Page 72 of Nothing Less than Magic
“Chelsea? Chelsea? This is Dr. Sadie. Can you hear me?”
I open my eyes, and with a great amount of effort, manage to move my head to indicate yes.
“Excellent,” she says.
This is a different doctor than the one who had me respond by using my fingers.
“Are we feeling a little better today?”
I think so, but I don’t know how to communicate it, so I hold out one finger.
A small voice that appears to be coming from the corner of the room says, “One finger means yes.”
“Very good,” Dr. Sadie says, and takes my hand in hers. It feels small and delicate. “Can you squeeze my hand, Chelsea?”
I squeeze it, but she doesn’t seem to feel it, because she doesn’t say anything and eventually removes her hand from mine.
“Can you blink your eyes?”
I blink and she smiles, clearly pleased. “You’re doing quite well. As soon as you’re up for it, we’ll run some more tests. But this is good progress. Good progress indeed. Is there anything you need?”
Yeah, an extra blanket, more ice chips, and to know where Knox is. But I can’t say any of those things, not even a sound is able to escape my lips.
“I’ll have one of the nurses bring you another blanket. Your hand is ice cold.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” the small voice says. Too few words for me to pin down who it is, and I can’t lift my head enough to look.
I nod off, only to be jarred awake by a jumping motion and the loud thump of a bass. The music is coming from the ears of someone lifting and lowering my bed up and down. I should be alarmed, but it feels familiar, as if the sensation of being abruptly jostled has happened before. I’m automatically reminded of the young man with stringy blond hair and bedraggled clothes hopping around on the trunk of my car at Bear Creek Beach, making me seasick.
But I’m not in a car, and it’s not the disheveled man. It’s a clean-cut thirty-something with earbuds changing my sheets. Apparently, there’s no rest for the weary in this joint. By the time I come to terms with the fact that I’m not in a parking lot, being besieged by young people, he’s gone.
But now I’m wide awake in an empty room, with only my confusion for company. And theclick-clacking of the machines. There’s also the smell of heavy perfume next to my bed. I take a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness and spot the offender on the bed table next to me. A bouquet of pink stargazer lilies, pretty but cloying.
Next to the flowers is a smiley-face mug with a big helium pumpkin balloon and a collection of cards. I’d read them, but even the covers are fuzzy. I manage to prop myself up on my elbows, but only long enough to see the vacant chair in the corner of the tiny room.
There’s no clock, at least none visible while I’m flat on the bed, and the one window, covered in a blackout shade, leaves no hint about the time of day. But judging from the relative quiet, it’s night. Very late at night.
There’s a nurse call button on the side of my bed. I’m tempted to push it just to make sure this is real and that I’m not dead. I try to roll onto my side and remember the IV. I’d move the tubes out of the way, but the effort is too exhausting, so I remain on my back, staring up at the ceiling, attempting to count the silver flecks in the acoustic tiles.
A short time later, a nurse cracks open the door to check on me, letting in a stream of light. But I feign sleep, hoping she’ll leave me be instead of conducting what seems to be a bi-hourly routine of pinching and prodding.
I’m out of luck, though. She flips on the lamp, and it’s like I just walked out of a darkened movie theater into broad daylight.
“You’re awake.” She sounds surprised.
She checks my IV, the liquids in the bags, and then the monitor making all the noise. “Are you comfortable?”
One finger.
She gently lifts my head and fluffs my pillow. With all the strength I can muster, I raise my hand and touch my lips. They’re dry and cracked, and what I wouldn’t do for another ice chip.
“Oh, you poor thing. Let me get some petroleum jelly, and I’ll be right back.”
True to her word, she returns a short time later with a tube of Vaseline and a handful of tiny samples that she piles on the table next to the sickeningly sweet flowers.
I extend my index finger toward the water pitcher.
“For your lips?”
