I don’t move for several long minutes as I wait for my calm to be restored. Still leaning heavily against the hard wall, I give my shaky legs a test. They don’t feel strong by any means, but they’re strong enough to support me. That’s the main thing. I push away from the concrete and smooth my hair before I turn my back to the wall and face, head on, the two intimidating wooden doors in front of me.
As I approach, I read the large, red lettering emblazoned across both panels. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. I hardly fit that description.
I chew my lip as I think of what to do now. As I look casually from left to right, I see the little buzzer to one side of the door. There’s a sign below it that has a schedule of ICU visiting hours and the procedure for getting inside.
Following the directions, I depress the buzzer and wait. After a few seconds, a pleasant enough sounding voice comes on. “May I help you?”
“Um, I’m here to see Rust- er, I mean, I’m here to see Jeff Catron.”
“Hold please.”
The line goes dead, leaving me standing in front of the door, staring at the box like an idiot. I look all around to make sure no one is watching me. I’m still alone, thank God.
Finally, she comes back on. “Room three oh four. Come on back.”
A click is followed by a loud buzzing sound just before the two doors swing open in opposite directions, allowing me to pass into the sick people inner sanctum.
The center of the large, bland room is dominated by an enormous nurse’s station. Arranged in a semi-circle around it is a ring of patient rooms, all with glass windows and doors that allow the nurses to see inside unless the curtain is drawn. I look to my left and see room three-twelve. I figure Rusty is all the way at the other end, so I start walking along the rounded edge of the nurse’s station until I get to his room.
The curtain is drawn and I hear no sounds coming from behind it. Hesitantly, I knock on the metal frame that surrounds the open glass door.
“Come in,” I hear Rusty say. My heart skips a beat and I wipe my damp palms on the butt of my jeans before I pull back the nondescript beige curtain.
When I peek inside, I see Rusty lying in bed, his arm attached to all sorts of wires or ropes or something. His cheeks already show the signs of dark stubble, as though the strain of the last hours has taken its toll in a very physical way. The frown he’s wearing only adds to that impression.
“Hey,” I say weakly.
He narrows his eyes on me before he speaks. “Hey,” he responds in kind, not making me feel any better about things.
“Can I…can I come in?”
“I just said ‘come in,’ didn’t I?” I’m sure the small curve of his lips is an attempt to soften his snappy reply, but it doesn’t sting my heart any less.
Pulling up my big girl panties, I return his tight smile and step through the curtain, heading for the only chair in the room. I perch on the edge, clinging to my purse like a lifeline.
“So, how are you feeling?”
“How do I look like I’m feeling?” he asks with a short bark-of-a-laugh.
“I’m sure you’ve been better.”
“Yeah, I’ve been better.”
“What happened? I mean, obviously you were in a wreck, but…”
Rusty takes a deep breath and shrugs. “I’m still fuzzy on some of the details, but from what I remember, I hit some gravel on the interstate and slid into the median. Must’ve caught it just right and flipped the goat a few times.”
Although he casually refers to his GTO as a “goat,” which he does often, and his tone is matter of fact, I don’t get the impression that he’s so blasé about the accident. “That sounds bad.”
He shrugs again. “Could’ve been worse.”
“Yeah, like if you’d been killed. But my God, look at you. How many injuries did you have?”
“Torn rotator cuff, dislocated shoulder, multiple breaks in my arm, three cracked ribs and a variety of cuts, scrapes and bruises.”
I cringe at the ache around my heart. It hurts me to think about Rusty being hurt. And, as I look at him, lying in the bed all bandaged and tied up, it hurts me even more to know there’s nothing I can do to help him.
“How- how long until you’re able to…how long will you be in here?”
I see his frown before he looks out the window behind my head, and I realize it wasn’t the right question to ask. Something about it bothered him. But honestly, I don’t know what to say. He’s acting like he could care less that I’m here and it’s making me want to go all the more.
“Probably quite a while. Too long for you to be hanging around here,” he says, not even bothering to look at me as he speaks.
His words are like so many daggers to my heart. My worst fear has been confirmed. Rusty really doesn’t want me around. I guess I was good enough for some fun, but not good enough to keep.
With my heart shriveling inside my chest, it’s all I can do to fight back tears. I turn to look out the window as well, staring into the increasing darkness as I collect myself. And as I think about Rusty and his brutal dismissal, I do what I can to keep it together.
I get mad.
“Well, that’s probably a good thing. I hate hospitals,” I say, turning back to look at him, forcing a smile onto my face.
“Don’t feel like you have to come back then. It won’t hurt my feelings.”
More daggers. I want to scream at him, to tell him I went through hell just to get here, just to get to him tonight. But I don’t. I don’t want his pity. Or a pat on the back. I don’t want him to be kind to me because I’ve “earned” it.
So, instead, I give what I’m getting. Tit for tat. Casual for casual. Unaffected for unaffected.
I nod as I lean forward, getting ready to stand. “Okay. Maybe I’ll stop by again before I leave, if I have time.”
“Before you leave? Running already?”
Something in his tone is snide. “I’m not running,” I reply defensively. “I just graduated college. I’ve got to go get a job eventually.”
“That should be easy. I’m sure you’ve got a few things lined up already. An escape plan.” His tone is so bitter and my heart drops through the concrete floor. Now I definitely can’t tell him I’ve got interviews. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s right. It’s my turn to narrow my eyes on Rusty. “What the hell is your problem?”