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Chapter 31

MONDAY, OCTOBER 11TH

No one said anything to her when she got to work, but Dayne found prayer requests on her locker when she walked into the nurses' lounge. There were a lot of them—layers of little yellow stick-up notes placed row over curling paper row, so that her locker looked like Big Bird. People wanted new cars, or money to pay off their mortgages, or to win the Publisher's Clearinghouse sweepstakes. They wanted to find someone who would love them; they wanted their divorce settlements to work out. They wanted their elderly mothers healed of strokes, or their children healed of diabetes.

Dayne stared at the pieces of paper fluttering every time the door to the lounge opened and closed—little yellow squares carrying other people's pain and hope. She took them down and put them in her purse, aware of her colleagues' furtive glances.

They had missed the point—missed it entirely. They didn't see in her prayer the proof that their own prayers could be heard and answered; all they saw was that God had listened to her once, and so he surely would again. She'd given them hope . . . but it was the wrong kind of hope. They thought she could say a prayer and everything would be all right. They thought she could do miracles. She wondered what their reactions would be when they discovered that she couldn't.

She stopped by the supply cart and filled her pockets with tape and alcohol wipes and headed in to get report. Mary Deiner was already there, and Trish VanDyke, and Sally Reuters. The bleary-eyed night shift nurses were finishing up their last-minute charting, except for Frank Dorris, the nurse who was waiting to report.

He smiled when he saw her; he'd had the same patients during the night Dayne would have during the day, so he would report to her.

"Mrs. Paulley died at three thirty-five this morning," he said. "Bastard was in there coding her from about one a.m. He finally conceded defeat, but when you call him for anything today, watch out."

Dayne nodded. Dr. Batskold after he "lost" would be mean and sarcastic and vicious for several days. "Maybe I won't have to call him for anything."

Frank tapped the chart in his hand. "Well . . . don't count on your luck holding. At four-thirty a.m. I admitted Mr. Wilthom Fields, fifty-seven-year-old white male patient of Dr. Batskold, with chest pain—also hallucinations, paranoia, and possible psychosis." Frank went through Mr. Fields' vital signs on admission. "He's a twenty-four hour observation; his tentative diagnosis, aside from being nuts, is angina, possible myocardial infarction." Frank shook his head. "I don't think he's had a heart attack, though. I think he's cra-a-a-a-azy. He'll be out of here and on his way to Dorothea Dix tomorrow.

"Petters in E transferred out of the unit yesterday. In E today you have Mr. Walter `Call Me Walt' Harvey." Frank grinned. "He's a nice old guy—seventy-five years old, patient of Dr. Weist, in to get a permanent pacemaker inserted. He's had some slowdowns during the night, but the temporary pacemaker kicked right in. He's prepped for surgery, and scheduled first—he may already be on his way by the time we get out of here. So you won't really have any orders on him until he gets back."

Dayne heard yelling and swearing from the patient rooms and frowned.

Frank said, "That's Fields. He's been doing that all night. Our only orders on him are cardiac—when I called to see about giving him a sleeping pill, Dr. Batskold said he wouldn't order anything for him because he didn't want to mask symptoms."

"So you listened to that all night." Dayne made a sympathetic face.

"Yep. Mostly he's been pretty funny. He says these little clear men keep stealing his covers and messing with the equipment. Every time we go in the room, the covers are in a pile on the floor in the far corner, and all of his equipment is bollixed up." Frank sighed. "It would be hilarious if he didn't insist on yelling at his hallucinations."

"Clear men, huh? That sounds different." Dayne grinned. "Usually they can see them just fine—they always claim the problem is with us. So . . . has he had any chest pain since admission?"

"Nope. Just clear men stealing his covers."

"Okay." Dayne sighed and took Fields' chart from Frank, noting times the patient was due medications, checking for specific treatment orders, comparing the orders with the drug administration record, and scanning the vitals and nursing notes. Meanwhile another night nurse came in to give her report to her day relief.

Frank said, "You ready to go do rounds?"

She finished the quick look at the orders—she would go over them again once Frank was out the door—and went with him to meet the patients and make sure their equipment was all functioning.

The patient in G had indeed already gone to surgery. Dayne introduced herself to his daughter, who was waiting and passing the time by gathering up a few of his things to take home with her, and then Dayne and Frank went in to meet Mr. Fields.

His blanket was in a pile under the window. As they walked into the room, he was shouting at the top of his lungs and fighting with his sheet—though Dayne noticed he was definitely winning.

"Good morning, Mr. Fields," Frank said. "This is your day nurse, Dayne Kuttner."

He looked up at her with harried eyes, and said, "Can you see them?"

Dayne looked at the way he clutched his sheet and twisted it in his hands, at the weariness in his expression, at the sweat that beaded his brow. She shook her head sadly. "No, Mr. Fields. I can't."

"Would you look? I haven't been able to sleep all night—they keep stealing my covers; little men that look like they're made of clear gelatin. And they laugh at me and call me names. . . ." He wiped a hand over his forehead and looked at her imploringly. "Please . . . look."

She nodded and gathered the sheet into her arms and looked down at the bed. "You see? Nothing there."

"I see," he said gloomily. "But they'll be back as soon as you leave."

Frank said, "I'm going to go out and make sure I didn't miss anything. Catch up with me before I leave, okay?"

Dayne nodded. "I'll be out in a few minutes. I'm just going to fix his bed for him." As soon as Frank was out of earshot, she turned to her patient and said, "Guys never can get this right." She grinned at him, and with brisk movements, tied both the bottom of the sheet and the bottom of the blanket to the bed. She found a couple of safety pins and pinned the covers to the bed from under the sheet—then, for good measure, pinned them to the mattress from outside. She said, "Now you can get some sleep, Mr. Fields. The covers won't go anywhere."

His smile held an element of doubt, but he nodded. "I hope you're right. I'm so tired, the world is spinning. If I don't sleep soon, I'm afraid I'm going to lose my mind."

Dayne tactfully kept her opinions on the state of his mind to herself, and with a wave, headed out of the room to find Frank.

He was waiting by the lockers. He raised an eyebrow as she approached. "I don't hear him yelling yet."

She winked. "Secret trick of the trade."

"You brought in sleeping pills from home and gave him one?"

"Tied his sheets to the bed and pinned them there."

He smacked his forehead with the flat of his hand and groaned. "Why didn't I think of that? If we put up with his screaming for the last two hours for nothing, I'm going to turn in my nursing license."

"Oh no you don't." Dayne laughed. "Judy would leave the unit short-staffed again, and I promised myself I wasn't working overtime this week."

"I hear you. So . . . heard you had an exciting weekend. Saw you on the news, too. Pretty wild stuff."

Dayne nodded. "You could say that."

"I wanted to ask you something. . . ."

Her heart sank. Here it comes, she thought. She watched him, holding her breath.

"Lacy's been trying to get pregnant for years now—we've been to all the specialists, and we've done all the treatments. Nothing worked, and we really can't afford to keep trying—" He looked at her, and his eyes wore desperation plainly. "There's a waiting list so long for adopting that when we went in, the social worker told me that by the time the list gets to us, I'll be too old for them to consider us."

He looked at her and she could see it in his eyes—the hope that she could work a miracle.

She wished she could.

"Could you . . . pray for us?" he asked her.

"Frank, I will—" his eyes lit up, and she wished they hadn't "—but you have to understand that God will listen to you praying for something that you want with all your heart, more than he will listen to me praying for something for you."

"But if you could get God to give all of Hell a second chance—"

"I believe Torry is—was—maybe still is in Hell. The thing I wanted most in the world was to know that he didn't have to suffer forever. I was afraid for everyone else who was there, too—because of this place. Because I could imagine how terrible forever could be." She rested a hand on Frank's shoulder. "But you and Lacy are the people who want a baby more than you want anything else. You need to pray."

"You think we haven't?" Frank's eyes narrowed.

Dayne sighed. "No. I'm sure you have. I don't know why God answers prayers the way he does."

"But you will ask for us?"

Dayne nodded. "I'll ask. Please understand that I can't promise anything."

Frank grinned. "I figure we have a better chance with you than with Social Services."

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Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

Chapter 31

MONDAY, OCTOBER 11TH

No one said anything to her when she got to work, but Dayne found prayer requests on her locker when she walked into the nurses' lounge. There were a lot of them—layers of little yellow stick-up notes placed row over curling paper row, so that her locker looked like Big Bird. People wanted new cars, or money to pay off their mortgages, or to win the Publisher's Clearinghouse sweepstakes. They wanted to find someone who would love them; they wanted their divorce settlements to work out. They wanted their elderly mothers healed of strokes, or their children healed of diabetes.

Dayne stared at the pieces of paper fluttering every time the door to the lounge opened and closed—little yellow squares carrying other people's pain and hope. She took them down and put them in her purse, aware of her colleagues' furtive glances.

They had missed the point—missed it entirely. They didn't see in her prayer the proof that their own prayers could be heard and answered; all they saw was that God had listened to her once, and so he surely would again. She'd given them hope . . . but it was the wrong kind of hope. They thought she could say a prayer and everything would be all right. They thought she could do miracles. She wondered what their reactions would be when they discovered that she couldn't.

She stopped by the supply cart and filled her pockets with tape and alcohol wipes and headed in to get report. Mary Deiner was already there, and Trish VanDyke, and Sally Reuters. The bleary-eyed night shift nurses were finishing up their last-minute charting, except for Frank Dorris, the nurse who was waiting to report.

He smiled when he saw her; he'd had the same patients during the night Dayne would have during the day, so he would report to her.

"Mrs. Paulley died at three thirty-five this morning," he said. "Bastard was in there coding her from about one a.m. He finally conceded defeat, but when you call him for anything today, watch out."

Dayne nodded. Dr. Batskold after he "lost" would be mean and sarcastic and vicious for several days. "Maybe I won't have to call him for anything."

Frank tapped the chart in his hand. "Well . . . don't count on your luck holding. At four-thirty a.m. I admitted Mr. Wilthom Fields, fifty-seven-year-old white male patient of Dr. Batskold, with chest pain—also hallucinations, paranoia, and possible psychosis." Frank went through Mr. Fields' vital signs on admission. "He's a twenty-four hour observation; his tentative diagnosis, aside from being nuts, is angina, possible myocardial infarction." Frank shook his head. "I don't think he's had a heart attack, though. I think he's cra-a-a-a-azy. He'll be out of here and on his way to Dorothea Dix tomorrow.

"Petters in E transferred out of the unit yesterday. In E today you have Mr. Walter `Call Me Walt' Harvey." Frank grinned. "He's a nice old guy—seventy-five years old, patient of Dr. Weist, in to get a permanent pacemaker inserted. He's had some slowdowns during the night, but the temporary pacemaker kicked right in. He's prepped for surgery, and scheduled first—he may already be on his way by the time we get out of here. So you won't really have any orders on him until he gets back."

Dayne heard yelling and swearing from the patient rooms and frowned.

Frank said, "That's Fields. He's been doing that all night. Our only orders on him are cardiac—when I called to see about giving him a sleeping pill, Dr. Batskold said he wouldn't order anything for him because he didn't want to mask symptoms."

"So you listened to that all night." Dayne made a sympathetic face.

"Yep. Mostly he's been pretty funny. He says these little clear men keep stealing his covers and messing with the equipment. Every time we go in the room, the covers are in a pile on the floor in the far corner, and all of his equipment is bollixed up." Frank sighed. "It would be hilarious if he didn't insist on yelling at his hallucinations."

"Clear men, huh? That sounds different." Dayne grinned. "Usually they can see them just fine—they always claim the problem is with us. So . . . has he had any chest pain since admission?"

"Nope. Just clear men stealing his covers."

"Okay." Dayne sighed and took Fields' chart from Frank, noting times the patient was due medications, checking for specific treatment orders, comparing the orders with the drug administration record, and scanning the vitals and nursing notes. Meanwhile another night nurse came in to give her report to her day relief.

Frank said, "You ready to go do rounds?"

She finished the quick look at the orders—she would go over them again once Frank was out the door—and went with him to meet the patients and make sure their equipment was all functioning.

The patient in G had indeed already gone to surgery. Dayne introduced herself to his daughter, who was waiting and passing the time by gathering up a few of his things to take home with her, and then Dayne and Frank went in to meet Mr. Fields.

His blanket was in a pile under the window. As they walked into the room, he was shouting at the top of his lungs and fighting with his sheet—though Dayne noticed he was definitely winning.

"Good morning, Mr. Fields," Frank said. "This is your day nurse, Dayne Kuttner."

He looked up at her with harried eyes, and said, "Can you see them?"

Dayne looked at the way he clutched his sheet and twisted it in his hands, at the weariness in his expression, at the sweat that beaded his brow. She shook her head sadly. "No, Mr. Fields. I can't."

"Would you look? I haven't been able to sleep all night—they keep stealing my covers; little men that look like they're made of clear gelatin. And they laugh at me and call me names. . . ." He wiped a hand over his forehead and looked at her imploringly. "Please . . . look."

She nodded and gathered the sheet into her arms and looked down at the bed. "You see? Nothing there."

"I see," he said gloomily. "But they'll be back as soon as you leave."

Frank said, "I'm going to go out and make sure I didn't miss anything. Catch up with me before I leave, okay?"

Dayne nodded. "I'll be out in a few minutes. I'm just going to fix his bed for him." As soon as Frank was out of earshot, she turned to her patient and said, "Guys never can get this right." She grinned at him, and with brisk movements, tied both the bottom of the sheet and the bottom of the blanket to the bed. She found a couple of safety pins and pinned the covers to the bed from under the sheet—then, for good measure, pinned them to the mattress from outside. She said, "Now you can get some sleep, Mr. Fields. The covers won't go anywhere."

His smile held an element of doubt, but he nodded. "I hope you're right. I'm so tired, the world is spinning. If I don't sleep soon, I'm afraid I'm going to lose my mind."

Dayne tactfully kept her opinions on the state of his mind to herself, and with a wave, headed out of the room to find Frank.

He was waiting by the lockers. He raised an eyebrow as she approached. "I don't hear him yelling yet."

She winked. "Secret trick of the trade."

"You brought in sleeping pills from home and gave him one?"

"Tied his sheets to the bed and pinned them there."

He smacked his forehead with the flat of his hand and groaned. "Why didn't I think of that? If we put up with his screaming for the last two hours for nothing, I'm going to turn in my nursing license."

"Oh no you don't." Dayne laughed. "Judy would leave the unit short-staffed again, and I promised myself I wasn't working overtime this week."

"I hear you. So . . . heard you had an exciting weekend. Saw you on the news, too. Pretty wild stuff."

Dayne nodded. "You could say that."

"I wanted to ask you something. . . ."

Her heart sank. Here it comes, she thought. She watched him, holding her breath.

"Lacy's been trying to get pregnant for years now—we've been to all the specialists, and we've done all the treatments. Nothing worked, and we really can't afford to keep trying—" He looked at her, and his eyes wore desperation plainly. "There's a waiting list so long for adopting that when we went in, the social worker told me that by the time the list gets to us, I'll be too old for them to consider us."

He looked at her and she could see it in his eyes—the hope that she could work a miracle.

She wished she could.

"Could you . . . pray for us?" he asked her.

"Frank, I will—" his eyes lit up, and she wished they hadn't "—but you have to understand that God will listen to you praying for something that you want with all your heart, more than he will listen to me praying for something for you."

"But if you could get God to give all of Hell a second chance—"

"I believe Torry is—was—maybe still is in Hell. The thing I wanted most in the world was to know that he didn't have to suffer forever. I was afraid for everyone else who was there, too—because of this place. Because I could imagine how terrible forever could be." She rested a hand on Frank's shoulder. "But you and Lacy are the people who want a baby more than you want anything else. You need to pray."

"You think we haven't?" Frank's eyes narrowed.

Dayne sighed. "No. I'm sure you have. I don't know why God answers prayers the way he does."

"But you will ask for us?"

Dayne nodded. "I'll ask. Please understand that I can't promise anything."

Frank grinned. "I figure we have a better chance with you than with Social Services."

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Contents
Framed