Page 20 of Day Shift

He gave me a curt nod, not questioning my presence. Inside, the room was still and peaceful, with the machines beeping softly in the background. Jane Doe was still unconscious, but she was looking less like a car crash victim and more like someone deeply asleep. Her breathing was even, and the bruising had faded into a softer purple hue. It didn’t look as harsh now.

For a moment, I stood there watching the soft rise and fall of her chest under the thin hospital blanket. Then I checked her vitals on the monitor, confirming my girl was stable, and slipped out as silently as I had entered.

Once I’d left the ICU, the normal racket of the hospital didn’t bother me as much. It was like a weird pause button got hit in my head every time I saw her.

Throughout the day, I made the quick checks on my sleeping beauty a regular thing, stealing moments between patients or whenever I managed to get a break. I couldn’t resist the pull to see her, even with the ED buzzing like a kicked hornet’s nest. Each time I entered her room, I noticed little changes—a decrease in swelling here, a reduction in bruising there. Her body was mending, and her brain scans didn’t show any new concerns. The progress she was making kept my worst fears at bay.

6/1

Fast-forward through another whirlwind of patients and paperwork, and it was the end of my shift—my last before the weekend kicked in. I made one final stop at the ICU, needing to see her, knowing in my gut something important had happened.

This time, the door was slightly ajar, and the officer gave me a knowing look and a half smile as I approached. Inside, the change hit me like a slap. Her ventilator was gone. There she was, breathing on her own with a simple nasal cannula in her nose supplementing her oxygen. The machinery that had been her constant companion since her arrival was now gone.

I was drawn to the edge of her bed, and placed my hand on her arm. “You’re looking beautiful today, my angel,” I murmured, keeping my voice soft. “Breathing all on your own, huh? That’s what I like to see.”

For the first time, I had an unobstructed view of her face. Without the endotracheal tube, mouthpiece, tape, and mask, her features were undistorted, peaceful. The cut on her forehead was the only sign of the hell she’d been through. She was beautiful—stunning, actually. It knocked the wind out of me, a feeling that hit somewhere deep, where I didn’t do feelings. I took her hand in mine. Its cool limpness ate at me. How had such a divine creature ended up like this—and all alone? She deserved better.

After brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, I leaned over her. The desire to place a soft kiss on her forehead was almost overwhelming. Instead, I made her a promise. “In the middle of chaos, there you were—mine to care for, mine to protect.”

A whispered vow I would keep.

Moving back before I did something stupid, like actually kissing her, I checked her IV lines and made sure everything was properly in place, even though I already knew it was. Anything to stall, to spend a few more moments with her. I checked the monitors. All her vitals were good. There was nothing to do except have patience and hope she’d come around soon.

I stood there a bit longer, just watching her. “Tomorrow’s my day off, but I’ll come by and bring my guitar and play you some tunes. I bet you’d like that.”

When I finally left the room, the worry I’d been feeling over her injuries began to lift, replaced by a strange anticipation. Tomorrow, I’d be back for a little music therapy. I’d seen for myself over the years how music or even reading to ill or seriously injured patients could help them. Maybe I could help her find her way back.

I shut my apartment door behind me with a thud, kicking my boots off. A waterfront condo on Point Ruston was a great place for a single guy like me to live. I didn’t have many requirements, but what I did need was a place I could enjoy. This community had a movie theater, restaurants, bars, fitness facilities, and a mile-long waterfront trail system. Living here meant convenience, entertainment, and beautiful views! My one-bedroom apartment that overlooked the choppy blue-gray waters that Tacoma was known for, was an ideal place for me. I was a hometown kind of boy.

As I made my way to the kitchen, a couple of boats bobbing in the distance caught my eye through the expansive windows. I tossed my keys onto the granite counter. Although the apartment was small—and cost more than I liked—the simplicity of the layout, the clean lines, and the comfortable decor suited me just fine.

I went to the fridge and pulled out the fixings for a sandwich—some leftover chicken, mayo, pickles, and a couple of slices of bread—and slapped it all together on a plate.

Grabbing a beer from the fridge, I popped the cap off and took a long drag, the cold liquid hitting the spot. With my plate and beer in one hand, I grabbed my laptop with the other and settled onto the bar stool. As soon as I pressed it open, the screen lit up and the processor hummed.

I started typing, searching for any updates on Jane Doe. Nothing new popped up—just the same recycled crap from earlier. Frustration simmered in my chest as I took another bite of the sandwich.

My mind wasn’t on my dinner; it was tangled up with thoughts about the woman who’d crashed into my life. I took another swig of beer, letting the bitterness wash over my tongue, the cold of the bottle comforting against my palm. I stared out the window, watching the lights flicker along the boardwalk below.

“Shit,” I muttered, rubbing my temples. I couldn’t get her out of my head. The mystery woman lying unconscious in the hospital bed was doing a number on my mind. I felt like I needed to help her somehow but wasn’t sure where to start.

When I’d polished off the last bite of my sandwich, I pushed back from the bar and stretched. My muscles ached for rest, the result of the long shift at St. John’s and the heavy leg day I’d done at the gym after work.

I ambled over to the couch, turned on a late-night talk show on the TV, and sank into the soft cushions, letting their comfort ease my weary bones. The host’s banter was just funny enough to distract me from all that had been going on with my Jane Doe.

After a while, sleep tugged at me, but it remained elusive. Her image danced behind my eyelids every time I closed them.

“Dammit,” I muttered under my breath, raking a hand through my hair in frustration. With an exasperated sigh, I heaved myself off the couch and clicked off the TV. The apartment was plunged into darkness save for the dim illumination coming from the streetlights and marina outside.

The cool silk sheets welcomed me as I slipped into bed. Even so, sleep refused to come. Jane Doe’s face and her possible connection to the Russian mafia still lingered in every corner of my thoughts.

My gaze wandered over to the digital clock on the bedside table. 12:07 a.m. glowed back at me. I had to get up early if I was going to make the ICU’s early visiting hours. I groaned before rolling onto my side, trying desperately to fall asleep—to no avail.

“Fuck this,” I growled, throwing off the covers and heading for the bathroom. Maybe a hot shower would help.

As the water battered against my weary body, I tried to focus on the sensation of the steam and the smell of the soap. Anything but her.

Just then, my phone rang. I turned off the shower and stepped out, steam billowing around me like a blanket. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I padded across the cold tiles, leaving damp footprints in my wake.

---