Page 14 of Burn

She reaches into the front of her uniform, produces a cell phone, and hammers away at it for a few seconds before returning her attention to me.

“I’ve notified the doctor that you’re awake. She’ll come in to confirm that we’re good to remove the tube. For now, lean back and relax. Try to stay calm. Do you need something to help you relax?” she asks, lifting a clipboard from the side of the bed and flipping through pages.

Something to relax? I shake my head back and forth. The movement pulls at the tape on my cheek. I don’t want to be sedated. I just woke up. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. It feels so bizarre and artificial.

“Okay, honey. Lay back. I’ll be back with the doctor as soon as possible.”

She squeezes my shoulder, offering reassurance and comfort, before turning and walking out the door.

I look at my hands. They’re clean and free of soot, burns, or any other signs of the fire. I touch my face, which feels normal. My body feels fine. My lungs feel broken and singed, and my eyes burn, but the rest of me feels okay, so I lean my head back, letting my dry eyes fallclosed.

I’m dreaming of soft caresses when a strong feminine voice wakes me. Blinking my eyes open, I somehow feel worse now than before. My body feels exhausted and sore. My head pounds, and a dull ‘whomp whomp’ sensation pulses behind my eyes. I lift my IV hand to my temple, wincing as the tube pulls again but pushing past the sting to rub a slow circle into my skin.

“Good afternoon,” the doctor says. Her voice is too loud for my foggy brain, so I close one eye to block out some light. She then takes the clipboard from the nurse and studies it quietly.

I want to ask questions. I want to ask about the fire. I want this fucking tube out of my throat. A phone would be great. I could type my questions, type a request to get the tube out, check the news, but when I scan the table beside my bed, it’s empty. Only now do I realize that I know why I’m here.

The doctor clears her throat. “I’m Dr. Romera,” she starts. “You were in a fire. From what I’ve been told, it wasn’t good. We took in eight people; not all were as lucky as you.”

There’s a sadness buried in her voice, letting me know people died.

Who died?

She continues, “I think we’re good to remove the oxygen tube from your airway. We will need to keep you on oxygen while we monitor your lung activity, and if I’m not satisfied with your levels, we will need to put the tube back. Do you understand?”

I nod, and at the same time, I command my lungs to function properly. This tube will not be going back down my goddamned throat.

“Excellent,” she says, reaching into a box and pulling two blue gloves onto her tiny hands. “You may feel somediscomfort as the tube is removed. If you need to cough, you can. That is normal and will not impact any decision to replace the tube. Okay?”

I nod again, and she moves to the side of my bed. The smoke that lingers in my sinuses is momentarily replaced by a light floral smell that reminds me of springtime. I welcome the change; it calms my racing heart.

Dr. Romera carefully peels the tape off my cheek and reaches to stick it on the table beside us. I follow her hand, trying to see if the tape comes away blackened; it doesn’t. Then, my gaze returns to her face, to her hazel eyes. I examine her irises and notice the way shades of green, brown and blue twist together. The nurse shifts behind her, holding a cup in one hand and a small emesis basin in the other.

I’m not gonna puke.

“Okay, are you ready?” Dr. Romera asks gently.

I nod and close my eyes.

“Take a deep breath in,” she instructs, and I comply. “And, out.”

The tube is pulled free as I push the air out of my lungs. I feel it travel up my esophagus, scraping against the soft tissue, which feels scarred from the heat of the fire. The sensation is bizarre but not painful. I’m experiencing a momentary high from not coughing when the end of the tube passes through the back of my throat, and my body heaves with a violent gag, causing me to double over as gasping coughs wrack my body. I try to pull in a deep breath to steady myself, but I gag again, feeling bile rush up my throat.

I’m gonna puke.

The nurse sees it in my face and rushes forward, placing the basin in front of me and her hand on my back. She then rubs my back in slow, gentle circles.

“It’s okay. Breathe,” she soothes.

What comes out of me looks like something you’d see in a horror movie. It’s thick and black. It tastes like the bottom of an ashtray and looks like oil. The sight and taste of it turn my stomach again, and I continue heaving into the small bean-shaped receptacle in her hands. When I can finally take a deep breath without gagging, she moves the basin aside, pulls a bundle of tissues from her pocket, and offers them to me. I take them, leaning back and wiping my mouth. The nurse studies me, and my eyes drop to her badge, pinned to the pocket of her scrubs. Nurse Patricia Lloyd.

The voice that emerges from me is cracked, scratchy, and wobbles.

“Thank you.”

It feels like razors slice through my vocal cords, and I cough again. Nurse Lloyd holds out the cup. The liquid inside is orange. When I hesitate to take it, she speaks.

“It’s orange soda. I had a feeling water wouldn’t cut through the sour taste.” Her hand moves a little closer to me, encouraging me to take it and drink.

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