By the time Henry comes in to check on me, I’m so engrossed that I’ve temporarily forgotten where I am and who I am. A gift if I’ve ever been given one.
“Still up?” Henry says. I nod. He comes closer.
I look at his tattoo again. I was wrong before. It isn’tIsabelle. It’sIsabella. The image in my head instantly changes from a glamorous blond waif to a voluptuous olive-skinned brunette. Good Lord, I need to get a life.
“Do you ever sleep?” he asks me as he puts a blood-pressure cuff around my arm. “Are you a vampire? What’s going on here?”
I laugh and glance at the clock. It’s just after midnight. Time means nothing in the hospital. Truly. When I was out in the real world, functioning in everyday society, and someone would say “Time is just a construct,” I would roll my eyes and continue to check errands off my To Do list. But I was wrong, and they were right. Time means nothing. Never is that more clear than in a hospital bed.
“No, I’m OK,” I say. “Last night, after I saw you, I fell asleep for at least nine hours.”
“OK,” he says. “Well, keep me posted if that changes. Sleep is an important part of healing.”
“Totally,” I say. “I hear you.”
Henry looks even more handsome today than he did yesterday. He’s not the kind of handsome that all women would be attracted to, I guess. His face isn’t symmetrical. I suppose his nose is a bit big for his face. His eyes are small. But something about it just... works for him.
He puts my chart back into the pocket on my bed.
“Well, I’ll see ya—” he says, but I interrupt him.
“Isabella,” I say. “Is that your wife?”
I’m slightly embarrassed that I have said this just as he was clearly saying good-bye. But what are you going to do? It happened.
He steps back toward me. Only then do I think to look and see if he has a wedding ring. You’d think I’d have learned this shit by now. No ring. But actually, you know, what Ihavelearned is that no ring doesn’t mean no wife. So my question still stands.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No, I’m not married.”
“Oh,” I say.
Henry doesn’t offer who Isabella is, and I figure if he wanted to tell me, he would. So... this is awkward.
“Sorry to pry,” I say. “You know how it is around here. You get bored. You lose your sense of what’s appropriate to ask a stranger.”
Henry laughs. “No, no, totally fine. Someone has a huge name tattooed on his forearm, I think it warrants a question. To be honest, I’m surprised people don’t ask about it more often.”
I laugh. “Well, thank you for checking in on—” I start to say, but this time, it’s Henry who talks over me.
“She was my sister,” he says.
“Oh,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “She passed away about fifteen years ago.”
I find myself looking down at my hands. I consciously look back up at him. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Henry looks at me thoughtfully. “Thank you,” he says. “Thanks.”
I don’t know what to say, because I don’t want to pry, but I also want him to know that I’m happy to listen. What do I say, though? My first instinct is to ask how she died, but that seems like bad form. I can’t think of anything, so I end up just staring at him.
“You want to ask how she died,” Henry says.
I am instantly mortified that I am so transparent and also so tacky. “Yeah,” I say. “You caught me. How terrible is that? So morbid and unnecessary. But it was the first thing I thought.How did she die?I’m terrible.” I shake my head at myself. “You can spit in my breakfast if you want. I’ll totally understand.”
Henry sits down in the chair and laughs. “No, it’s OK,” he says. “It’s such a weird thing, right? Because it’s the first thing the brain thinks to ask.She died? How did she die?But at the same time, it’s, like, sort of an insensitive question to ask.”
“Right!” I say, shaking my head again. “I’m really sorry.”