Eye Contact Read online

  He did well in recovery and I saw him safely up to the unit, personally accompanying him into his room and reporting off to the nurse and the intensivist that would be following him. I was exhausted and my feet were throbbing. Once I sat down to enter orders into the computer, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get back up. Bone-tired and thirsty, I somehow found the strength.

  The intensive care unit consisted of thirty beds, all private rooms with huge glass enclosures you could see into if the curtains weren’t pulled, obstructing your view of the patient. The unit was a big square, with the nursing station in the front, central to the patient rooms, and all of the supply and linen rooms were in the middle as well.

  I could’ve gone the other way, but I felt the pull. I figured all would be quiet and he would be asleep. It was late, after all. I could just peek in and he’d never know I was even there. I would come back in the morning, just before I got off, write a quick note, and be done with it.

  I could’ve gone the other way—could have and should have, because when I rounded the corner and room number seven came into view, we immediately made eye contact.

  Busted.

  He was out of bed, sitting upright in a recliner chair facing the hallway. The lights in his room were dimmed but I could clearly see his stare was intense, a slow grin emerging onto his face, and I stood frozen for a moment longer than I should have. Snapping out of it by mentally shouting at myself to close my mouth and act natural, I walked toward his room like it was intentional, all part of my plan. I was sure my face showed anything but.

  “Mr. Bennett, what are you doing awake?”

  “I’m a night owl,” he responded smoothly. “I was hoping I would get to see you today.”

  I didn’t like the flirtatious tone of his voice, but I loved it at the same time.

  “Well, here I am. You feeling better?” Keep it professional. I entered his room all the way, noticing that his bed was freshly made.

  “I am. Still getting used to everything. This incision on my stomach is a bitch,” he proclaimed, faltering as the profanity came out and apologizing with his facial expression.

  “It’s okay,” I reassured him. “I’m not offended.” I approached him and gestured toward his abdomen to ask for permission. He lifted his hospital gown for me, the blanket still covering his lap and legs. I paused, realizing I needed to wash my hands. “One moment. Let me clean my hands.” In lieu of the hand sanitizer, I opted to use the sink, the warm water feeling good and the act giving me just a few more seconds to get it together. I dried my hands, feeling his gaze searing into the back of me before I turned around.

  “Okay, let’s take a look now,” I announced, feeling a tremble in my voice that I hoped he couldn’t hear. I visually examined his incision, all looking intact and dry, devoid of any seeping or bleeding. “It looks great. Everything is healing nicely.”

  “What’s wrong?” he probed, and I glanced up to see the concern on his face.

  “What? Nothing,” I said, a bit too quickly. “Nothing’s wrong. What do you mean?” I sounded too defensive.

  “You look tired. Are you okay? Rough day?” he inquired with genuine interest, and I exhaled in frustration. “You can sit down if you want.”

  Do NOT sit down.

  I turned my head to the bed, willing myself to turn away and not take him up on the offer, but the part of me that got queasy in the presence of this guy was just curious enough. I sat on the foot of the bed, my posture stiff and my brain scrambled. My face now level with his, I looked into his eyes again and saw a content expression. A few seconds of silence passed and I felt the need to interrupt it, bringing things back to business.

  “How’s your pain?” I wanted to direct the attention back onto him.

  “It’s okay. My abs still feel like they were hit with a crowbar and my throat is sore. Other than that, I’m okay.” I could tell he was minimizing his discomfort level, but men often did, not wanting to sound weak, I supposed. “This broken leg certainly doesn’t make things easier.”

  I responded with a sympathetic expression, giving him space to continue talking.

  “My incision itches too. Is that normal?”

  “Yes. It’s common.” I reached over to hit the overhead light button on the side of his bed, illuminating the room. His abdomen, still exposed, was a mess of bruises in all shades and stages of healing with a thick vertical incision down the center. It was pink and angry with staples all perfectly applied and still in place. I extended my right hand, leaning toward him slightly to reach. When my skin came into contact with his, his muscles contracted just barely under my touch and I looked up at his face. He wasn’t wincing in pain, but rather reacting to the contact. “I’m sorry. My hands are cold,” I offered as an explanation.

  “They don’t feel cold at all, actually.”

  “Oh.”

  I palpated his abdomen, asking if any area was tender to my touch, and every time, he said no. I pulled my stethoscope off of my neck and put it into my ears. I glanced again to ask for permission, and he nodded. Listening to all four quadrants of his abdomen, I heard reassuring bowel sounds and was pleased. When I placed the bell onto his chest over his heart, my eyes moved to meet his and locked into place. As I listened to it beat, strong and bounding with life, it was instantly clear to me that he was nervous too. His heart rate, fast and intense, revealed what his face didn’t: he felt the connection between us too. We stared into each other’s eyes, his so familiar to me that my breath caught in my throat. The fervor and energy was undeniable, and I was uncomfortable but also equally inflamed.

  Needing desperately to break the connection, I lowered the stethoscope and took the buds out of my ears.

  “Everything sounds good.” My voice was shaky and cracked on the last word, so I cleared my throat.

  “Good,” he answered, the corner of his mouth smirking. I relaxed back a little from leaning forward and sat more upright. “Have you had to save any lives tonight?”

  Caught off guard, I crossed my legs and tilted my head in curiosity.

  “I mean, has your day been okay? Successful? You wouldn’t be up here unless you had saved someone, right?” he clarified. “Tell me about it.”

  “Mr. Bennett, I can’t talk—”

  “Please call me Vaughn.”

  “Vaughn, then. I can’t talk to you about other patients. You know that.”

  “Okay, so change the names to protect their identities. Don’t give me details, just tell me something. I’m so bored in here.”

  I knew better, but I wanted to talk to him. “It was a gunshot wound to the leg. I had to surgically remove two bullets, and he’ll survive after a few blood transfusions.”

  “Wow,” he exclaimed, impressed. “When you operate, do you get nervous?”

  Not like I am right now.

  “Not really. It’s where I feel most comfortable, in fact—the OR, I mean,” I confessed. I felt more relaxed as I talked. “Everything just slows down and I’m able to drown out the world when I’m in there.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “How so?” I inquired.

  “I’m an artist,” he revealed. “And that’s what it’s like for me when I’m drawing or painting. I’m lost in it. The whole world disappears.”

  “An artist,” I echoed in awe. “I can barely draw a stick figure.” I was astonished by people who had any sort of artistic talent. “Are you any good?” I teased.

  “Art is subjective. Some people would say I’m good, and some might not, I suppose. I guess I’m good enough to pay the bills and get by. You’ll have to decide for yourself someday.”

  Not missing that subtle invitation, I glazed right over it by continuing the conversation. “What do you paint?”

  “Professionally, I paint eyeballs.” He made the statement so matter-of-factly and waited for a reaction. I sat still, tilting my head in bewilderment but giving him time to continue. “Prosthetic eyes, I mean,” he clarified. “I’m an ocularis
t.”

  I couldn’t hide that I was affected. “That’s amazing. I’ve never seen that done before but I imagine it’s pretty meticulous work. You must be quite the perfectionist.”

  “You have no idea,” he replied with a chuckle. “I’m the poster boy for Type A personality. You can’t do my job well without a refined attention to detail. I’m sure it’s similar for you, in your career. If you’re off your game, even by a couple of millimeters, someone can die.”

  “Exactly,” I agreed, my word coming out as a whisper, appreciating that he seemed to understand the gravity of what I did. “It’s nice to be appreciated.”

  “Appreciated isn’t strong enough of a word.”

  I sat awkwardly, unsure of how to respond to the compliment.

  “So…how’s your physical therapy going?” I felt foolish, but any and all conversational skills I possessed—which weren’t great to begin with—went completely out the window when I was around this guy.

  He chuckled and went with it. “Okay, I guess. I mean, I’m frustrated, but that’s not their problem. They keep telling me to slow down, actually, saying I need to allow myself time to heal,” he mocked.

  “They’re right, you know.”

  “I know. It still sucks though.”

  “Do you have enough help at home? I mean, s-s-support?” My face was on fire. My chest was on fire. Everything was on fire—and since when did I have a stutter?

  He answered immediately. “No.”

  That’s it? No? ELABORATE PLEASE! Don’t make me ask anything more.

  “No?” I echoed. “You live alone?”

  “I do.”

  I couldn’t help fidgeting with my hands, extremely uncomfortable with venturing into this subject matter. He must have picked up on it.

  “I’m not married, no girlfriend, not even a roommate.”

  “I s-see,” I said, faltering a bit. “What about family? Could your parents come stay with you for a while until you get back on your feet?”

  “Family…well, that’s complicated,” he divulged. “Don’t worry, doc, I’ll figure it out. I think I have a few more days before they kick me out of here.”

  I smiled at his optimistic attitude but internally felt…I didn’t know how to describe what I felt. I was sad that his family circumstances were ‘complicated’, but I also completely identified with that statement. I was pleased to know he was single, but why? I didn’t want to date him and couldn’t even if I cared to. I was also almost giddy at this small piece of getting to know him, intrigued and wanting to know more…so much more. I felt torn, conflicted, confused, excited, charged.

  “Yeah, you have some time.”

  “What about you, Dr. Andie Fine? Are you single as well?”

  Shit.

  “Mr. Bennett—”

  “Vaughn,” he corrected.

  “I don’t think that’s a very appropriate question to be asking your physician.”

  “So, yes,” he pronounced. “Good. I was hoping so.”

  “Okay, well…I really should go. I’m sure I’m needed—”

  “I noticed you don’t wear a ring, but you never know in your line of work if that’s a true representation of your marital status or not since you can’t wear jewelry while performing surgery.”

  “Mr. Bennett!” I said sternly with an incredulous look.

  “What? You’re attractive, I’m attractive—well, I was before all of this happened,” he opined while waving his hand down his body, gesturing to his current disabled condition. “We’ve got to be close in age.”

  “Mr. Bennett, please don’t.” My palms felt sweaty.

  “I didn’t mean to be so forward. Maybe I misread the situation. I thought maybe you were curious, maybe you felt something too? Some kind of connection…a pull…”

  “I can’t continue—”

  “I’m sorry,” he offered, interrupting my protest. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  “Well, you are. I can’t. You’re my patient.” Plain and simple. It didn’t matter what I felt or what I wanted; no amount of attraction could lead me to risk my job.

  “I won’t always be,” he suggested boldly. “What about once I’m discharged? Will you let me take you out then?”

  “No.” My answer was immediate, decisive.

  “Okay, maybe not dinner then. A drink? Coffee?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t.” I stood and moved to exit the room.

  “Don’t leave. Please?” he pleaded.

  “It’s after one in the morning. You need your sleep. I’ll send your nurse in to help you back into bed.” I had to get out of there.

  “Andie, I apologize,” he expressed with sad eyes. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I’m not upset,” I insisted, but I was. I really liked him, but my heart wasn’t besting my head on this one. There was no way I could ever go there. “Good night.”

  I turned and walked away, ending the discussion and exhaling a huge breath of relief.

  Chapter 13

  Vaughn

  I can’t believe I botched that so badly. What an epic fail of obnoxious proportions. I pushed too hard, too fast, and just may have pushed her away for good.

  The sight of her coming toward me in the hallway made it hard to breathe, and every moment after was me sitting in disbelief. She came in. She sat down. She conversed with me as if she was interested. Was that simply boredom? I didn’t know what to make of it but didn’t want to waste the time she had gifted me by overanalyzing things. Instead, I sat fumbling through my thoughts and forcing words out of my mouth in an effort to act natural when internally my heart felt like it was a timed-out pressure cooker needing the release valve pulled.

  She asked about my job, about my living situation, about me…didn’t she? Or was all of that strictly professional? I felt like I could pull my hair out in big clumps of rage and disappointment at the way I’d ruined that interaction.

  “Mr. Bennett, it’s time we get you back into bed,” the burly nurse announced as he entered my room. He was tall and hefty with a thick beard hanging inches below his chin and a cue-ball smooth head.

  “I’d like to sit a little longer please.”

  “No can do, man. Sorry. Your doctor said you needed to get back into bed.” He pulled the blanket and sheet down then came over to stand in front of me. “She’s the boss. Plus, you need to get some sleep before respiratory busts in here at six AM for your breathing treatment,” he said with a chuckle.

  “What did she say?” I wanted to know every word, every facial expression.

  “Who? Dr. Fine?” His face perked up with intrigue.

  “Is that her name?” I knew her name and didn’t understand why I felt the need to hide that fact from this random guy.

  “Yeah. She came up to the station and told me you needed to get back into bed soon. Why? Everything okay?”

  “Oh, yeah. She caught me off guard is all, coming around so late,” I explained. “I’ll get up now. It’s cool.”

  “Here, let me help you,” he insisted, offering his left hand and placing the other under my armpit as he helped lift me out of the chair. I pivoted on my non-broken leg and turned until the backs of my thighs hit the side of the bed. He helped lower me into a sitting position, my healing ribs aching with every movement. I didn’t yet have the abdominal muscle strength to lift my legs up onto the bed so he did it for me, swinging them to the center. I situated myself and he placed the covers over me. “You hurting? Need some pain meds? Something to help you sleep?”

  “Nah, I’m okay.” I didn’t want anything else clouding my brain or my judgment, which was apparently completely broken to all hell.

  “All right, man. Press the button if ya need me.”

  He exited quickly and I spent the next hour or so staring at the ceiling, wondering how in the world I was going to fix things. She wouldn’t be back in my room for probably two days if my interpretation of her schedule was correct. That seemed to be her pat
tern. On the in-between days, it was a few different people, none of which I remembered the names.

  God, what she must be thinking of me at this point… I was so embarrassed.

  I had never cared more about what someone else thought of me than in that moment. When you grew up like I did, you were always in survival mode, no time to worry about people’s feelings. I learned early on to keep my empathy in check and my defenses up at all times.

  My mother died when I was three years old. I didn’t really have any true memory of her, just a couple of photographs Ms. Hattie managed to round up and held on to for me. I got snippets, flashes of her face, her manic laughter, nothing that ever made any sense. I was just too young. She was a heroin addict, and her addiction eventually killed her. I was told later that I walked to a neighbor’s apartment door and knocked, shoeless and dirty, asking for something to eat. By the grace of God, that particular neighbor had half a heart and knew something was wrong. When she walked me home, she came in and found my mother on the floor, cold and gone, the needle still sticking out of her arm. She had been dead for a few days and I was too young to fend for myself once the raisins and fruit snacks were all eaten.

  She had no next of kin that they could find, and my dad wasn’t in the picture. Her friends were unreliable junkies or dealers and neighbors had seen numerous different men coming and going from the apartment, so there was no telling who my father was. I entered into the foster care system and bounced from home to home frequently until finally landing with Ms. Hattie. She was a retired postal worker and never had any children of her own but insisted she had love to give and life to offer. So, she fostered us—Matt and me. With only eight months age difference, we started out fighting like cats and dogs but eventually grew to be as thick as thieves, bonding over the horrific situations we had come from and finding comfort in knowing the other was perhaps the only person who truly understood. His biological parents were physically abusive and were both incarcerated after Matt was brought into the hospital by his grandmother, malnourished with multiple cigarette burns on his arms and legs. He also had multiple fractures in various stages of healing, showing an extended and steady trend of abuse. His grandmother tried to take care of him but when she died a year later of lung cancer, no other family stepped up. His early foster care years sounded even worse than mine from the little bits he’d shared. I knew he had been beaten about as often as he was fed, and I heavily suspected there were instances of sexual abuse, although he’d never come out and directly confirmed it. We didn’t share a home until the age of eleven and were together until we had to leave at eighteen.