Ten minutes later she returned and exchanged the thermometer for a sleeping pill. Jeoffry took the pill with water he had on the side table while the LPN examined the thermometer.
“Do I have a temperature?” asked Jeoffry.
“Everybody has a temperature,” said Miss DeVries.
“How could I forget,” said Jeoffry. They’d been through this before.
“Okay, do I have a fever?”
“That’s classified information,” said Miss DeVries.
Jeoffry never could understand why the nurses could not tell him if he had a temperature; correction, a fever. They always said that was up to the doctor, which was crazy. It was his body.
“What about this IV?” asked Jeoffry as Miss DeVries started for the door. “When’s it coming out so I can take a real shower?”
“That’s something I know nothing about.” She waved before disappearing.
Jeoffry twisted his head and looked up at the IV bottle. For a moment he watched the regular fall of each drop in the small chamber. Turning back to the TV and the evening news, he sighed. It was going to be a relief when his tether was removed. He reminded himself to ask Dr. Sherman about it in the morning.
When the phone first rang, Thomas sat up, confused as to where he was.
On the second ring, Doris turned over to face him in the half-light of her apartment.
“Do you want to get it or should l?” Doris’s voice was thick with sleep.
She pushed herself up on one elbow.
Thomas looked at her in the semidarkness. She appeared grotesque with her thick hair radiating from her head as if a thousand volts of electricity had passed through her body. Instead of eyes she had black holes. It took him a moment to remember who she was.
“I’ll get it,” said Thomas, staggering to his feet. His head felt heavy.
“It’s in the corner near the window,” said Doris, flopping back onto the pillow.
Groping with his hands, Thomas went along the wall until he got to the open doorway of the bedroom. In the living room, the bay window let in more light.
“Dr. Kingsley, this is Peter Figman,” said the thoracic resident when Thomas picked up the receiver. “I hope you don’t mind my calling, but you asked me to let you know if any service cases were going to the OR. We have a stab wound of the chest that’s due within the hour.”
Thomas leaned on the small phone table. The chill in the room helped organize his mind. “What time is it?”
“A little after one A.M.”
“Thank you,” said Thomas. “I’ll be right over.”
As Thomas stepped out of Doris’s vestibule to the street, the icy December wind sent a chill through his body. Pulling the lapels of his coat more tightly around his neck, he set off toward the Memorial. Every so often sudden gusts would swirl down the street, moving a line of papers and other debris against his feet, forcing Thomas to turn and walk backwards for a few steps. He was relieved when he rounded the corner and could see the complex of buildings that comprised Boston Memorial.
Approaching the main entrance, he passed the parking garage on his left. It was a cement structure, open to the elements. Although it was jammed during the day, now it was almost deserted. As he glanced in to admire his Porsche, he noticed another familiar car. It was a Mercedes 300 turbo diesel painted puke green. There was only one person in the whole hospital whose taste was that bad. The car belonged to George Sherman.
Thomas was practically at the hospital door, mulling over the absurdity of getting such a good car in such a terrible color, when he began to wonder why George was there. He turned to look again. It was his car all right.
There was no chance of confusing it with another. Thomas glanced at his watch. It was 1:15 A.M.
Thomas went directly to the OR, changed, and while passing through the surgical lounge, saw one of the OR nurses knitting. He asked her if George Sherman had a case that night.
“Not that I know of,” said the nurse. “Hasn’t been a chest except for the stab wound you’re covering.”