Chapter 6
The nurse didn't let go of my hand. Her white glove was warm against my wrist, and the stethoscope swung a little when she leaned in closer. The fluorescent light hummed above us and the red EMERGENCY sign glowed against the glass doors behind her. I could feel the cannula tugging at my nose every time I breathed.
She held up her own gloved hand, flat where I could see it.
"Okay, honey," she whispered. "We need a way that works when you can't talk. Like this."
She lifted two fingers. "Two means yes."
Then she lifted one finger. "One means no."
My throat felt raw and the air coming through the tube wasn't enough to make words. I blinked hard and tried to keep my right hand steady under the light blue blanket. My wristband pressed into the sheet.
She glanced over her shoulder. The two doctors were at the foot of the bed now, the taller one tucking the little white and blue medication box under his arm while he wrote on a clipboard. The Navy man hadn't moved from near the doors. He had his arms crossed but he wasn't looking away anymore.
The nurse turned back to me and made the shape slowly. Three fingers, then one, then three, holding each count so I could see. "And if you need help, you do this. Three, one, three. Like your numbers. Can you do that for me?"
I lifted my right hand. My fingers shook. I did three, then one, then three. Barely high enough for her to see over the rail.
Her eyes got wet. She nodded once, quick. "Good girl. That's good. That's help."
One of the doctors stepped closer. He didn't look at my hand. He looked at my face, at the rash on my cheeks and the way my color had gone pale.
"RN, chart says possible febrile reaction," he said quietly, not unkindly. "Pallor, rash, tachycardia. Confusion is expected. We shouldn't reinforce—"
"We can chart exactly what we see," she cut in, but her voice stayed low. She didn't let go of me. "Can we just check if she's oriented? Thirty seconds."
The doctor with the medication box frowned and clicked his pen. "Make it quick. We need to medicate."
The nurse smoothed the blanket with her free hand and looked right into my eyes. "I'm going to ask you three questions, sweetheart. You answer with your fingers. Two for yes, one for no. Okay?"
I gave two fingers. Yes.
Behind the bed, I heard the older woman in the dark cardigan shift, and the braided girl leaned forward over the rail to watch. The room went still except for the monitors.
"First question," the nurse said. "Are you in a hospital right now?"
My hand was already up. Two fingers. Yes.
She smiled, but it was a tight, concentrated smile. "Good."
The taller doctor wrote something and murmured to the other one, "Appropriate response, but could be mimicry."
The nurse ignored him. "Second question. Is my name Ms. Carter?" She tapped her RN badge with her gloved thumb. "My badge says RN Carter. Is that right?"
I knew what the letters said. I held up two fingers again. Yes.
The braided girl behind me whispered, "She got it."
The doctor with the medication box didn't smile. He wrote again. "Patient appears to track questioning. Still, rash-associated delirium can present with lucid intervals—"
"Third question is harder," the nurse said, a little louder, like she wanted him to hear the answer. She leaned in so close I could smell the hand sanitizer on her glove. "Honey, are you trying to tell us something on purpose? Not the fever talking. You. On purpose."
My chest hurt from the cannula and from holding my arm up. I pushed through it and lifted two fingers straight up, hard and clear, and I didn't drop them until she nodded.
Two for yes.
The nurse breathed out. It was shaky. "She's lucid. All three correct. She understands yes and no and she's using it consistently."
The two doctors exchanged a look. The taller one capped his pen. "We will document: patient responsive to yes/no gesturing, three of three appropriate, but vital signs and presentation — pallor, diffuse rash — still support systemic cause for altered baseline. Recommendation stands."
He meant the box. I stared at it and my hand tightened around the nurse's glove. She felt it.
The Navy man by the emergency doors hadn't said anything since the doctors started talking. He used to stand with his shoulders back, ready to answer. Now he just watched the space between my hand and the nurse's hand, his jaw tight, his mouth closed. When the nurse looked up at him, he didn't explain or interrupt. He just gave a short nod and went quiet, like he finally understood he was watching a conversation that didn't need him to translate.
The nurse turned her gloved hand over and showed me again, slow. Two for yes. One for no. Three-one-three for help.
May you like
I mirrored her, two fingers for yes, and she squeezed my left arm gently where her glove held it. The cool light reflected off the metal rail and the white tiles, and for the first time since they'd called me delirious, I felt the room agree that I was still in there.
I held the two fingers up a second longer, so everyone could chart it if they wanted to.
