Promise(8)

Under his gaze, I feel some odd comfort. I still want to be anywhere else, but he’s not looking at me like I’m an anomaly. He’s soft and hard, and for some reason, I want to ask his name.

“Thank you for helping my father.” He flashes that crooked smile. Sensing my impatience he finally takes one step toward the bed, giving me just enough room to slide by.

The softness in his voice is startling. He is a monster in his size, and his presence feels like a Secret Service Agent on high alert, but there are still soft edges about him like we know each other. It makes me both drawn to him and ready to shoot out the door like a bolt of lightening.

My heart is reminding me of just how uncomfortable I am right now, and besides the thumping sound in my ears, Mr. Fitzgerald is raising the roof from behind me.

“You come halfway around the world to see me, and you aren’t three feet into my room still. Do you want to talk to her or to me? Promise, you want to get out of here?” Mr. Fitzgerald doesn’t bother me, he’s right I do want to get out of here. “Girl barely knows how to scratch two words together.”

“Dad, come on.” His son’s voice is scolding.

I nod and give him one more glance. His hair is black like his father’s but shining and cropped with precision around his ears. The last thing I notice as I cower toward the door is the rippled, pulled texture of his skin above his left ear and the silver length of the scar that runs from his forehead all the way down until it crosses his lips.

The shiver that starts in my neck travels down all the way to my toes.

His eyes narrow as I slip by. I can’t help but brush the sleeve of his jacket, and I try not to forget to breathe.

What is wrong with me? I see men like him all the time. Not here, but at my other job. Jarheads, military for sure. But, he’s different, very different, and I don’t know if I like him or not.

In the hallway, I finally let out a breath that apparently I’ve been holding the entire time I stood there. What the heck was that? I don’t like feeling like that feeling at all. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror of the open lavatory door in the hall and see my toppled bun hanging next to my ear.

Besides the unruly hair, I see what other people see. How shocking I am. How surreal and otherworldly. I’m sure he was just having the normal reaction. I mean, how many times in your life do you get to see a living ghost?

One of the reasons I like this job is I feel normal around these people. I feel as close to fitting in as I ever have. Everyone here has something wrong. Some ailment, something about them that is broken either inside or outside. It’s only when the outside world comes in, like now, like him, that I remember who I really am.

That girl.

From that family.

With those eyes.

The radio on my hip crackles again, and I jump like a shot went off.

“Promise, you there?” It’s Bruce, the head nurse.

I walk a few steps down the hall and think about how a complete stranger could make me feel strangely comforted and connected in a matter of a couple minutes.

“Yes, here,” I whisper back into the radio.

“Come see me. I’ve got snacks.”

I smile and roll my eyes. Bruce hired me two years ago. Then, a month after I started working, he also gave me a place to live.

Against my will, he’s also become my friend.

“On my way.”

I flop down into the chair next to his desk. It’s not so much an office as a closet. In fact, it was a shower at one time. Then, they converted it so he could have some privacy.

I can’t stop wondering how Mr. Fitzgerald’s son chipped his left, front tooth. You would think I would be fascinated with the more frightening elements of his face, but no. I desperately need to know what happened to his tooth.

“Did you see that hunk ‘o burnin’ love that came in to see twenty-six?” Bruce snorts and runs his hands over his shiny, bald head, then lets out a long, enamored sigh.

“Yep.” He hands me a pretzel rod.

“What do you think? Does Mr. Fitzgerald need a visit from the head nurse?” Bruce snorts again. “Think I’m his type?”

“Dunno. Do you think you’re Mr. Fitzgerald’s type?” I smirk, and he sticks his tongue out. I know he’s not asking about our patient. He’s glaring at me with wide eyes. “We didn’t discuss his sexual orientation. Imagine that.”

“Yeah, I know how chatty you can be. Probably got his life story.” He waves another pretzel rod in my face, then taps it on my nose as I crinkle it at him.

But, if I had to make a wild-ass guess, I would be more his type than Bruce would, but I’ll give him his fantasy for now. He is a fine specimen, the cartwheeling butterflies in my stomach don’t lie.