Read Online Happily Ever After: A Novel by Elizabeth Maxwell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Maxwell
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pretty. I understand where she’s coming from.
“Right,” I say.
She returns to her professional senses, possibly shaking off an image of our subject in a flimsy, untied hospital gown.
“He’s finishing a psych evaluation right now,” Bridget says, glancing at her computer. “If you go up to the third floor, the duty nurse there can assist you.”
I head to the elevator banks.
“He’s really good-looking,” Nurse Bridget yells after me. She’s dying to ask if he’s single and available, but they probably told her in nursing school that hitting on delusional patients was pushing the limits of good taste.
The third floor smells more like a hospital than the lobby did. A combination of antiseptic, bleach, and recycled air masks an underlying odor of sickness and misery. The fluorescent lights cast a greenish glow over everything. I’ve never found hospitals to be the sorts of places that inspire one to go on living.
Cathy is the duty nurse. She wears an old-fashioned nurse’s cap that makes me want to call her Sister and cross myself, just as a precaution.
“You don’t have a badge,” Sister Cathy says immediately, examining my chest.
“No,” I say. “Bridget didn’t give me one.”
Sister Cathy tsk-tsks. A printer whirs to life, and a badge is procured.
“Now,” she says, settling in behind her duty station and adjusting the nun’s cap, “can I help you?”
“I’m here to see if I know the good-looking man,” I say. It sounds ridiculous, but it’s more or less the truth. Nurse Cathy narrows her gaze.
“You guys called me, ” I say. “I’m trying to help identify a patient.”
“The good-looking one?”
Didn’t I say that already?
“Yes. Do you have a lot of patients here who don’t know their own names?” I ask.
She ignores me. “He’s very . . . charming,” she says. She busies herself on the computer, but there is no denying the faint bloom on her cheeks. She probably hasn’t been this excited since the Pope celebrated Mass at Yankee Stadium.
“I’m sure he is.”
“He’s out of his psych evaluation now,” she says brusquely, standing. “I can take you to see him.”
A strange nervousness rises in my chest, a sense of anticipation mixed with dread. The patient is in a private room. Perhaps that is because he’s the only patient up here, or maybe because Nurse Cathy thinks he’s a babe. And charming. Sun floods in from a huge window and backlights him in such a way I think angels might start to sing.
Nurse Cathy sighs. “He’s so . . .”
“I know,” I interrupt. “Charming.”
The man turns at the sound of my voice.
“Sadie,” he says, rushing to me and taking my hands in his. Nurse Cathy watches us carefully. His eyes plead with me. His hands are cold in mine. He squeezes. Please.
“Harry,” I blurt, possibly because I was gazing at Prince Harry on the cover of People magazine in the supermarket yesterday. I turn to Nurse Cathy, a big fake smile plastered on my face. “This is Harry . . . Plant. My second cousin once removed.”
I sometimes wonder if anyone other than British royalty can make sense of that “removed” business, but I feel it makes my claim difficult to argue against.
“The rest of the family is across the pond,” I say, warming up to my lie. A look of pure relief spreads across the newly dubbed Harry’s face. I have no idea what I’m doing. Recently I read that helping others is the best way to feel good about yourself. Maybe I’m just taking that idea to an unusual extreme.
I hug Harry. His body is firm and lean. I feel muscles through his shirt.
“How are you feeling, old chap?” I ask. Nurse Cathy rolls her eyes.
“So you can identify this man?”
“Haven’t I just?”
“I’m getting the doctor,” she says, turning on her heel and marching out of the room.
Second cousin Harry sits down on the bed.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I’m not sure I could have survived another minute in
“Right,” I say.
She returns to her professional senses, possibly shaking off an image of our subject in a flimsy, untied hospital gown.
“He’s finishing a psych evaluation right now,” Bridget says, glancing at her computer. “If you go up to the third floor, the duty nurse there can assist you.”
I head to the elevator banks.
“He’s really good-looking,” Nurse Bridget yells after me. She’s dying to ask if he’s single and available, but they probably told her in nursing school that hitting on delusional patients was pushing the limits of good taste.
The third floor smells more like a hospital than the lobby did. A combination of antiseptic, bleach, and recycled air masks an underlying odor of sickness and misery. The fluorescent lights cast a greenish glow over everything. I’ve never found hospitals to be the sorts of places that inspire one to go on living.
Cathy is the duty nurse. She wears an old-fashioned nurse’s cap that makes me want to call her Sister and cross myself, just as a precaution.
“You don’t have a badge,” Sister Cathy says immediately, examining my chest.
“No,” I say. “Bridget didn’t give me one.”
Sister Cathy tsk-tsks. A printer whirs to life, and a badge is procured.
“Now,” she says, settling in behind her duty station and adjusting the nun’s cap, “can I help you?”
“I’m here to see if I know the good-looking man,” I say. It sounds ridiculous, but it’s more or less the truth. Nurse Cathy narrows her gaze.
“You guys called me, ” I say. “I’m trying to help identify a patient.”
“The good-looking one?”
Didn’t I say that already?
“Yes. Do you have a lot of patients here who don’t know their own names?” I ask.
She ignores me. “He’s very . . . charming,” she says. She busies herself on the computer, but there is no denying the faint bloom on her cheeks. She probably hasn’t been this excited since the Pope celebrated Mass at Yankee Stadium.
“I’m sure he is.”
“He’s out of his psych evaluation now,” she says brusquely, standing. “I can take you to see him.”
A strange nervousness rises in my chest, a sense of anticipation mixed with dread. The patient is in a private room. Perhaps that is because he’s the only patient up here, or maybe because Nurse Cathy thinks he’s a babe. And charming. Sun floods in from a huge window and backlights him in such a way I think angels might start to sing.
Nurse Cathy sighs. “He’s so . . .”
“I know,” I interrupt. “Charming.”
The man turns at the sound of my voice.
“Sadie,” he says, rushing to me and taking my hands in his. Nurse Cathy watches us carefully. His eyes plead with me. His hands are cold in mine. He squeezes. Please.
“Harry,” I blurt, possibly because I was gazing at Prince Harry on the cover of People magazine in the supermarket yesterday. I turn to Nurse Cathy, a big fake smile plastered on my face. “This is Harry . . . Plant. My second cousin once removed.”
I sometimes wonder if anyone other than British royalty can make sense of that “removed” business, but I feel it makes my claim difficult to argue against.
“The rest of the family is across the pond,” I say, warming up to my lie. A look of pure relief spreads across the newly dubbed Harry’s face. I have no idea what I’m doing. Recently I read that helping others is the best way to feel good about yourself. Maybe I’m just taking that idea to an unusual extreme.
I hug Harry. His body is firm and lean. I feel muscles through his shirt.
“How are you feeling, old chap?” I ask. Nurse Cathy rolls her eyes.
“So you can identify this man?”
“Haven’t I just?”
“I’m getting the doctor,” she says, turning on her heel and marching out of the room.
Second cousin Harry sits down on the bed.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I’m not sure I could have survived another minute in
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