Need You Now

58

I couldn’t stop talking. I was leaning on the bed rail, my father’s hand in mine, telling him stories.

The minutes had passed too slowly in silence, and I’d suddenly felt the need to tell him everything I’d been doing for the past fifteen years. The stories kept coming, evaporating the gloom, and it didn’t matter that he couldn’t hear me. Maybe he could, on some level. I wondered how deep and restful his sleep actually was. My poor mother had married a man who snored like a grizzly bear. This was clearly drug-induced sleep, something altogether different. Quiet. Quiet awareness, maybe. Who knew?

I was telling him about my graduation from college when the door opened.

“Hello, I’m from the pain-management team.”

The man didn’t introduce himself as a physician, but he acted like one. Even after introducing myself, I still didn’t get his name. He walked around to the other side of the bed and checked the monitors. If Dr. Kern was a model of bedside manner, he was more in line with my preconceived notion of prison-unit health care.

“Are you a doctor?” I asked.

“Henry Bozan, nurse anesthetist. How long has the patient been sleeping?”

“He was out when I got here. That was around nine.”

“I thought I heard you talking.”

It was an odd tone, almost accusatory. “I’ve been telling him stories as he sleeps,” I said.

“So he hasn’t told you anything?”

Another odd question. “No,” I said.

“You may want to get some rest yourself. He probably won’t come around until morning.”

“Hopefully sooner than that. Dr. Kern reduced the Demerol.”

He checked the drip hanging from the IV pole. “That’s not a good idea. This patient is in serious pain.”

“Dr. Kern said he’s already at the daily maximum.”

“I’m following the direct orders of the chief physician on the pain-management team.”

“I’d prefer that you talk to Dr. Kern about that.”

I heard voices in the hallway, someone approaching. The door opened. Dr. Kern entered with a distressed expression on her face and a corrections officer at her side.

“That’s him!” she said.

The ensuing moments were a complete blur. The corrections officer rushed past Dr. Kern and drew his weapon. I dived forward, shielding my father. The nurse anesthetist was suddenly like a gymnast on a pommel horse, pushing himself up on the bed rail with two strong arms, swinging his legs over the bed-over me and my father-and propelling himself feetfirst into the oncoming officer. Dr. Kern screamed as the gun flew from the officer’s hand, slammed into the wall, and fell to the floor. The nurse-turned-gymnast got there first and emptied two quick rounds into the officer’s chest, dropping him to the floor in a spray of blood. Then he slammed the door shut, grabbed Dr. Kern, and put the gun to her head.

“Don’t move!” he said, meaning me.