Page 3 of Curveball: The Baby and the Grump

But somehow her calm exterior just makes me angrier. It’s like I’m about to lose my whole life and she doesn’t even care that it’s all her fault. Whether or not that’s actually true isn’t relevant — because right now I need someone to blame, and she’s here. I yell again, “I’m going to get you fired if you’ve damaged me!”

Maybe that’s a bit too harsh, and she probably doesn’t deserve a difficult guy being on her case — and the way the receptionist rolls her eyes when we walk through the door basically proves that they all think I’m a dramatic loser who shouts when he can’t get what he wants. But the pain is stopping me from caring about any of that. Right now I am going to be difficult until I get what I want. And that might just be getting her to suffer just as much as I am.

The woman doesn’t reply to my outburst, though, just raises her eyebrows ever so slightly, like she knows I couldn’t get her fired even if I really wanted to. I don’t think I do really want to, but if she gives me bad news, I’m going to lose it. And unfortunately for her, she’s going to be in my firing line.

She leads me through the corridors, past sick and other injured people, some of whom are even managing to smile despite the fact they’re probably all dying. The more people we walk past, the sicker I feel. What if I’m about to die too?

And then we dip into a little room, out of the way, with drawn blinds and just a hint of a distantly crying baby. Maybe this is a torture room. Maybe this is where all liability cases go to die.

“Wait here,” she says. “I’ll be right back with a doctor.”

Before I can say another word, she darts out the door, leaving me to sink slowly onto the bed, the covers crinkling underneath me, and wait for someone to give me more attention — or at the very least, painkillers.

CHAPTER 4

FREYA

“Well, isn’t this just good enough,” snarls Mrs. Briar with sarcasm as thick as a pie crust as I return her charts to the foot of the bed and make a note of the medications I’m about to go and get for her.

She’s a miserable old woman who comes into urgent care at least twice a week because of her diabetes/joint pain/arthritis/stomach problems… Well, you get the picture. Something is always wrong and nothing is ever good enough for her. But because I’m the only person she’s ever come anything close to liking, I’m the one who always gets made to deal with her — whether I want to or not.

We’re busy as hell today, as usual, and I don’t really have the time or the energy to argue with her, so I let her complaining slide off me, choosing just to puff up her pillows again as I start walking through the progress I have to make through the rest of the ward after this.

I have to go and see little Timmy, six years old, bright as a button and always smiling even though he’s always in here too. His immune system isn’t right, and no one can solve it, so for now we’re just patching him up the best we can and trying to soothe his neurotic parents. I’m going to go and give him a sticker or something to cheer him up a little after this.

Then I have to go and check on the usual gaggle of various teenagers with concussions and broken ankles and swollen knees because not one of them thinks, Oh, hey, I’ve already got an injury — I should stop playing sports and let it heal. No, instead they’re all, Oh, no, my college admissions will look terrible if I don’t keep playing every sport ever invented by man twenty-four seven, and that means I have to hurt myself so much worse!

And then after all that, if I get a moment, I’m going to go and see Jackson again, who’s currently lying in bed looking very sorry for himself. The guilt of knocking him over is pretty all-consuming — but really, he didn’t move out of the way either. He must have a pretty high-stress job, though, from the way he was acting. And the more I think about it, the more he is kind of familiar to me, and I can’t quite place why.

On the surface, he’s the same as any other generally handsome guy, with the strong jawline, the bold nose, the blue eyes that are severe and cutting and yet seem to speak of hidden, sensitive depths beneath. Ugh, listen to me! You’d almost think I’d developed a sudden obsessive crush on him. Even though I’d have to be out of my right mind to not recognize that he was attractive — because he definitely is — after what he was saying about getting me fired, I don’t want to take any chances. At this point, it’s not worth not being nice to him.

“You know, back in my day,” Mrs. Briar is saying, “old women used to get priority treatment. Now look at me. Cast aside in pain and no one cares.”

“That’s not true, Mrs. Briar,” I say gently but with just a touch of my very best nurse-mode authority. “I care. Why do you think I always come and see you?”

She huffs grumpily, muttering a nonsense syllable because she knows full well she hasn’t got a good response for me. At least it’s stopped her flow of vaguely offensive remarks.

“Tell you what, Mrs. B,” I say, patting her gently on the shoulder. “I’ll go and talk to Doctor Brown about your meds right now, and on the way back I’ll bring you an extra slice of apple pie. How about that?”

She glares at me, but to my relief nods in assent, slumping back in defeat.

She can be incredibly difficult, but basically, the best way to make anyone of any age do anything is to bribe them with treats. With the best smile I can muster — which I know that at this point in my shift definitely looks strained — I excuse myself and head back off onto the ward. I give Timmy a fist bump when I see him and do my absolute best not to roll my eyes at any teenagers.

Fortunately, no one is too difficult, so I leave everyone comfortable and head back out, intending to go find Jackson. And it stays an intention for at least another thirty minutes because on my way back to his room, I get stopped three or four times by patients and other nurses who want something from me. I guess everyone knows that I can’t say no to stuff, because I get sidetracked with blood-drawing and temperature-taking and bandage runs until finally, finally I can sneak off to Jackson’s room.

Unluckily for me, I’m getting close to my break and I have the feeling that he’s going to make me miss it by being as equally demanding as the old man who I just helped to the toilet. I take a deep breath, centering myself, then rap on the door and enter.

It’s absolutely no surprise at all that I get greeted with an unhappy glare. “How are you feeling?” I ask with a big smile. He grunts in response. “That good, huh?”

I smile harder as I approach the bed. It’s a challenge, I think, to get him to crack. I’m going to get a little out of him, even if it’s just a fact about him, or a little smile, or even a thank you. There’s a human being hidden inside there, and I’m going to dig it out no matter how hard that is. It’s then, as I pick up his chart, that I realize I don’t even know his last name.

“How’s your pain level?” I ask, glancing up at him. He grunts again indecipherably. “Is that good or bad?”

“Fine. My elbow hurts.”

I sigh and approach him, stretching out my fingers in warning that I’m about to inflict damage upon him again. “So, is it fine or does it hurt?”

“It hurts, okay! It hurts! And it would be great if you idiots could do something about that.”

---