Chapter 6: The First Night Beneath the Weak Reading Lamp
By the time the last daylight drained from the tall windows, I had finished securing the new dressing. The clean layers looked almost white beneath the weak reading lamp, but the stain beneath them had not been ordinary blood. Fresh red had spread through old brown fluid, and the sweet, foul smell remained in the room despite the disinfectant.
I did not trust the bandage to tell me the truth for long.
Liam lay motionless in the massive bed, his right leg held rigid by the external fixator. The rods and pins cast thin shadows across the sheets. His face had lost some of its earlier color, and sweat gathered along his hairline. The oxygen concentrator made a steady mechanical sound beside him, pushing air through the tubing near his face. Every few minutes, his breathing changed. It would become shallow, then catch, then settle again.
I kept the reading lamp on.
The rest of the room stayed almost completely dark. Its narrow cone of yellow light reached the bed, the supply tray, and the chair I had pulled close to him. Beyond that circle, the vaulted room disappeared into blackness. The house might have been empty, but the equipment gave the darkness a pulse.
I checked the dressing without removing it. No new fluid had reached the outer gauze. I noted the time on the paper beside my hand and watched Liam's face instead of the clock.
I had told myself this was a shift. I could stay until he settled, report what I had seen, and leave with enough money to keep Tommy's treatment within reach. Ten thousand dollars for one week had sounded like a number large enough to solve a problem. In the dark, it became a number divided into hours, supplies, fear, and the cost of remaining where I was not wanted.
Tommy's hospital bills waited somewhere beyond the estate gates. I pictured the cheap nylon duffel at the foot of the bed, holding the few clothes I had brought, and then imagined carrying it back through the marble halls before morning. Leaving would preserve my strength. Leaving would also return me to the same uncertainty that had brought me there.
A faint change in the oxygen concentrator drew my attention. The rhythm faltered, then resumed with a rougher vibration.
Liam's eyes opened.
He did not turn his head. His pale blue eyes fixed on the lamp, then on the tubing, as if he were trying to identify which part of the room had betrayed him. His right hand tightened against the sheet. The movement pulled at his abdomen, and his face pinched before he could stop it.
I rose and checked the tubing first. It had not kinked. The machine was running. His pulse at the wrist felt faster than it had earlier, and his skin was damp beneath my fingers.
I reached for the morphine syringe, then stopped.
Pain could be measured. His expression could not. I checked the dressing again and found a narrow crescent of red at its lower edge. Not much. Enough to make leaving impossible.
I set the syringe within reach and replaced the outer gauze, careful not to disturb the sealed layers beneath it. Liam watched every movement. He did not speak. Neither did I.
The room settled into the same mechanical rhythm, but the night had changed. I pulled the chair closer until my knees nearly touched the bed frame and wrote down the time, the new stain, his breathing, and the medication I had not yet given.
Hours passed in small, difficult pieces. Liam drifted into sleep and broke out of it repeatedly. Each time, his hand moved toward his abdomen before falling back. Once, his eyes opened and found mine immediately. I remained seated. He closed them again.
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Near morning, cold light began to gather behind the tall windows. My back ached, my eyes burned, and the lamp still glowed between us.
I was exhausted, but I was present. The dressing had failed once already. The next decision would require more than endurance.
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