Deborah.
“Sergeant Morgan, knife wound” I said. “They just brought her in.”
“Who are you?” she said.
Stupidly thinking it might get me past her quickly, I said, “Next of kin” and the woman actually smiled. “Good” she said. “Just the man I need to talk to.”
“Can I see her?” I said.
“No” she said. She grabbed me by the elbow and began to steer me firmly toward an office cubicle.
“Can you tell me how she's doing?” I asked.
“Have a seat right here, please” she said, propelling me toward a molded plastic chair that faced a small desk.
“But how is she?” I said, refusing to be bullied.
“We'll find out in just a minute” she said. “Just as soon as we get some of this paperwork done. Sit down, please, Mr —is it Mr Morton?”
“Morgan” I said.
She frowned. I have Morton here.”
“It's Morgan” I said. “M-o-r-g-a-n.”
“Are you sure?” she asked me, and the surreal nature of the whole hospital experience swept over me and shoved me down into the chair, as if I had been smacked by a huge wet pillow.
“Quite sure” I said faintly, slumping back as much as the wobbly little chair allowed.
“Now I'll have to change it in the computer” she said, frowning.
“Doggone it.”
I opened and closed my mouth a few times, like a stranded fish, as the woman pecked at her keyboard. It was just too much; even her laconic “Doggone it” was an offense to reason. It was Deborah's life on the line —shouldn't there be great fiery gouts of urgent profanity spewing from every single person physically able to stand and speak? Perhaps I could arrange for Hernando Meza to come in and teach a workshop on the correct linguistic approach to impending doom.
It took far longer than seemed either possible or human, but eventually I did manage to get all the proper forms filled out and persuade the woman that, as next of kin and a police employee I had every right in the world to see my sister. But of course, things being what they are in this vale of tears, I did not really get to see her.
I simply stood in a hallway and peeked through a porthole-shaped window and watched as what seemed like a very large crowd of people in lime green scrubs gathered around the table and did terrible, unimaginable things —to Deborah.
For several centuries I simply stood and stared and occasionally flinched as a bloody hand or instrument appeared in the air above my sister. The smell of chemicals, blood, sweat and fear was almost overwhelming. But finally, when I could feel the earth turning dead and airless and the sun growing old and cold, they all stepped back from the table and several of them began to push her toward the door. I stepped back and watched them roll her through the doors and down the hall, and then I grabbed at the arm of one of the senior-looking men who filed out after. It might have been a mistake: my hand touched something cold, wet and sticky, and I pulled it away to see it splotched with blood. For a moment I felt light-headed and unclean and even a little panicky, but as the surgeon turned to look at me I recovered just enough.
“How is she?” I asked him.
He looked down the hall toward where they were taking my sister, then back at me. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Her brother” I said. “Is she going to be all right?” He gave me half a not-funny smile. “It's much too soon to tell” he said. “She lost an awful lot of blood. She could be fine, or there could be complications. We just don't know yet.”
“What kind of complications?” I asked. It seemed like a very reasonable question to me, but he blew out an irritated breath and shook his head.
“Everything from infection to brain damage” he said. “We're not going to know anything for a day or two, so you're just going to have to wait until we do know something, okay?” He gave me the other half of the smile and walked away in the opposite direction from where they had taken Deborah.
I
“Sergeant Morgan, knife wound” I said. “They just brought her in.”
“Who are you?” she said.
Stupidly thinking it might get me past her quickly, I said, “Next of kin” and the woman actually smiled. “Good” she said. “Just the man I need to talk to.”
“Can I see her?” I said.
“No” she said. She grabbed me by the elbow and began to steer me firmly toward an office cubicle.
“Can you tell me how she's doing?” I asked.
“Have a seat right here, please” she said, propelling me toward a molded plastic chair that faced a small desk.
“But how is she?” I said, refusing to be bullied.
“We'll find out in just a minute” she said. “Just as soon as we get some of this paperwork done. Sit down, please, Mr —is it Mr Morton?”
“Morgan” I said.
She frowned. I have Morton here.”
“It's Morgan” I said. “M-o-r-g-a-n.”
“Are you sure?” she asked me, and the surreal nature of the whole hospital experience swept over me and shoved me down into the chair, as if I had been smacked by a huge wet pillow.
“Quite sure” I said faintly, slumping back as much as the wobbly little chair allowed.
“Now I'll have to change it in the computer” she said, frowning.
“Doggone it.”
I opened and closed my mouth a few times, like a stranded fish, as the woman pecked at her keyboard. It was just too much; even her laconic “Doggone it” was an offense to reason. It was Deborah's life on the line —shouldn't there be great fiery gouts of urgent profanity spewing from every single person physically able to stand and speak? Perhaps I could arrange for Hernando Meza to come in and teach a workshop on the correct linguistic approach to impending doom.
It took far longer than seemed either possible or human, but eventually I did manage to get all the proper forms filled out and persuade the woman that, as next of kin and a police employee I had every right in the world to see my sister. But of course, things being what they are in this vale of tears, I did not really get to see her.
I simply stood in a hallway and peeked through a porthole-shaped window and watched as what seemed like a very large crowd of people in lime green scrubs gathered around the table and did terrible, unimaginable things —to Deborah.
For several centuries I simply stood and stared and occasionally flinched as a bloody hand or instrument appeared in the air above my sister. The smell of chemicals, blood, sweat and fear was almost overwhelming. But finally, when I could feel the earth turning dead and airless and the sun growing old and cold, they all stepped back from the table and several of them began to push her toward the door. I stepped back and watched them roll her through the doors and down the hall, and then I grabbed at the arm of one of the senior-looking men who filed out after. It might have been a mistake: my hand touched something cold, wet and sticky, and I pulled it away to see it splotched with blood. For a moment I felt light-headed and unclean and even a little panicky, but as the surgeon turned to look at me I recovered just enough.
“How is she?” I asked him.
He looked down the hall toward where they were taking my sister, then back at me. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Her brother” I said. “Is she going to be all right?” He gave me half a not-funny smile. “It's much too soon to tell” he said. “She lost an awful lot of blood. She could be fine, or there could be complications. We just don't know yet.”
“What kind of complications?” I asked. It seemed like a very reasonable question to me, but he blew out an irritated breath and shook his head.
“Everything from infection to brain damage” he said. “We're not going to know anything for a day or two, so you're just going to have to wait until we do know something, okay?” He gave me the other half of the smile and walked away in the opposite direction from where they had taken Deborah.
I
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