I’ve been a nurse for over ten years. I’ve seen it all. Why on earth is this guy making me feel so, I don’t know, weird?
I check him over once from head to toe and make sure his leg is aligned, as it should be in the traction. Everything seems to be in order, and for all intents and purposes I’m finished, but I can’t manage to pull myself away from him.
I’m cemented at his bedside with an overwhelming urge to communicate with him. And even though I know he’s unconscious, I lean down and whisper into his ear, “You’re going to be ok. You’ve got this.”
Nothing.
I’m not sure what I expected. He’s not Sleeping Beauty. Well, he is beautiful and he is sleeping, but not in the destined-to-wake-from-a-fairy-tale-spell-at-the-sound-of-my-voice kind of way.
When I take care of coma patients, I narrate my actions on the off chance that they can hear me and will know what I’m doing. I’ve always been well aware of my boundaries, and this is the first time in my career that I’ve ever come close to crossing them.
I pick up his well-manicured hand and hold it in both of mine. I stand there for several minutes staring at him until Courtney comes to the door, and I drop his hand like a hot ember. I jump and step away, snapping the invisible rubber band that was pulling us together.
“Ha, I knew you’d think he was hot,” she says, eyes bright and playful.
“Courtney, shush, he might hear you!” I move toward the door to nudge her out and close the door behind us.
“Can you believe that guy’s body? He has muscles that never quit. Did you check him out under the covers?” Courtney says, wiggling her eyebrows.
A sense of protectiveness surges through me, and I want her to stop talking about my patient.
“He’s not a piece of meat, Courtney. Give the guy a break; he’s been through a lot.”
“Oh, come on, Imani, you gotta admit, it’s nice to have eye candy to look at while you’re at work. Shit, it’s my favorite benefit of working in this hospital; hot, famous, rich people to gossip about.”
“Yeah, but he’s, I don’t know.” I shake my head. It’s hard to explain something to Courtney that I don’t even understand myself.
“Gorgeous, panty-melting hot? Yeah, duh, that’s why I had him assigned to you. I gotta get going. Ta-ta, enjoy your evening with Mr. Lover Boy,” she says making a clucking sound with her tongue while pulling the trigger of her air gun to shoot me.
“I thought Cupid had a bow and arrow, not a gun,” I say.
She smiles and turns on her heel to head to the elevator.
I sigh, “Later, Courtney, see you in the morning.”
“Okaydoki Artichokie,” she says, and waves goodbye over her shoulder.
Okay, so she’s a well-intended dorky cupid, but she’s still my friend.
Marcus is due for some medication. When I return with it, that same irresistible pull consumes me. This guy is messing with my head. I have never had feelings like this for a man before. In fact, I’ve never had any good feelings for a man other than my father.
The last decade of my life I’ve spent running in the opposite direction away from men, avoiding relationships like the plague.
My attack left me broken and damaged beyond repair. Or so I thought until a complete stranger drew me in with his mysterious forces and caused me to whisper promises into his ear.
I push the medication into his IV and contemplate this stranger’s face wondering things like what color are his eyes and what might he be like when he wakes up.
Lost in thought, I’m startled when Sam pokes her head into the door.
“Sorry, Imani, I need some help in room seven, do you have time?”
“Sure, sure, I’ll be right there.” I shake my head to clear my thoughts and follow Sam to the room next door.
The rest of my shift is uneventful. Marcus lies still and beautiful in his room lit by the screens of his medical equipment. I sit outside his room watching through the window that separates him from my charting station. He holds my attention like a blockbuster movie on opening night.
Hours later I check the time, and I realize I don’t want to leave him when my shift ends. Any other day I am knocking people down trying to get out of here after twelve-plus hours of demanding work, but not today. Today the thought of leaving Marcus alone with no family to comfort him feels wrong.
I report off to the day nurse with an uneasy heart and stop to check on him before I go.
Without thinking, I whisper into his ear again, “I’m leaving, but I’ll be back for you.” I squeeze his hand and turn to leave.
What am I doing? He’s a perfect stranger, with an emphasis on perfect, but a stranger all the same. If one of my co-workers were whispering sweet nothings into their comatose patient’s ear, I think I’d have to sit them down and have a serious talk about professionalism in the work place.
Outside in the parking garage, the exhaustion of working so many shifts in a row hits me hard. Nonetheless, the further I travel away from the hospital the more angst I have about leaving. Maybe I should slow down on the extra overtime shifts? I think my judgment is being impaired by my lack of sleep.
That’s it, Imani, blame it on sleep deprivation. When I wake up this afternoon I will have forgotten all about the handsome captivating man in bed eight who has me losing my damn mind. Right?
Chapter 2
Sleep. It’s something so easy for most people, but it eludes me every time I slip between the sheets. Even though I’m exhausted, I have to medicate myself to avoid the night terrors that accompany the rest my body needs.
My past haunts me when I close my eyes. During the day, I’m able to press the memories of the attack down deep below the surface. But at night, the vulnerability of sleep enables the horrific experience to return and torture me all over again. Post-traumatic stress syndrome feasts on my fears and anxiety like a three-course meal.
My friends and family are my life. They have been my rock, and I wouldn’t be alive if not for their support over the years. They don’t judge me for not dating, and my mother has never once pushed me to do something I’m not ready for.
Those who don’t know my secret, however, are always bringing it to my attention. You’re such a pretty girl, why don’t you date? You’re so smart, Imani; when are you going to settle down?
I get so sick of it sometimes I want to yell at them that I don’t want a fucking husband, so they will shut up and leave me alone. I even considered passing myself off as a lesbian until I realized that it would only change the gender of the dates my friends try to set me up on.
Being an aunt fulfills my maternal needs and living on my own isn’t so bad. At least when I set my toothbrush down I always know where it is, and the remote is mine for the controlling.
With a past like mine, I never expected to have a serious relationship. I’ve always known my mind and body would deny the ache in my heart for that kind of love, the all-encompassing powerful forever kind of love.
But I’m alive, independent, educated, employed, and, most of all, loved by my family. I make it a point to remind myself how lucky I am to be alive every day.
I swallow my pills and snuggle up with the only two things I’ve slept with for ten long years, my pillows. It isn’t long before I drift into a dreamless drug-induced sleep. My last thoughts are of Marcus, and if I could dream pleasant dreams instead of nightmares I would dream about him.