Darren opens his eyes and sees the ceiling, the fluorescent lights of the hospital scrolling by overhead. He hears footsteps and rustling and someone saying his name. Then he hears nothing, sees nothing. Black, blue, yellow sparks of light shimmer behind his eyelids. He is out, gone again. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . and then there it is again: the white ceiling, the rectangles of light rolling by like the cars of a train.
OK, now, someone says. A stranger. It is a stranger’s voice that says: OK now, Mr. Robertson. Just relax. And he does. Like magic. He lets the head inside his head fall back onto the pillow and the body inside his body sink down into the mattress, and he watches as the corridors just keep wheeling by as if there were no end to anything at all. As if all of eternity were a bed rolling down hospital corridors with the bright ceiling floating above, white as a nurse’s cap.
They take his blood. They listen to his heart. They check his blood pressure. They say quiet, soothing words. A nurse lays her hand on his shoulder. They give him some medicine. He falls asleep.
When he wakes up again, nobody is there. Or, at least, nobody upright is there. Three other men, lying on their backs, hooked up to monitors are there with him. It is nighttime and the windows are blue. A pale blue curtain hangs near his bed. There is a humming sound and the occasional rattle of a cart in the hallway. Everything looks blue and moonlit. What peace! Just this quiet ticking and humming and the gentle blue light of the hospital at night.
I could stay here forever, he thinks.
Until his faculties return and he begins to feel things.
His mouth is dry. His shoulder is sore. His skin is hot. His ribs ache like he has been punched. He wants to feel like he did just a few minutes earlier.
Light. Empty. Absent.
Now he feels like old meat and bones on a hard bed. In a strange room in the middle of the night. Alone.
The doctor drops by to tell him that he has been a fool. These aren’t his exact words of course. The doctor tells Darren a number of things. No, he has not had a heart attack. Yes, they are certain. No, there doesn’t seem to be anything else wrong. No, his wife was not there. She has not called. Yes, he can go home. There is no need for him to stay any longer.
The doctor also asks Darren a number of questions that don’t sit well with him. Has he been sleeping well? (No, though he never has.) Has he been worried? Has he been drinking more than usual? (Yes, but that’s nothing new, either, and No.) The doctor nods. Smiles a little. Pats the bed briskly and gets up. Tells him not to worry. To get more fresh air and exercise. And to tell his wife not to call the ambulance next time.
Just nerves. Fatigue. Wear and tear. Nothing serious.
(Shitty. Old. Busted up. Nuisance.)
As the doctor disappears through the blue curtains, Darren pulls his rickety, foggy, humiliated self out of the bed and looks around for his clothes. He pulls them on, rubs his eyes, and shambles down the corridor to reception. The nurse calls Michelle twice. No answer. They shrug at each other with half a smile. She takes a call and swivels in her chair. He turns away and heads out into the night, cuts across the parking lot toward home.