Page 100 of Light in the Dark
Willa is the day nurse—she's in her sixties, with thin dishwater blond hair, a smoker's rasp to her voice, and a loving and compassionate but firm bedside manner; she’s also a real stickler for the rules.
"I didnotpitch a fit, Nurse Ratched," comes Dr. Richardson's familiar voice. "I calmly expressed my wishes. Which you ignored. As usual."
Willa grins at Ember and then quickly wipes her face clean, adopting a scowl. “You wanna see me go Nurse Ratched on you, Dr. Richardson? Call me that again. And you did not calmly express anything. You whined like a little bih—baby. And I only ignore you when you're being difficult."
"I'm a doctor, Nurse Wright. I'm always difficult. Comes with thinking I'm the smartest person in the room—and usually being right."
Willa snorts. "Oooooooh-kay," she drawls, "keep telling yourself that, buddy."
These two have a gift of banter—it's been the centerpiece of every day for the last two weeks. Neither of them ever lets on that it's all in good fun—they bicker like an old married couple, scowling, needling, teasing. But underneath it all is a deep respect for each other that somehow shows through despite the constant jabs.
Dr. Richardson stands next to Willa—close enough to communicate a comfort level with each other's personal space. "So, today's the day my star patient goes home."
Ember isn't successful at hiding the wince at the word "home." Her ability to filter her thoughts and words has taken a pretty big hit from this injury, as has her ability to deal with her emotions. She's more mercurial than ever, prone to outbursts of anger, crying, or manic excitement. She's not always aware of what she's doing or saying.
In one memorable incident, she hit on Dr. Richardson, called him Dr. McDreamy—which he found funny for some reason—and she tried to grab his butt. He handled it like a pro, clearly used to situations like that, and never referenced it again. She doesn’t remember doing it.
Her memories are pretty fuzzy, still. She remembers some of the accident but not all, and her memories of the first few days after waking up are mostly a fog.
I think she thought recovery would be a lot of sitting around and reading or watching TV, but that's definitely not the case. Every day has been filled with speech therapy, physical therapy, fine and gross motor skills, testing, assessments, scans, talk therapy…lots and lots of all of that, plus nurses and doctors coming and going at all hours, poking, prodding, taking blood…
Today being release day, she's antsy as hell. Has been all day. Practicing with her crutches, going up and down the hallway outside her room, pausing to chat with whoever's at the nurses’ station, popping into other patients' rooms to hang out…restless, anxious, and difficult.
I've been assured all this is normal. Or, at least, normal for a fucked up situation.
We haven't talked about that day—her walking in on me and Amy. What she saw, or thought she saw.
It's funny—we barely knew each other before the accident, but out of necessity and desire I stepped in and took care of her. I've helped her to the bathroom. Fed her when her hands decide not to work. Gave her sponge baths when she couldn't stand up long enough to take a shower and helped her wash when she could. I've slept on a thin, hard folding cot for so long I'm not sure my back will ever be the same.
I wouldn't change any of it.
I know her, now.
I know her moods. I can tell when she's about to blow a fuse over something—usually silly shit that’s just one thing too much for her frustration level—a tremor in her hand will make her spill her Jell-O and she'll burst into tears, or she can't make her mouth form the right word even though she has it in her brain or it comes out all twisted up and she'll have a fit of anger.
I know when she's exhausted and needs to rest. I'm getting better a understanding what she's trying to say—and still not so good at letting her get it out, right or wrong, instead of guessing to take the work out of it for her.
We talked about her college degree aspirations, her nomadic childhood with her mom. We talked about how she never knew her father and doesn't want to. We talked about how she wants kids someday—in the future. Two or three, she thinks. Boys, girls—doesn’t matter. She's not sure about settling into a house, though. Being in the hospital for two weeks is the longest she's been anywhere but her bus in many years—even in California, she, Faye, and Faye's family took trips together, so she wasn't just in LA the whole time.
We talk about Faye a lot. Those weeks in LA with her, watching her fade from a hale, sassy, sprightly old woman to a fragile little thing, tired, eyes dim, often lost in memory. Waking up one morning and finding her gone, having passed in her sleep.
We talked about her actual grandmother—GramGram. She and her mom would spend a week at a time throughout the year in Florida with her GramGram, and according to Ember, those were always her favorite weeks. She told me she dreamed of running away from her mom and going to live with her grandmother. That was never a real possibility, though, as her grandmother lived in an assisted living facility. Not a great place for a kid.
I told her about my parents, although I tried to spend more time listening than talking.
Glaring at the wheelchair like it’s her arch enemy, Ember sighs. "Fine. Last ride in that tham ding." A huff. "Motherfucker. Damn thing I mean."
That's her most stubborn speech issue—flipping words around or mixing them up like that. It annoys her to fits of rage.
Willa moves for her, but Ember glares at her until she holds her hands out in surrender. Wedging the crutches in her armpits, Ember levers upright on her good leg, wobbles, and catches herself—glaring at all of us, daring us to help; we don't. Pivoting and hopping backward, Ember lowers herself into the wheelchair and lays her crutches across her knees.
"Ready, missy?" Willa asks.
Ember's head snaps around. “Do notcall me that. Ever."
Willa rears back in surprise. "I…okay. I’m sorry."
Now tearful, Ember sniffles. "No,I'msorry, Willa." She paws at her face. "I'm sorry. It's just…a very dear friend of mine used to call me that, and she, um…she died right before the accident."
