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PUSHING THE WHEELS on my wheelchair to bring me closer to my hospital room door, I can hear the social worker finishing her interview with the stranger.
Pike tried to take the stranger off in handcuffs, but Dr. Subler fought with Pike about it. I agree; the stranger clearly needs help.
I’m not exactly sure what the strange man was trying to do when he grabbed my chair. I found out later when Pike reluctantly put the stranger back in his room that the poor guy can’t speak, he’s illiterate, and he can’t walk. I can’t help but feel sorry for someone like that. He’s clearly been through a lot. I can tell the social worker thinks so, too. I already heard her ask him several times if he’d been locked up against his will.
“It’s a very strange case,” the social worker says as she speaks in the hallway with the doctor and the sheriff. I move my ear close to the door so I can listen without being seen.
“Where’s he from?” asks Pike. “And when’s he leaving?”
“He says he’s from here, from Leahman’s Bluff.”
“Doc, I thought you said he can’t speak,” replies Pike.
“He can’t speak,” says the social worker. “And you were right, doctor. I suspect he’s illiterate, but he communicates well with pictures and maps.”
I hear the doctor. “Pictures? What else did you find out?”
“I think he’s a fisherman or sailor of some type. I was able to narrow most of the focus of his knowledge on things related to marine life and oceanography, but when I spoke about social services and simple things like cell phones or anything related to technology, he clearly doesn’t understand a thing.”
“Were you at least able to get an address and pinpoint exactly where he lives?” asks Pike.
I hear the social worker chuckle. “He says he lives at the Peak. When I showed him a map, he pointed right to it.”
“Lovers Peak?” Pike asks sounding as surprised as I feel. “That’s along the edge of Cora Morae’s property.”
“Which now belongs to Shelley,” adds the doctor, “and could explain why he might want to talk to her. I suspect he’s homeless and perhaps he’s been living out there, although it still doesn’t make any sense how he’s been able to take care of himself in his condition.”
“I don’t know either,” says the social worker, “but I’ve given him every resource available to him. He has several business cards and brochures on where to get help. It’s shameful he can’t read all of it, but perhaps someone here can help him if he’s going to be here for a few days.”
“The hospital has no reason to keep him,” replies Dr. Subler. “I hate to turn him back out on the street, but I don’t have a choice.”
“He can always sleep in one of my open cells,” Pike blurts out.
“C’mon, Sheriff,” says the social worker rather sassily.
“Well, honestly, I can’t hold him either,” Pike replies. “Unless Shelley wants me to lock him up for attacking her earlier, he hasn’t committed any crimes.”
I think about what happened when the stranger grabbed the wheels to my wheelchair and look down at the coin hanging around my neck. I don’t know where it came from or how I got it. It’s heavy, like real solid gold, and hard to miss because it shines so brightly even under the hospital’s fluorescent lights. A single link is welded to the edge where it hangs from a golden chain and it has the portrait of a woman on it—or perhaps it’s a man with a wig, but the whole thing looks ancient. Maybe it’s his—the stranger’s. Maybe he wants it back.
Multiple footsteps head down the hall and I’m thankful the social worker, Dr. Subler, and Pike are leaving. I roll my chair into the doorway and look down the hall—it’s clear. I roll myself down to the next doorway almost banging into the wall. I hate this stupid chair.
Dr. Subler says I must stay seated at all times so I don’t fall down because of the “unpredictability” of my concussion, so I stay seated as I reverse and roll into the stranger’s doorway.
The stranger is lying in his bed with one hand over his face like he’s in distress or in pain. I notice all the paperwork the social worker mentioned she gave him is sprawled across the floor.
I roll myself in and watch him reach the top of his thighs with both hands and start to massage them.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
He jerks his head at me. He’s cute, in a rugged way, with his black hair kinked at the ends in some places like it needs to be washed and conditioned. He’s also very tan, so it wouldn’t surprise me if he is homeless living on the beach at the bay.
He doesn’t say anything. He just sort of gawks at me and I’m glad his legs don’t work or he might try to attack me again.
“Do your legs hurt?” I ask again, slower and little louder.
He nods and sticks his hand through the bed rails like he’s reaching for me; it makes me nervous. I debate whether I should turn my chair around or just get up and run out, but then I remember the coin. I lift it to dangle as I did earlier. “Do you know anything about this?” I ask. “Have you seen it before?”
He smiles and sits up, leaning in my direction. He’s clearly excited and points to himself.
“You think this is yours?” I ask and he nods.
Why am I not totally surprised? I think he wants it, but I don’t want to let it go. It’s all I have of my memory for the last few days, so I grip the coin in my palm.
“How did I get it?” I ask.
He points to himself again and then back at me.
“Are you saying you gave this to me?”
He nods with so much excitement, his nappy hair falls on his face so he pushes it back with his fingers, exposing his gorgeous blue eyes.
“I don’t believe you,” I say and his face looks stunned. His eyes—wide, bright blue, and blaring cannot distract from the fact he’s probably homeless. “I think you’re lying.”
I watch him fall back to the bed and cover his face with his palms again. Now I feel dismayed; I didn’t mean to come in here to upset him. I’m sure he’s been through enough as both the social worker and the doctor stated.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
He sits up and reaches for me. He’s shaking his head wildly and it looks like he’s trying to get out of the bed. He starts to push himself over the rail and I’m pretty sure he’s going to fall over.
I get out of the wheelchair and run to push him back in the bed before he falls off and breaks his arms; he already can’t walk and I’m not going to be responsible for injuring him more. I try to heave him back in the bed, but he grabs my hand and kisses it.
“Stop it!” I say and try to push him back again. “Get in the bed before you fall over.”
I notice he’s not going after the coin at all and he tries to reach for my face with his lips, so I smack him.
He stops moving as we are both shocked I did that. My hand hurts a lot more than it should like it’s been ripped open. I look in my palm and see scratches and dried blood as if I struggled in some way. For whatever reason, I have a feeling he knows how the wounds got there. I show him my palm.
“Do you know how I got these?”
He looks into my eyes then points to me and I follow his finger as he points in the air above his head. He makes a zigzag motion and from what he’s doing, I figure I’m his finger and it looks like I’m falling. But then he stops and moves his finger quickly up into the air, like I’m flying, and then drops it to his lap. He points to himself and then to me before reaching both hands between his lap and raises them like he’s lifting something, lifting me.
“I don’t understand,” I tell him. “Are you saying I fell?”
He nods.
“So, what is this?” I ask, pointing in his lap.
He makes a bunch of other motions with his hands, but I don’t get it and it frustrates me.
“Tell me how I got the coin,” I demand.
He looks me in the eyes again and points to his chest and then back at the coin that hangs from my neck. He insists he gave it to me, but I don’t understand how a homeless man could possess such a thing. It could explain his eagerness to communicate. I don’t really need the coin as much as he probably does. I suspect it has some monetary value, which could buy him some clothes at least.
I decide to give it back, but as I grip the chain around my neck and start to pull it over my head he stops me. He shakes his head wildly again and grabs my hands gently, helping me wrap my palms around the coin and pushing it against the top of my breast.
“Don’t you want it back?” I ask.
He shakes his head and pats his fingers over my hand that holds the coin over my chest.
“You want me to keep it?” I ask.
He nods in confirmation.
“If you don’t want it, I’ll take it,” says Yanka, the nurse. “And you’re not supposed to be out of that chair, Shelley,” she scolds.
Yanka comes up behind us, dressed in a tight white, low-cut V-neck T-shirt that exposes her nipples as they poke through her non-padded bra atop huge melon-sized breasts. Her denim miniskirt hugs the bottom of her ass and her four-inch high platform wooden sandals make her legs look as long as a giraffe’s.
She places a small pile of folded clothing onto the end of the bed and I notice the stranger is now staring at her with a ridiculous grin as he stares at Yanka's tits; I can’t help but feel a little jealous. But my jealousy turns into embarrassment as Yanka pushes me aside to reach under the bed rails and release them. He smiles at her as though she just set him free.
“Where’s he going?” I ask.
Yanka turns her head to me as her body continues to lean over the stranger, keeping her ass in the air like she wants to make sure both the stranger and I know who has the power of authority as well as seduction. “Blue’s coming home with me,” she says.
“Blue?” I ask. “Is that his name?”
“Are you fucking blind?” Yanka asks me. “Do you not see those gorgeous blue eyes of his? Blue is coming home with me where I can get him all cleaned up.”
“But he’s homeless,” I tell her. Both of them turn to me with a look of perplexity or perhaps annoyance and I gulp. “I just meant—”
“We know what you meant, Shelley. But, if there’s anyone here who’s likely to be a psycho, it’s you. You come from a long line of psychos. Blue here wouldn’t hurt a soul,” smiles Yanka. “Would you, Blue?”
The stranger—or Blue, shakes his head as Yank strips off the top of his gown. His tan covers ripped muscles, which I couldn’t see hiding underneath. Yanka puts a white V-neck T-shirt on him. I admit he already looks better—hotter, but I roll my eyes at the sight of their matching clothing.
Yanka is the town slut, but she also has a big heart. She doesn’t just rescue people in the hospital; she rescues critters, too—dogs, cats, birds, raccoons, squirrels. It doesn’t surprise me that she feels the need to rescue a homeless man.
I try to correct myself. “I meant that you just met the guy.”
Yanka laughs haughtily. “What’s he going to do, Shelley? Stalk me? Chase me around the house with a butcher knife? He can’t walk and he still needs medical care.”
I feel imprudent. I grip the coin Blue says he’s given to me, wondering if I should hand it over to Yanka who deserves it much more than I do.
“Besides,” Yanka continues, “sometimes you meet someone and you just know you’re connected. You just know he deserves everything you can give him.”
Yank winks at Blue, but he looks at me and I feel a pang in my bones.
Yanka notices the look Blue just gave me. “What are you doing in here anyway? You need to get out and give this man some privacy.”
“I’m sorry,” I say and take a few steps back towards the doorway.
I watch the two of them together—Yanka helping him, with her big heart, to get dressed in the bed as she smothers him with her big tits while he smiles, looking happy about it; I can’t help but feel like I’m drowning. I feel like I can’t breathe as I watch the two of them together.
Gripping the coin firmly in my hand, I turn to walk away and I hear a cheer behind me. “Hurray!” Yanka boasts to Blue. “You just wiggled all your toes.”
