again.
“You can’t get to the carotid artery with that,” he said quickly. “It’s not sharp enough.”
He stepped forward and pulled back his collar, exposing the scar on his neck. “Look,” he told her, and he lifted his chin and took another step to her, so she could see the ugly rope of scar tissue that Gretchen had left on him. Courtenay wanted to be beautiful.
“You’ll just end up mutilating yourself,” Archie said.
Courtenay’s mouth opened as her eyes dropped to his neck. She blinked rapidly, then let the Formica fall to the floor and dabbed at her self-inflicted wound with her fingers. “Am I going to have a scar?” she asked, forehead creasing with dismay.
Archie moved to her and took her tenderly by the shoulders. It was both a gesture of comfort and to ensure that she wouldn’t dive for the Formica. “I don’t think you’ll even need stitches,” he said.
Three uniformed hospital security guards hurried into the room, with the orderly and Rosenberg tagging behind them. The guards took Courtenay by each arm and led her mutely away.
Archie walked over to where the phone sat, still ringing, on an end table by the couch, and picked it up.
“Hello?” he said.
But on the other end there was only silence.
Archie hung up.
“I’m going to my room,” Archie told Rosenberg. “I need a sweater.” It was true. He was suddenly very cold. It was probably the adrenaline drop. Hospitals were kept ten degrees colder than what anyone would find comfortable. Archie didn’t know why. Maybe it was to keep patients like him from overstaying their welcome.
He had two sweaters: a green cardigan and a blue crewneck. They were in the bottom drawer of his dresser against the wall facing the foot of his bed. He was opening the drawer when he felt the vibration. He thought it was the medication at first. They were adjusting his Prozac dosage and he felt that sort of thing sometimes, electrical sensations that traveled down his arms, or lit up his brain at night. Brain zaps, the nurses called them, as if they were a perfectly normal side effect, like bloating.
But the vibration wasn’t the medication.
It was a phone.
Archie froze. It had been two months since he had heard a vibrating cell phone, that odd low-frequency buzz, both a sound and a feeling. Fifteen years he’d carried a phone in his pocket. And in two months, he’d already forgotten it.
It was in his dresser.
He traced his fingers up along the dresser drawers, feeling for the telltale vibration. The buzzing stopped.
He opened the second drawer down.
The phone was half covered by a pair of pants, but it was there, clear as day. Archie glanced up at the camera mounted in the corner of the room. The camera didn’t have the right angle to see it.
He reached into the drawer and pretended to be fascinated by an imaginary stain on a pair of corduroys while he fumbled with the phone with his other hand. He didn’t take it out of the drawer. Five hundred and thirty-eight missed calls. One text message. Archie clicked on
“You can’t get to the carotid artery with that,” he said quickly. “It’s not sharp enough.”
He stepped forward and pulled back his collar, exposing the scar on his neck. “Look,” he told her, and he lifted his chin and took another step to her, so she could see the ugly rope of scar tissue that Gretchen had left on him. Courtenay wanted to be beautiful.
“You’ll just end up mutilating yourself,” Archie said.
Courtenay’s mouth opened as her eyes dropped to his neck. She blinked rapidly, then let the Formica fall to the floor and dabbed at her self-inflicted wound with her fingers. “Am I going to have a scar?” she asked, forehead creasing with dismay.
Archie moved to her and took her tenderly by the shoulders. It was both a gesture of comfort and to ensure that she wouldn’t dive for the Formica. “I don’t think you’ll even need stitches,” he said.
Three uniformed hospital security guards hurried into the room, with the orderly and Rosenberg tagging behind them. The guards took Courtenay by each arm and led her mutely away.
Archie walked over to where the phone sat, still ringing, on an end table by the couch, and picked it up.
“Hello?” he said.
But on the other end there was only silence.
Archie hung up.
“I’m going to my room,” Archie told Rosenberg. “I need a sweater.” It was true. He was suddenly very cold. It was probably the adrenaline drop. Hospitals were kept ten degrees colder than what anyone would find comfortable. Archie didn’t know why. Maybe it was to keep patients like him from overstaying their welcome.
He had two sweaters: a green cardigan and a blue crewneck. They were in the bottom drawer of his dresser against the wall facing the foot of his bed. He was opening the drawer when he felt the vibration. He thought it was the medication at first. They were adjusting his Prozac dosage and he felt that sort of thing sometimes, electrical sensations that traveled down his arms, or lit up his brain at night. Brain zaps, the nurses called them, as if they were a perfectly normal side effect, like bloating.
But the vibration wasn’t the medication.
It was a phone.
Archie froze. It had been two months since he had heard a vibrating cell phone, that odd low-frequency buzz, both a sound and a feeling. Fifteen years he’d carried a phone in his pocket. And in two months, he’d already forgotten it.
It was in his dresser.
He traced his fingers up along the dresser drawers, feeling for the telltale vibration. The buzzing stopped.
He opened the second drawer down.
The phone was half covered by a pair of pants, but it was there, clear as day. Archie glanced up at the camera mounted in the corner of the room. The camera didn’t have the right angle to see it.
He reached into the drawer and pretended to be fascinated by an imaginary stain on a pair of corduroys while he fumbled with the phone with his other hand. He didn’t take it out of the drawer. Five hundred and thirty-eight missed calls. One text message. Archie clicked on
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