Nightshifted es-1 Read online

  “Ten thirty-five!”

  “Sissy?” Jake asked. He was closer now; I hadn’t seen him leave the cab—I’d been staring at the cab’s fuzzy snake-eye dice instead—but now Jake was standing beside me. “Sissy, what happened?”

  “Ten thirty-five!”

  With my good hand, I turned over my keys and the cash I had left. Hopefully it was enough, I couldn’t do math right now. “Watch my cat. You can eat all my food. Whatever you do, do not let Minnie out.”

  Jake nodded. After a second thought, or maybe a fourth, I handed him the small video camera. “Pawn this too.”

  He nodded again, and walked back to the cab. Before he got in, he turned toward me, eyes wide and bright. “Sissy—what happened?”

  “Don’t ask,” I said, and turned toward County. There was a pause, then I heard the cab door open and close solidly behind me.

  I didn’t walk toward the emergency department’s doors, though they automatically slid open as I passed. I went for the County’s true doors, to the lobby that smelled like piss and diluted bleach in turns. I waved my badge at the guards and went into the depths of the hospital, up corridors and down stairwells, into an elevator that sank into the earth without seeming to move until it dinged and coughed me free. The final set of doors swung outward toward me, like welcoming arms, like one-way valves, like cilia moving mucus. Like mental impairment due to shock due to blood loss, I’d bet. I stumbled forward.

  Meaty saw me first, as I held up my mutilated hand in response to his/her/its raised eyebrow.

  “Room three. Now.”

  Chapter Seven

  When they were done with my hand and had weaned me off the IV pain meds, Meaty pushed a bariatric cardiac chair into my room. In a world where night shift time served = time to eat = girth = experience, Meaty knew all about everything.

  “You want to tell me about it?”

  It was the first time anyone had asked, except for Charles trying to get me to bring visitors down. I’d balked at the thought of bringing Jake in; he’d be like a kid in a candy store with other people’s meds, without supervision. Plus, how would we explain the howling?

  But you didn’t last long as a nurse if you told your charge nurse no. So I shared from the beginning, until the part that was known, me, here, with a messed-up hand. The scars across the back of my left hand were already tightening—thanks, hack from plastics—and I rubbed them with a grimace.

  “You were under a compulsion,” Meaty said.

  “A what?”

  Meaty settled down farther in the chair. “A compulsion. Vampires use them to order their servants around.”

  I sank back farther in my bed. “It didn’t feel like that.” What it felt like, was like every other bad decision I’d ever made. I’d had a lot of practice.

  But was it bad? I’d saved that girl, Anna, right?

  Meaty ignored me. “Most daytimers can’t use compulsions, but maybe he was on the cusp.”

  I looked down at my hand again, and thought about going home soon, the mountain of cat litter that surely needed changing, and how my house would now smell like black tar and pot. “I don’t think it was a compulsion. If I could go back in time, I’d probably do it again,” I said, more to myself than him. “The saving the girl part, not the killing him on accident part,” I amended.

  Meaty rocked forward to leverage off the chair. My audience was over. “Compulsion, guilt, pick your poison.” Meaty shrugged. “You make a better nurse than a patient. You’re discharged, go home.”

  * * *

  I barely had my legs out of the bed when Gina arrived with a patient belongings bag. She wandered around the room, gathering my things.

  I pulled my jeans and boots on, but instead of wearing my sweatshirt, I wrapped another gown around my back, and put my bloodstained coat on top. I knew I was a sight, but Gina had the kindness not to say anything. Between my week’s worth of bedhead, and the bloodstained sweatshirt in my bag, I knew I looked like every other patient released from emergency psych that A.M. But I left my room and tried to walk toward the hallway door with a little dignity regardless.

  “Hey, new kid!” Charles called out, as my hand touched the button for the automatic door.

  I turned around. “My name is Edie,” I enunciated slowly.

  He grinned. “I know. Welcome to Y4.”

  Chapter Eight

  I tried calling Jake twice from the pay phone by the Charlie Brown Christmas tree that’d been erected in the lobby during my stay. It wasn’t real, but someone had hung a pine-scented car deodorizer on it, in addition to the Christmas ornaments from 1973. I ran out of quarters, and my phone was out of juice, but a transit pass came free with discharge. So I bussed home, very conscious of the other bus patrons’ stares. I walked from the bus stop up to my door, glad I hadn’t had to make a transfer, and knocked on my own door before unlocking it.

  “Jake?”

  I looked around my short entryway. It smelled like smoke—not cigarette, but something more vinegary and foul.

  “Minnie?”

  Her plaintive meow came from underneath the couch. Which I realized I could see quite clearly, because for some reason, my dining room set was gone. I stared at the dimples the table legs had left in the thin carpeting.

  “Jake? Jake!”

  “Hang on!” There was stomping in the bedroom, behind the closed door. Jake’s head peeked out furtively, like he thought it might be someone else to whom I’d given a key. Seeing me, he smiled. “Edie!”

  “Who else would it be?”

  “You’re all right! I was worried!”

  Worried didn’t equal calling, apparently—my phone hadn’t had a single message before its batteries ran out. Or picking up his phone when I’d called him earlier, that either.

  My brother engulfed me in his arms. He smelled like flop sweat and his week-old bristles were rough against my cheek, but his hug was a throwback to an earlier Jake, one I hadn’t seen in quite a while.

  When he pulled back I caught his chin with my left hand. “How are you?” I asked, looking deep into his eyes for pupillary response.

  “I’m— Stop that, Edie.”

  “I’m just wondering—”

  “I’m not high. Promise. And it’s not for lack of trying.”

  “Um, yay?” I dropped my bag and went over to my couch. “Where’d my table go?”

  “I was performing an experiment.”

  “Which was?”

  Jake began walking back and forth in my narrow living room. “For the past couple of weeks I’ve been having problems getting high.”

  “And this is bad why?”

  “Edie—just listen, okay?”

  Pacing, he looked like the older brother I remembered, the one who was nervous before a calculus test or wanted advice on asking a girl out to the prom.

  “I’ve tried everything. And I mean everything. Lots of it. And I just can’t get high. Not like I used to. I feel it for a bit, sure. But not for long enough to count.”

  “How’s this tie into my table? And chairs?” I pointed at the place where they’d been.

  “I needed to sell them to afford my final test.”

  “What?” I stood up. “You sold them?”

  “I pawned them. With the camera. You can get them back still.” He stopped at the outer parabola of his pacing arc and snorted. “They weren’t worth much.”

  “Jake—you stole from me!”

  “Pawned. Pawned. It’s different.”

  “No it’s not!”

  Jake grabbed my arms. On his whip-thin frame, I could see the exit and insertion sites for all of his muscles, the keloids beginning on his antecubital spaces from too many needlesticks. “Edie, I did two grams of heroin. I’m still alive. That much heroin would have killed a horse.”

  And that’s why I worked at Y4. I wasn’t sure how the Shadows kept him clean, but when Jake treated his liver like a chemistry lab, I had no choice. If he’d really done as much heroin as he said he
had—I shook myself free. “Or you bought shit drugs from a shit supplier and you’ve done too much long-term brain damage to know the difference.”

  “Oh, I’d know. I’d know,” Jake said, mostly to himself.

  “Jake, you stole from me.” I crossed my arms.

  “But I’m like Superman!”

  “Superman doesn’t shoot smack, Jake.”

  “Edie, you just don’t get it—”

  I sliced through the air with my newly scarred hand to cut off his protests. “What I get is that you stole from me.”

  “Pawned. You can get them back next paycheck. Nurses make a ton.”

  “Jake—” I pointed at my door with my left arm. My hand was shaking, either from disuse or anger.

  “I’m going, I’m going. Let me get my things.” He turned and ran down the hallway.

  “At least you still have things!” I shouted at him.

  “I left you the couch!” he shouted back.

  “Only because you couldn’t carry it yourself!”

  He returned with a small backpack and my keys on a chain. “Your cat’s almost out of food. Your neighbor’s kid is creepy. And you have shitty taste in music.”

  I snatched my keys from him. “Shut up.”

  “No one listens to Merle Haggard anymore.”

  “Get out, Jake.”

  He mimed a salute in midair. “See you around, Sissy.”

  I watched him walk out my door, and then followed to watch him leave from my doorway, his backpack on his back.

  “Jake—Christmas?” I called after him.

  “Yeah.” He waved a hand without turning around.

  It was cold out this morning, tonight’d be freezing for sure. I hoped he made it to the shelter in time. I watched him till he turned at the end of my apartment complex’s parking lot, my healing hand throbbing in the cold.

  * * *

  First order of business was me and a long shower. I hadn’t let anyone give me a bed bath during my internment—it was humiliating enough to be in Y4 for my recuperation, bed baths from coworkers would have made it intolerable. Where were easily intimidated nursing school students when you needed them?

  After that I changed the sheets on my bed and crawled into it. A shower, clean sheets, and a bed without side rails? This was high cotton. I fell asleep without a second thought.

  When I woke it was dark. Just before nine P.M. with winter outside making it seem later, between the early sunsets and the omnipresent clouds. I could still remember the nearly full moon from the emergency drop-off zone—I might not see another until April or May. I lay back in my dark room, pulled the sheets high, and tried not to think about anything.

  It was hard. For the first time in a long while, I felt rested. I’d kept night shift hours in the hospital, the company of my own coworkers far preferable to those on other shifts. It’d been easier to distract myself with people to talk to and TV to watch, under the comforting dullness that Percocet pulled up every four hours. Here at home, without drugs or distractions, it was hard to forget that I’d done at least three stupid and potentially horrible things: I’d accidentally killed a patient, I’d intentionally killed a vampire, and I might have set a monster loose on the world. Minnie emerged from wherever she’d been hiding, to stroke her head along my outstretched hand.

  “I’m glad he listened to me about that at least, Minnie.” I knuckled the space between her ears. There was no way I was going to get any more sleep, not tonight.

  I petted Minnie till she couldn’t stand it any longer and she squirmed out of reach. Then I sat up in bed and stared into my open closet, my shoes and clothing illuminated by the parking lot’s lamplight filtering in through my blinds. “I’m alive, I’m awake, and I’m not on call,” I announced to myself. “I should go out.”

  Chapter Nine

  Going out means different things to different people. For some, they like to go to a movie or dinner alone; for others, they go out to get lit and laid. For me, it meant dancing, with a side of laid, should a worthwhile opportunity present itself.

  The ten pounds of weight night shift had put on me hadn’t sized me out of my favorite skirt just yet. I pulled it on, then found a matching shirt that clung in all the right places. My hair was wavy, shoulder length, generically brown. My eyes were a complimentable blue, and I had a good smile. I knew when I went out that I wasn’t the prettiest girl in the club—but I also knew I could hold my own in someplace with a few shadows where the cocktails were reasonably priced.

  Not that I ever drank while I was out. Years spent living around an alcoholic father had seen to that—that, and it just wasn’t safe to let your guard down. I still liked places that served drinks, though. Booze gave you a plausible deniability the next day that Frappuccinos did not.

  On my way out, I tucked my ID into my hospital badge’s holder, unclipped it from my lanyard, and pushed this into the back pocket of my skirt. I tossed on a coat, pulled on tights for the millimeter of warmth they’d afford me, and tugged on low snow-proof boots. Then I walk-jogged to the train near my house and gathered heat until my favorite downtown stop. The place I liked to go was a few blocks away from the station, and by the time I got there my calves were freezing, but the heat inside the club made the short misery worthwhile.

  The bouncer knew me—we gave each other a cursory nod—and I got in without cover, one of the few perks of being a single girl. I checked my coat—not having a guy to watch it being points against singleness—and went for the dance floor.

  Nyjara’s “Forget This!” was playing, a bass-heavy techno-remix, and I could feel the pounding bass shake through my chest. The words of the song were appropriate, but even without them, the bass might have saved me. If you’re close enough to the speakers and you do it right, dancing is like being high. The music can fill you and crowd out the knowledge that you’ve been a failure; the memories of all the times when you’ve let people down, the late nights and the later rent. It fills up all the spaces and doesn’t leave room for anything but itself. I stood still for a moment at the edge of the dance floor until the refrain, and then I let the music drag me in.

  Seven songs later, I was winded. My hair clung to the back of my neck, and I knew the little makeup I’d put on had already melted away. But I felt alive in a way I hadn’t before I started dancing—and in a way I knew I wouldn’t, when I eventually went home. For here and now, every time I’d swung my hips around and tossed my head into the air, I was chasing away my ghosts, and claiming possession of my body for myself. I strode over to the bar in sweaty triumph like a winning Thoroughbred.

  My first water I gulped down. The second one I took with me to sit in the dark in a chair that someone had just left.

  People-watching was fun. Not having to talk to people? Also fun. Nursing was all about talking. Here it was too loud to have a real conversation—I was alone, but not alone. Just the way I liked it.

  Then a man sidled up to me. I pretended not to see him and the shadows were in his favor. He leaned in.

  “You dance well,” he shouted over the bass. He had a British accent, which was unusual in this town. It probably got him a lot of girls.

  “Thanks,” I answered. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He had dark hair in chunky locks, and nearly black eyes. I didn’t really have a type, so my parameters for one-night stands were pretty wide. I also knew I didn’t want to be alone just yet. Whether that meant I spent more time dancing, or more time with him … “Do you?” I shouted back to him. “Dance?”

  He smiled and rattled the ice of his nearly empty drink at me. “Only after a few more of these.”

  “Oh.” I smiled back and shrugged. It was against my code of ethics to buy a guy a drink, as drinks cost money, and I now needed all the money I could get to rescue my table from hock. Water was free. I looked at his clothing—if the cut of his shirt was any indication, I couldn’t afford to buy him anything he didn’t already have.

  “What are you drinking?”
he asked. He put his hand out for my glass.

  I pulled back a little. “Water.”

  “Can I get you more?” he asked, his hand still held out.

  “No.” I swatted his hand away gently.

  His eyes went wider in surprise at the skin-on-skin contact. He laughed—at me, or at himself, I wasn’t sure. He leaned closer, and the air from his words tickled against my ear. “Are you uninterested, or exceptionally vigilant?”

  “A little of both.”

  “So you’re saying you’re not interested?” he asked, overly loud, even for the club.

  “I’m saying I’m vigilant,” I protested, unwilling to rise to his game. A song I particularly enjoyed came on, and my water was gone. “I’ll be back,” I told him, setting my empty glass down.

  “And?” he pressed, making the word hold more than one question.

  “You’re saying you’re not interested?” I mimicked him, and went back to the dance floor.

  If I hadn’t already danced to so many songs, I couldn’t have done it. It’s hard to go out cold when you know someone is watching you. But I’d already held the music in my bones once that night, and I still had demons to excise.

  I ignored him completely when I danced. I knew he was there, even with my eyes closed, but I moved for myself, letting my arms flow out and then spin back in, touching myself as the music touched me.

  I could go home alone tonight, with no music, and no distractions, and spend very many hours thinking about why I was who I was, and how many times I’d gotten into trouble just by virtue of being me.

  Or—the song wound down, and so did I. I swayed to the final beats and then brought my head back up, brushing my hair out of my face. He was still there, still sitting beside my empty cup. I walked back to him, making sure my hips rolled like a ship in a storm. I stood in front of him, as tall as he was, at least while he was sitting on the bar stool. He was handsome, with strong cheekbones and well-made lips. I was close enough to kiss him. I gave it serious thought.