Chapter 36

A Common Man’s Hands?

“Doctor, doctor! Hurry! This man is waking up,” I screamed as the man I’d been taking care of finally began to open his eyes. For months now, he had gone in and out of consciousness. He had been brought in by a passerby, found among the dead, thought to be dead, but he wasn’t. It was clear he had angels looking out for him.

“Can you hear me?” the doctor asked as he leaned in to look into the man’s eyes. “My name is Dr. Lewis. You’re at Clay Hospital. You were shot in battle. You had a serious head injury. Can you hear me? Blink your eyes two times if you can hear me!”

Both me and the doctor waited with stilled breath. And then it happened; he blinked his eyes…twice. “Doctor, it’s a miracle!” I yelled.

“Yes, Anna, it would appear so. But let’s not celebrate just yet. This man has suffered a traumatic injury. We don’t know if he’ll ever speak again, let alone be able to do more than what he just did.” The doctor looked back at the man we all called Clay, but this time with a little more hope than the day before. “Can you tell us your name?”

Tears began to fill the man’s eyes. He was upset. He tried to speak but couldn’t, and this angered him. We watched the patient search endlessly for the answer, but saw that he couldn’t find it. The man’s breathing intensified. His hands formed fists as he tried to fight his way out of the hand restraints that kept him safe.

“Quick, Anna, give him more morphine before he goes into shock,” the doctor ordered.

“There, there now. It’s alright. You’re going to be just fine,” I said as I pushed the morphine into his veins. I was good with him. From the moment he had been dropped off to our hospital, I had felt responsible for him, and I didn’t know why. It had been more than four months since this stranger had arrived at our hospital that sat in the middle of our Kentucky hills. Since no one knew who he was, we decided to call him Clay, after the hospital. But maybe, just maybe, now that he was awake we would learn his real name, who he was and where he came from.

As Clay began to calm down and drift into the fog where pain lost its grip, the doctor gave his final orders for the night. “Send for me the minute he wakes up. The absolute first minute, you understand?”

“First thing,” I said. I was short with Dr. Lewis, but I had to be. I knew he had deeper feelings for me, more than I could reciprocate; but if I were too brash, I’d jeopardize my ability to practice medicine. Sure, I was just a nurse by trade, but his feelings for me no doubt played a role in the reign I had in the hospital, though my talent alone was more than enough. It would be wise to love him, but I didn’t. I paid him just enough attention outside the walls of the hospital to keep my parents happy and to stay close to medicine. It seemed everyone had written my life’s story, and it ended with me being married to the ever so promising Dr. Lewis. While I wasn’t completely sold on the idea of a soulmate, I did know that next to medicine, I loved nothing more. I desperately wanted the freedom to live out my heart’s passion; and for me, since I could remember, it had always been medicine. Or perhaps it was to be known for my own achievements, and not solely as the daughter of Dr. Ronald and Helen Burlton.

Now my mother, Helen, was a decent woman, loyal to my father and honest in every way she was supposed to be. When it came to me, they both gave me everything they could, which due to my father’s medical achievements was more than most. But as it was, I wanted more than to marry well and sip tea with the other wealthy wives of our town. I wanted to be great, like my father. Was I thankful for my beauty? Yes, I knew its power, so I used it. But it had also become a hindrance, another door that kept me in the hallways of hospitals, when I deserved to be the one in charge, making the decisions instead of taking orders. Thanks to my education and my father’s last name, there was very little I couldn’t do, except the one thing I wanted most, to be a respected doctor.

Somehow my exposure to the world did nothing to help the ever-growing wedge between me and Mother. Sure, she wanted me to be happy. She just always assumed I’d find it in a man, but instead I found it in medicine. Oh, the more I learned about the inner workings of the body—the brain, our heart and lungs—the more I wanted to know. I wanted to make my mark, and medicine would lead the way. I can’t tell you when it was, but somewhere between then and now, I grew to be embarrassed by my mother, how delicate she was, how she bent to my father’s every need. Even as a child I wondered why the expectation was for her to be his wife, rather than for him to be her husband. Without knowing when or how, my mother became a sort of enemy of mine.

Perhaps that’s why I was drawn to Clay. His recovery would be yet another trophy I could throw in my mother’s face, a victory that whispered, “See what we can do? What you could have done?” Now the man we called Clay had quickly become both mine and the good doctor’s obsession. Hundreds of soldiers had come to Clay hospital and died from lesser injuries. This man’s recovery was just what I needed, and against anything I had known before, he would soon become what I wanted.

The next morning, after Dr. Lewis left Clay’s room, I began talking to our mysterious patient, something I’d done quite often since he had been brought to the hospital. He was still asleep from the morphine, so I felt safe speaking my inner thoughts aloud. “I always knew you’d wake up. I can’t tell you how, I just knew,” I whispered, smiling at the man whose face I could barely see from the wild beard that had taken over. Selfishly, I moved a few stray hairs from around his forehead. I wanted to see as much of him as I could. There was something striking about him, something I liked but tried not to. Even from behind the beard and his long hair that was soaked from sweat, I could tell he was a handsome man…one who came from money, no doubt. His hands and feet were too soft to be the hands of a common man.

The sound of him trying to speak brought me out of my haze and wonderment. “Naa,” he murmured through his pain.

“What is it? Are you trying to tell me your name?” I whispered. “Go on,” I encouraged. “Tell me. Tell me your name.”

“Naaddd…ddd,” he tried again.

“I can’t make it out. Say it again.”

“Naddd…Nady.”

“Nady? No…my name is Anna. I’m your nurse.” Now that his eyes were open again, his frustration couldn’t be mistaken. “Shhh…it’s okay, you’re safe now. You must calm yourself. I don’t know how much more you can take.” I could tell from the softening of his eyes that he understood me. That alone was a good sign. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Nady…” he said again, slowly but this time clearly, leaving no room for question. Maybe Nady was his wife’s name? Just the thought shockingly and surprisingly disappointed me. Well, my questions would remain a mystery for a little while longer, because now the man we called Clay had drifted off to sleep again.