Page 62 of Lying Hearts

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Annie

Florescent light: right above me. Cognizance: straining. My line of vision: filled with doctors.

“She’s back,” one says to the other.

“How’re you feeling?” the other says.

“Fine. I think I just…”

“You fainted,” they say over me. I’m not even sure I spoke. I feel weird. Suddenly I sit up, but they push me back down. “Now now.”

“Where’s Brendan?” I’m in a hospital hallway. People are walking by us, some sick, some working. “Where is he? Is he alive?”

The one looks to the other and leaves her to it. She checks my pulse, blinking too much.

“He’s in surgery. His lung was punctured.”

I drop my head onto the gurney. “Oh no.” I try to get up again. “I’m fine. I wasn’t shot. I have to go see him.” I throw my legs off and am about to stand when she grabs me by the arms.

“You need to rest.”

It’s obvious arguing isn’t going to do me any good, so I nod and lay back down.

“I’ll be back to check on you in a bit.” She looks at me for affirmation.

“Sure. Okay. I’ll be right here.”

The second she’s out of sight, I climb off the gurney and head to the information desk. “Where is Brendan Clark’s surgery room?”

The nurse looks up at me, her eyes flickering to my hands. I look down to see they’re covered with dark, dried blood. I look at her again, unashamed, my eyebrows saying, well? She frowns and looks at her computer. Reading it, she says, “The only thing I can tell you is that he’s not going to be out for awhile and after that he’ll be in the ICU, not able see anyone but family or those listed on his emergency contacts. Are you Mrs. Wells?”

I blink, not understanding the question. “No, I’m Annie O’Brien. He was at my bar when he was shot. I have to make sure he’s okay. For insurance reasons.”

She eyes me like she knows that’s not the reason. “Well, you won’t be able to visit him until visiting hours.”

I interrupt her from saying more. “I’ll wait. Will you please tell the doctors I’m here so they can come and tell me how he is? I want to know as soon as he’s out.”

As she watches me, I walk to a chair and sit down. I raise my eyebrows at her and she shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

The next five hours are the longest of my life. Staring at the T.V. set and seeing nothing but moving images and blurred sound, I hear a voice next to me say, “It’s almost 10 a.m. You want a bagel or some coffee?”

I look over. An older gentleman, maybe sixty, is pointing toward what must be the direction of cafeteria. “At least some coffee? You look like you don’t want to sleep.”

I blink, and give my eyes a good rub. “Oh, um… that would be great. Thank you.”

I have no sense of time now. He comes back and it feels like he just left. “Here you go.” I take it and stare at the warm, paper coffee cup. “It needs a second to cool down anyway so take your time.” His voice is kind.

“Thank you.” My eyes return to him.

“Who’s hurt?” he asks.

I raise my eyebrows, surprised. He motions to my hands. “Oh!” I stare at the dark stains and wonder why I’m not disgusted. It occurs to me that women are probably made to handle a lot when we care about someone.

“Do you want to wash those?” His voice is soft and gentle, like he’s talking to a tiny stray dog whose ribs are showing, it’s so fragile.

“I guess I should.”

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