. “You might be right,” I say, and then I close my eyes. Conversation takes more energy than I thought.

“Anything I can get you?” he whispers before he leaves.

I shake my head slightly. “Er, actually... maybe a hair tie?” I point to my head. My hair is down around my shoulders. I am lying on it. I hate lying on my hair.

“That’s an easy one,” he says. He pulls one out of his shirt pocket. I look at him, surprised.

“I find them all over the hospital. Someday maybe I’ll tell you about the elaborate reminder system I use them for.” He comes close and puts one in my hand. I only get a slightly better look at his tattoo. I still can’t make it out.

“Thanks,” I say. I lean forward, trying to get a good angle, trying to gather all of my hair. But it’s hard. My entire body aches. Moving my arms high enough seems impossible.

“Hold on,” he whispers. “Let me.”

“Well,” I say, “I don’t want a ponytail.”

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