Promise(6)

Mrs. Selburn nods at me then chuckles at her paper as I step into the hall.

“Yes. The radio makes a click-click sound when I press my thumb on the button to speak.

“Get on over to unit twenty-six. His son’s coming today, and he needs a change.”

“Yup. Okay.”

Twenty-six came here a couple months ago, barely able to walk from self-neglect, liver disease and a near fatal infection in his amputated left leg. He was a wreck.

He doesn’t say much and neither do I. It will be interesting to see what his son is all about because he’s had zero visitors since he got here. One of the things I find fascinating about working here is watching the families. How they interact, how some of them genuinely care while others barely mask their disdain.

Everyone has a story, and I like to try to piece them together. It makes me feel better about my own past.

“Hello? Mr. Fitzgerald.” I knock softly on the door of unit twenty-six before stepping inside, shoving my hands down into the front pockets of my scrub shirt.

The v-neck pulls down far enough that the crease of my cleavage shows, and I immediately take my hands out. I like wearing my scrubs. They are loose and nondescript, and no worries about a little muffin top hanging over a tight waistband. It’s hard enough looking like I do but add on more curves than straight lines and I never feel quite right in my own skin.

Mr. Fitzgerald grunts toward me from his usual place by the window. We both know why I’m here, and it’s no spring picnic for either of us.

We work together in silence after I roll his chair into the bathroom. We’ve done this chore before, and within five minutes I’ve got him in and out with as little shame as possible.

I roll him back toward the window as a knock comes from the door behind us.

“Hey, Dad.” A man’s voice breaks into our comfortable silence.

Both of our heads snap around.

I’m hit with a flurry of tingling electric current up and down my spinal cord. The man I see working his way inside the room is impeccably dressed even in his jeans and t-shirt. Even with the textured flaws of his face, he stands proud and gorgeous. He is perhaps the most attractive man I’ve ever seen in person, and he’s staring back at me like he sees a ghost.

His close-cropped, near-black hair anchors eyes that defy definition of color.

Cobalt? No. Aqua? No.

Monet. They look like the water in one of Monet’s “Water Lilies” paintings.

He’s staring at me.

My eyes dart away. I’d only given him a split second glance, but his eyes are on me, and I’m all too familiar with that look.

I feel the heat rising up from my toes. I’m ashamed for something that I have no control over.

See, that’s the other reason I like this job. Almost everyone here is miserable, so how I look is a nonissue. I’m not a freak here; I’m just the girl with the white hair and the eyes that look like ice cubes.

I am a ghost in many ways. Not just because of how I look, but because I don’t feel like I belong in this world. I don’t fit. Never have.

And this world has shown me over and over, the feeling is mutual.

My stomach flutters. All I see are dark lashes outlining wild, blue eyes that are on me, and the tips of my ears feel like there are flames coming off of them. There’s no other way out of the small room except that door. He’s blocking the entire thing, and I realize just how massive he is.

He’s his father’s son, alright.

Mr. Fitzgerald must have stood a good 6’ 5” before they took his foot and part of his lower leg. He’s a diabetic and alcoholic, and that is not a winning combination.

Mr. Fitzgerald is African American, light skinned but still. His son looks Caucasian with angular lines to his face, warm olive skin, and I can only assume that his mother must have been white, and the DNA dice just fell toward her side.

But he and his father have the same look. They have the same stare. They are as similar as they are different, and they have an intensity that radiates from them that makes you want to look away.

I’m desperate to get out of here, but he’s not moving. I feel my pulse doing double time, and a low vibration of panic is rising and charging my skin.

Is he beautiful or horrible? Whatever he is, I’ve never seen anyone like him.

It seems like an eternity before he takes his next step forward, and I’m sure my face is hot to the touch. I toss my head to the side, wishing my hair would fall over my face. Instead, the loose bun I tied it in this morning merely flops over my ear.

“You coming in or what?” Mr. Fitzgerald breaks the silence with a terse greeting.

I take a breath, but it comes out as more of a loud gasp and both men turn to look at me. I can feel his eyes on me as he takes another step forward. It feels like the air in the room itself is nervous, like it’s tightening around me.