The sun is up and I am boiling over with emotions. I don't know whether I want to scream or cry. So I do neither. I just stomp toward the door. The young resident is gone but his cigarettes aren't. I remember that I used to smoke!
Red lips kiss the gold filter of a cigarette. A flick of the lighter and a small puff to light the tip of the cigarette, then the smoky wisps of tobacco fill the air. I can't remember when or where I was but the action of smoking is all too familiar.
I sit on the overturned milk crate. My hand withdraws a cigarette from the open packet and I flick open the lighter left there by the doctor, exposing the flint wheel and wick. A few firm strokes of the thumb and the flame springs to life.
I breathe deeply and taste the tobacco on my tongue. Its soothing tendrils seeking out every crevice and pocket within my lungs, soothing my nerves as the nicotine hits my brain. Why have I not tried this sooner? I lift the cigarette to my lips again and a draw deep. Closing my eyes, I drift as I exhale. My fingers examine the lighter. It is cold and heavy. I look down and see it is beaten with age. One side, crudely scratched into the steel, I read: 'Live today to die tomorrow'. The other side has the initials 'ER' in beautifully formed script.
A flicker of a memory envelopes my mind. My hair pulled back under a starched cap. A man, in his mid-twenties, with reddish brown hair, lighting my cigarette. I lean into the flame, "Thank you. That's an unusual lighter."
"It was my father's when he was in the war." The man lights his own cigarette and the memory is gone.
I've seen this lighter before...
I hear the rooftop door open. I stand and see Margie and the young brunette nurse approaching. The cigarette, still lit, and lighter fall though my hands onto the gravel as they draw closer to me. I attempt to snuff the cigarette out in the gravel, but my attempt fails.
"Dr Reeves must have been up here already this morning. These are his brand of cigarettes," the young brunette says.
"You'll have to return them to him later, Nicole."
Margie sees the lighter by my foot, bends down and picks it up. She's face to face with me and I don't move, I just stare at her face. My gosh – she's gotten old, when did those lines around her mouth happen?
"His lighter is here too." Margie hands it to Nicole. "He'll appreciate you giving them back to him, rather than some old woman like me."
"Oh Margie, you're not old yet!" Nicole lights her cigarette with the old beaten lighter, then continues the conversation. "Dr Reeves is really cute. Have you noticed how much weight he's lost since he started here?"
"They always do; they eat nothing but junk when they're studying, then once they start their residency, they never have time to eat," Margie replies with a small chuckle.
"Margie, do you think I should lean right over his desk when I give him back his lighter?" Nicole has both her hands palm down on the small table. I can see right down her top, which means so can Margie. I look at Nicole disapprovingly, which might be effective if she could see me.
"Oh Nicole, in my day women didn't chase men! We let them do the chasing. Although, it was during the war, so a few of the girls let their morals slip. My best friend at the time chased after a doctor, even though he wasn't free. She caught him alright, but it didn't end well."
"Why? What happened? Was he married?"
Margie has a faraway look in her eye. "Yes, he was, but there was more to it than that".
Nicole sees a look of pain and sadness in Margie's face and shifts gears.
"Well, whatever it was, it isn't going to happen to me. At this point I'm only in it for fun. We're always cooped up in this hospital – I enjoy a bit of harmless flirting. And if Dr Gorgeous wants to screw around a little, I'd be up for that," Nicole says in a breathy, sensual voice as she shimmies her shoulders towards Margie.
"So long as you know what you're doing," Margie sighs and draws on her cigarette.
"Course I do! I've got it all worked out."
Nicole's mildly irritating display is distracting me from my recent conversation with Niklaus, so I move towards and through the door just as Nicole starts to reply. As I head down the stairs I reflect on my conversation with Niklaus and realise I didn't learn much about my existence. I wonder if Niklaus is keeping information from me intentionally, and if so why? Perhaps I haven't been open enough to let him confide in me. In order to talk, there needs to be trust, but I doubt if I'll ever be able to trust him. I stop mid-step and take a deep breath; this is only frustrating me. I need a distraction. One more flight and I'm on level five. I jump the last three steps like a small child and walk through the closed door into the maternity ward.
When the strain of helping people pass on becomes overwhelming, I like to come here and gaze at the newborns. This ward is always full of new life and reminds me that these babies can't live if others don't die. I'm facilitating the circle of life, even though I don't enjoy it. I walk past the brightly painted mural that's been there for decades. Children's smudgy hand prints form a colourful border around a flattened world map, with a ribboned scroll draped across the top that reads 'Hope for a better generation' in large blue and pink script. I've always thought it was ugly and wish they'd paint over it. Who says one generation is better than the other? Every generation has its own troubles and varying degrees of prosperity.
I walk straight past the nurses' station towards the viewing room. Usually, the babies will be up and active at this hour, all going crazy for food and attention at once. The exhausted nurses will be run off their feet and it's delightful to watch. I sit on the bench in front of the large glass window and watch the early morning drama unfold. I do find it amusing – you'd think after all this time they would have organised a more thorough routine. All the little babies are wrapped tight in their blankets, their sleeping faces pinched in little twitching expressions, lost in their little baby dreams. The only maternity nurse in the ward is tending to a premature baby in an incubator.
When this ward was updated a few years ago I spent a lot of time here. They sent specialised nurses to train the maternity staff, and I sat in on the lectures when I could. I found it fascinating.
I see one of the babies stir and stretch against its cocoon. Soon it'll start crying and then the rest will follow. Once one wakes it's a domino effect.
"Dr Reeves? Are you OK?" The voice behind me comes from a dark-skinned woman in pale yellow scrubs. I follow her eye line: Dr Reeves is sitting on the bench in a white coat and blue scrubs.
"Sixteen hours on shift, fourteen more to go." Dr Reeves weakly smiles at the nurse.
She nods in sympathy. "When are you back on the floor?"
"I'm on-call for three more hours," Reeves holds his head in his hands and runs his fingers through his coppery hair and exhales. I step closer to Reeves and crouch down to be level with his face. His skin is oily and face unshaven. His eyes are blood-shot and bleary, and he has a long way to go before the end of his shift. I don't understand why all the young nurses drool over him. Sure, he has a nice face and body, but he always looks drained as he shuffles around the wards. Perhaps he is handsome in his everyday life – out of scrubs and laughing with his friends in the fresh air and sunlight. I only get to see him under harsh fluorescent lights when he's pushed to the limit.
The nurse moves to him and put a hand on his shoulder. Reeves lifts his head and looks at her.
"Why don't you go take a shower and change your scrubs? You'll feel better. Then try and get a little sleep. We'll wake you if we need you."
Reeves mutters his thanks as the first baby's wail wakes the others and sets off the anticipated chain reaction. The nurse moves towards the viewing room as Reeves straightens up and walks right through me toward the lift. I hesitate for a moment, weighing up the relative merits of this morning's entertainment – I follow him. The lift doors open and a man with a worried expression exits with a bouquet of daffodils. I get on just as the door closes. Reeves presses floor one and leans against the lift wall. He draws a deep breath that turns into a wide yawn. I sense a whiff of stale coffee and cigarettes that takes me to a distant memory that I can hardly grasp: a man holding my face and bending in for a kiss; that same scent on his breath mingled with faded aftershave. I didn't mind the combination – it was comforting, sensual. But I can't quite get a grip on those memories; it's like trying to recall a dream after waking. Everything's faded. Memories, sensations – my perception of smell is so muted now; small particles seem to filter through the veil, but the invisible wall between our worlds stands strong, separating all the sensations and giving my life a dull numbness.
The lift dings and the doors open. At the end of another corridor Reeves swipes his access card to enter the doctors' mess. The mess is well named. It's rarely clean; there are always dirty dishes in the sink, and spilled coffee on the table. I stand in the middle of the room and look around. One scrawny young man sits upright, sleeping, and unaware that he is snoring loudly. A rounded woman gobbles a large meal while skimming a magazine. Reeves gives the woman a silent nod as he walks past, which she absentmindedly returns. He walks to the empty coffee pot, rinses out the jug and puts fresh grounds into a new filter. I watch him switch it on then head to the lockers. He retrieves his backpack and some fresh green scrubs and enters the men's bathrooms. I follow him in.
Reeves throws his backpack onto a wooden bench that is attached to a blue tiled wall. He unzips the bag and removes a toiletries bag, towel and socks. I stand in the corner of the room out of his way – I don't enjoy being walked through. Lethargically, Reeves removes his coat, placing it on a wall hanger. He throws his scrubs into the corner I'm standing in. When he's down to his underwear I consider turning my back to give him privacy. Though, the benefits of invisibility are that modesty is no longer an issue. I have screamed into people's ear and provoked little response; nobody knows that I'm here except for Niklaus. I look over Reeves's body; he isn't muscular but he is smoothly toned apart from a little softness around his belly that I find strangely endearing. His skin is smooth and lightly sprinkled with freckles on his arms and shoulders. The weight Reeves has lost during long hours at the hospital suits him – he now has a strong jawline where his rounded face and soft chin were. As Reeves bends to remove his jocks he turns his back to me, which robs me of a full frontal view but offers the opportunity to check out his firm backside and I wonder if he's been working out lately. I feel my cheeks flush as I realise how inappropriate I'm being. If I were visible I would never ogle a man so overtly. Once I hear the water begin to run behind the half wall I move over to the bench and sit. I close my eyes and rest my head against the tiles. I never sleep, but I do enjoy having these quiet moments to think of nothing. There are few silent places in a hospital. When I sit in the chapel I feel like I don't belong, and it's creepy and clichéd when I hang out in the morgue. The water drowns out any other sounds, it's relaxing...
"I lost a patient today." My eyes fling open and turn to the sound; it's behind the half wall. "I lost a patient today and it's my fault."
I move towards the sound of his voice and peep behind the wall. The steam is heavy but I can see Reeves sitting on the tiled floor under the hot water that cascades over his back and head. His finger dig into his scalp as he rubs his hands through his hair. He looks down at the tiles in anguish. I lean against the opposite wall and slide my back down it until I'm sitting on the floor with him. "I'm so tired, I keep making mistakes," Reeves whispers to himself.
Reeves picks up a wash cloth and lathers it upwith a bar of soap. He washes himself while sitting on the floor thenmechanically scrubs his teeth. I get up and leave the bathroom as the watercuts out. I walk through the door of the on-call room where I hope Reeves willcome to sleep. I notice the bed is unmade and dishevelled, and probably used byother exhausted medical staff. Cleaners obviously haven't been in yet. It's notoften I intervene, but I find myself locking the door, then pulling out a freshfitted sheet and pillow case from the cupboard in the room. Pushing through theveil takes physical effort, but the mechanics of stripping a bed and making itare something I feel I've been trained to do. I throw the dirty bedding intothe hamper as the door knob jiggles. I release the lock and Reeves staggersthrough the door and collapses on the freshly made bed. I remember my motheralways said, "you never sleep better than on clean starched sheets." I hopethat holds true for the doctor's sake. I leave him be and continue my wandering.