Chapter 8
I didn't let go of the two fingers. My hand had started to shake from holding it up, but I kept it there. The RN hadn't moved away. She stayed crouched beside the rail of the bed, her white-gloved left hand hovering close to my arm like she was afraid I'd drop the signal if she touched me wrong.
The doctor with the medication box checked his watch. "Nurse. You asked for five minutes. You've used three."
"I know," she said without looking at him. Her eyes stayed on me. "Honey, I need you to show me what three-one-three means. Not just the numbers. Where."
She pointed slowly so I could follow. First to the clock above the doors. It read 3:42 in red numbers. I shook my head once. That wasn't it. The plastic of the nasal cannula pulled against my nose and I breathed through my mouth.
She pointed to the glass double doors. The red EMERGENCY sign glowed above them, and there was a small white sign zip-tied to the handle that said BAY 3. I shook my head again. Not that either.
Then she pointed at the Navy man's chest. At the patch on his camouflage uniform. I stared at it. He went still when he realized what she was doing.
He had been standing back by the doors with his arms crossed, trying to look like he was just waiting. When the RN's finger lined up with his uniform, his jaw tightened.
"Ma'am, don't," he said to her. "She's confused. She's been looking at my uniform all morning."
The RN didn't drop her hand. She looked at me again. "Is it the uniform? Is three-one-three on him?"
I lifted my two fingers a little higher and then nodded. Just once. My eyes burned.
The RN exhaled. "Okay. Okay, honey."
Behind the bed, my sister shifted. The braided girl — my little sister — had been so quiet I'd almost forgotten she was there with our grandma. She was standing on her tiptoes to see over the rail, her braids swinging forward.
"That's our house number," she said. Her voice was very small. "Three thirteen. Like on the mailbox. At housing."
Grandma's hand clamped down on her shoulder. "Maya, hush."
But the RN turned. "Housing? What housing, sweetheart?"
Maya looked at the Navy man, then at me, then back at the RN. "We live at three thirteen Peleliu Court. On base housing. Dad's unit is three thirteen, too. He says it all the time. Three thirteen is home."
The room went too quiet except for the beep of my monitor. I could hear the fluorescent light buzzing overhead.
The doctor frowned at the Navy man. "Sir, is that accurate?"
The Navy man's face had gone red under his stubble. He uncrossed his arms. "It's my unit designation and my housing assignment, yes. Naval Housing Unit 313. So what? That doesn't mean anything. She hears me say it on the phone. Kids repeat things when they're febrile."
He was talking too fast. I watched his hands. He kept rubbing his thumb against his forefinger.
The RN stood up slowly. She reached for the chart hanging on the end of my bed — the clipboard with the plastic cover. She flipped it open with her gloved hand and clicked a pen.
"You said she's delirious," she said to the doctor, but loud enough for everyone to hear. She was writing as she spoke. "She doesn't know what she's doing."
She wrote in block letters across the blank line under my vitals where it said NOTES.
313 - PT POINTS TO NAVY UNIFORM / HOUSING - PELELIU CT 313 - CONFIRMED BY FAMILY + SERVICE MEMBER AS UNIT/HOUSING DESIGNATION. PT ALERT, TRACKING, REPEAT SIGNAL.
"But she just mapped it," the RN said. "She ruled out the clock. She ruled out the door. She identified a uniform patch she shouldn't have the clarity to identify if she were delirious. And her sister independently confirmed three-one-three is a real external location tied to this service member, without prompting."
She capped the pen and looked at the Navy man. "Sir, what's the full address for that housing unit? So we can document it."
He hesitated. Just a second too long.
"It's three thirteen Peleliu Court, base housing," he said finally. "But I'm telling you, this is a waste of time. Check on her if you want, but my kid is sick. She needs the medication, not a geography lesson."
I made a sound then — not words, just a whine in the back of my throat — and held my two fingers out toward the RN's chart. I wanted it there on paper. While it was just in my hand, they could say I was waving it away. On paper, it stayed.
The RN saw it. She tilted the clipboard so I could see the numbers she'd written. "Like this? Is this right?"
I nodded and a tear ran sideways into my hair. I blinked hard to show her yes.
The doctor looked down at the chart, then at me, then at the medication box in his other hand. He didn't open it. He slipped it under his arm instead.
"Documented," the RN said. "Three-one-three is not a hallucination. It's a location. And a person attached to that location is standing in this room."
May you like
The Navy man took a step back toward the doors, under the red EMERGENCY sign.
Nobody else moved. The paper on the clipboard didn't move either. Three one three was on it now in black ink, and the beep of my monitor kept going, steady and loud.
