A Canadian Werewolf in New York

Chapter Thirteen

     “How do you know Howard?”

     There was a pause as he sucked in a huge mouthful of air.  “He’s my brother.”

     “You’re Howard’s brother?”

     “Yes.”  It was more an affirmative hiss than a word as I heard his heart skip a double-beat then begin to race as he started to panic.  “They said . . . they were going . . .” his words faded as his heart raced even harder.

     I increased my pace toward the hospital.

     “C’mon,” I said.  “You’ll make it.  Hang in there.”

     His respiration increased to closely match his quickening heartbeat.  “Going to . . . beat me . . . within . . . an inch . . . of . . . my life.”  He finally pushed the words out between a steady series of breaths.

     “Why?”

     “To show Howie they were serious.”

     At that point, his breathing became completely sporadic and his heart started doing a double dutch kind of thing.

     “Dammit,” I said, now starting to run toward the hospital.

#     #     #

     I checked my watch again.  It had only been a couple of minutes since the last time I’d checked.  And it was still only about 10:40 AM.  Well, 10:43 to be exact, particularly coming from a man who was checking his watch almost every minute.

     The previously overwhelming atmospheric impressions of the emergency room slowly filtered to the back of my consciousness.  For sure it was a quiet morning in the ER, but there was still a buzz amidst the small group of people sitting in the waiting room with me and with the patients being treated.

I could hear the anxious though muted voices of the others sitting in the waiting room with me, hear the pulse of the machines keeping the beat of lives in the actual trauma rooms on the other side of the glass doors, the quickly spoken words of the ER staff, the doctors and nurses.  And, of course, in the midst of all the hubbub and excitement, the mundane dialogue of one of the security guards who had brought in a 4 cup molded tray filled with large coffees and was arguing with the intern behind the main service desk over the sizes and blends that were ordered.

I had to suppress a chuckle as I overheard the security guard say “double double” -- and I remember thinking that he must be Canadian.  “Double double” was a standard order call at Canada’s beloved coffee chain, Tim Horton’s.

The smell of the coffee, definitely not on par with the drink served by Canada’s most loved chain, more on par with the stale and burnt coffee that comes out of a vending machine or perhaps out of a carafe that has been sitting on the burner for too many hours.

In any case, the smell of the coffee was a welcome mask over the other smells I’d been sitting here with.  The antiseptic smell of the recently mopped floor, the blood and snot smell of the patient who had been next on the list to be triaged until I brought Howard’s brother in.  A heart attack did rate over a broken nose, after all.  But worse than any of the smells was the subdued scent of fear and anxiety, which mostly came from the folks who shared the sitting room with me.  That, and the distinct scent of fear I caught as one particular doctor moved about through the ER.  I deduced that perhaps it was his first day, or at least first week in the ER.  And he seemed absolutely terrified -- perhaps terrified that he was going to make a mistake, terrified that he wouldn’t be able to handle the things brought in to him, perhaps terrified of not being able to save a patient.