Acoustic Shadows. Patrick Kendrick

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       SIX

      Erica couldn’t sleep. They offered her pain medication, but she refused it. She wanted to be alert. The news covering the shooting was on; she tried not to watch it, but almost every channel had coverage of it. She was pleased none of the children had been killed, and terrified when they kept flashing a picture of her on the screen as they played up her role as a hero. They must’ve obtained it from the Calusa County School Board from her identification badge. It wasn’t a great picture, but it was good enough for someone looking for her to recognize.

      The photo popped up again, this time in response to one of the mothers of a student being interviewed. The reporter asked what she’d like to say to Erica Weisz, the hero of Travis Hanks Elementary. With a microphone in her face, her deep southern drawl making it difficult to understand, the woman said, ‘Yeah, I s’pose she is a hero.’ Her emphasis on HEE-row mortified Erica and she wished the reporters would just stop. ‘I mean, she saved the kids’ lives, right?’ the mother continued, ‘but, what would I like to say to her? I guess I should say thank you. But, to be truthful, I’d like to ask why she had a gun in a public school.’ The footage stopped with the woman’s face framed on screen mid-sentence, her mouth twisted, and her hair driven back by the wind making her look severe and angry.

      The reporter for a THN affiliate, a woman whose hair didn’t move when the wind blew, returned her attention to the camera and said, ‘there you have it, a thankful parent. But, as we’ve begun to hear, there are questions about where the gun came from that Erica Weisz used to slay the shooters. Initial reports came in saying she had wrestled the gun away from intruders, but police are now saying it at least appears she may have brought the gun onto school grounds, which, according to school officials, is strictly forbidden.’

      Erica turned off the television, her anxiety growing. She noted the nurses had left the syringe that inflated the bulb in her Foley catheter next to the bed. She used it to deflate the Foley and drew it painfully out of her urethra. When she looked at the collection bag, she saw she wasn’t producing much urine. An ominous sign.

      Keeping intact the electronic monitoring devices hooked up to her, so as not to alert the nurses, Erica pulled the IV out of her arm. They had used a large bore, 14-gauge catheter, and the hole it left behind started to bleed. She held a tissue on it and used the tape that held the IV in her arm to secure the tissue over the wound. Then, she slowly got out of the bed, her abdomen so sore it took several attempts to simply sit up. Finally, she made it into a semi-erect posture, crossed the room, and peeked outside the door. Thank God for long electrical cords and beds with wheels.

      Her legs were trembling from the loss of blood and the freezing air conditioning. A wave of nausea swept over her, but passed as she took a few deep, calming breaths. Icy sweat frosted over her forehead and lower back, but warmed slowly as her circulation began to flow again. An empty chair was outside her door, a walkie-talkie sitting atop a folded newspaper. The Calusa County Sheriff’s deputy assigned to stand guard at her room had moved to the nurses’ station and was flirting with the one of the women. She would have only a few minutes.

      She looked under her hospital bed and found a plastic bag with her name scribbled on it in block letters. Inside were her underwear, running shoes, and purse, sans the pistol. The dress had probably been taken by the police to examine the blast pattern. Her side felt as though it might rip open as she bent over and retrieved her belongings. She gritted her teeth and wondered if she would be able to maintain consciousness. After a few deep breaths, the pain subsided, and she looked around the room. On the back of the door was a long, white lab coat with a name tag. It would have to do.

      She brought her purse over to the sink in the disability-equipped bathroom adjoining her small room. She quickly washed her face, brushed her hair, and spruced up her sallow complexion with a little make-up. She wasn’t going to win any beauty pageants, but she might pass for something other than a bloodless zombie. She peeked out the door one more time and saw the deputy was still preoccupied. At the very last moment, she took a deep breath then pulled off the pulse oximeter cord, blood pressure cuff, and the EKG electrodes. It would take a moment for the lights to indicate a problem at the nurses’ station, another minute or so for one of the nurses to notice, and another moment for them to convince themselves the patient hadn’t accidentally pulled the monitors off rolling over in her sleep. In all, she could expect a minimum of three minutes before they would come in to check on her.

      Erica pushed open the door and turned quickly down the hall without looking back. She walked with purpose, sucking up the pain, not hurrying, but assuming the role of an efficient nurse looking for something for one of her patients. It had been a familiar role at one time.

      She found the room where nurses kept their personal belongings in lockers with names taped to the front. Only two or three were locked. Evidently, most of the nurses knew and trusted each other. Erica tried to remember when last she could trust anyone; it seemed a lifetime ago. Feeling guilty but having no choice, she found some women’s clothing: a pair of jeans and a Lady Antebellum concert T-shirt. She rolled them up and shoved them into her purse, then noticed the door to the supply closet adjoined the dressing room. She wanted to simply leave – ASAP – but it might be worth her while to take a quick glance.

      Erica stepped into the supply closet and looked around. She noted the narcotics were locked in a refrigerated glass case, as they should be, but most of the non-narcotic drugs were on the shelves. She threw a bag of normal saline into her purse, some bandaging and IV materials, and was just reaching for the Amoxicillin when the door opened behind her. She turned to find a young doctor standing there, fumbling with his keys, trying to find the one that opened the narcotics cabinet. He looked up at her.

      He frowned, obviously not recognizing her. She hoped that the hospital had enough part-time nurses that her being there wouldn’t draw curiosity. The doctor smiled and held the bunch of keys in his hand.

      ‘I can never find the right key to open this thing.’

      Erica smiled back and nodded, but her heart was racing now. She felt sweat forming on her upper lip and swallowed dryly. Then, she felt something move down her arm. She glanced down and saw blood beginning to seep through the lab coat where the IV had been.

      ‘Haven’t seen you around here before,’ he said, as he fumbled with the keys.

      Erica swallowed dryly. ‘I’m … I work per diem … you know, with a registry. I … uh, usually do private duty but the registry called me today and said the hospital needed more staff, so … ’

      The doctor stared at her for a moment, his eyes meeting hers, as if contemplating what she told him. He turned his attention back to the keys and finally found the right one that opened the cabinet. СКАЧАТЬ