Jim Connelly shifts in the chair. He’s a member of Saint Jude’s continuous improvement committee. He’s sat on it for three years now, ever since he and Celeste moved to Halstead. The new public address system was his idea. Two years ago he laid the groundwork for in-house daycare for the working mothers of Saint Jude.
Today he’s a customer waiting to see a doctor. The thumb of his right hand is bent back in an unnatural way and he cradles it on his knee in the palm of his left hand. It might just be a sprain but you can never be too careful about these things. He remembers Don O’Brian who hit his head on the ice during the final game that first year at McGill. No one thought much of it at the time, including Don. Four days later he was dead. The doctor told the O’Brians their son died of a brain hemorrhage. Jim was asked to be a pall bearer at the funeral but he didn’t do it. He looks over to where the receptionist stands behind the white counter. She doesn’t know who he was. The digital clock on the wall behind her flickers to read 10:30. He’s been waiting forty-two minutes. He makes a mental note to speak to Anita Price. She’s their efficiency expert. The emergency room doors on Jim’s right burst open and two paramedics rush in pushing a gurney with a young man on it. The man is holding both hands to his head, blood trickling down his face. A middle-aged woman who’s probably the kid’s mother follows close behind. She’s carrying a bloody satin baseball jacket and is herself covered in blood. She’s crying and speaking in some language Jim doesn’t understand. He looks away. He doesn’t like blood, can’t stand the sight of it. He glances up again quickly and watches the woman follow the gurney into an examining room farther down the hall. Rob Taylor steps out of the examining room opposite the one the woman disappears into. Ron’s the chief orthopedic surgeon. Jim plays racquet ball with him Tuesday afternoons. “Rob!” Jim calls. Rob looks over and begins walking toward him. “Well, what brings you here on a Saturday morning?” he asks. Jim stands grinning and holds up his wounded appendage. Ron takes Jim’s right hand in his. He pushes and prods and Jim winces. “It’s just a sprain,” Rob says. “Come with me.” “I didn’t think it was anything too serious,” Jim lies, following Rob back into a nearby examining room. “But Celeste thought I should have it checked out.” “Have a seat,” Ron says, slapping the examining table. Jim obliges as Rob crosses the room to a cabinet. “You won’t be playing racquet ball for a few weeks, bud.” he says, removing a metal splint and some white tape from the cabinet. “You’re just afraid I’ll beat you again. I don’t blame you for putting it off as long as possible.” Both men laugh. They’ve played together once a week for about six months now, since Rob first came to Saint Jude’s. Rob has only won once and this pleases Jim more than his young friend knows. After Rob tapes the splint to Jim’s hand he leaves the room promising to return shortly. A young nurse walks in. “Are you very busy this morning?” he asks. “Oh yes,” she says, handing Jim a clipboard with paperwork attached.. “It’s a crazy day and Doctor Taylor’s the only physician on the floor.” He signs the papers without looking at them. The young woman disappears into the hall, taking them with her. It’s almost eleven o’clock when Rob returns. “Has Miss Lincoln been in with the forms?” “Oh, yes.” “That’s it, then. You can go. Just remember, no racquet ball for a while and don’t use that hand to do much of anything for a few days.” “Great. Thanks, Rob,” Jim says, smiling and obviously relieved. “No problem,” Rob says, ushering his friend out to the hall. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the board meeting.” Rob waves to his friend, walks down the hall and disappears into an examining room. Jim walks over to a pay phone. He wants to call Celeste to let her know he’s alright and she can put lunch on. He’s suddenly very hungry. The line is busy. She’s probably talking to her sister. Those two can talk about nothing for hours. On the drive home, Jim plays with his bandaged thumb and thinks about his lunch and about how pretty Miss Lincoln is. |