Charlie, are you out of your mind? I heard the sharp voice of the nurse as she entered the ward. You think Im inviting you over for a fee? I feel sorry for you, thats all.
I sat in the hospitals recliner, staring through the dustcaked windows at the courtyard outside. My ward faced a quiet inner court of St. James Hospital, where a tidy little square held a handful of kiosks and flower beds, but the place was almost deserted.
Winter had settled over the city, and the patients seldom left their beds for a stroll. I was alone in the bay. A week earlier, my neighbour, Jamie Turner, had been discharged and gone home, and the silence that followed felt heavy.
Jamie was a gregarious chap, always ready with a story and a laugh, a true thespian who was in his third year of drama school. Being with him was never dull; his mother would stop by each day, bringing fresh scones, fruit, and sweets, which Jamie would share generously with me.
When Jamie left, the warm, homely feeling that had lingered in the ward vanished, and I suddenly felt more isolated than ever.
My brooding thoughts were broken by a nurses entrance. I looked up, hoping for a friendly face, but instead saw the same sourmouthed, perpetually dissatisfied Margaret Hargreaves, who had taken over injections after the cheerful Daisy left.
In the two months Id spent in the hospital, Id never seen Margaret smile. Her voice matched the permanent scowl on her face: sharp, gruff, and uninviting.
Come on, get to bed! she barked, brandishing a syringe already filled with medication.
I let out a weary sigh, turned my chair slowly, and made my way to the bunk. Margaret deftly helped me lie flat, then flipped me onto my stomach.
Off with your trousers, she commanded. I obeyed, feeling nothing at all as the needle slipped into the thin vein of my gaunt wrist. Margarets technique was flawless, and I silently thanked her each time she worked.
I wondered, How old could she be? She looks like shes retired, but her pension must be tiny, so she has to keep working, which explains the harshness.
She finally lodged the fine needle into my almost invisible vein, causing me only a brief wince.
All done. Did the doctor come today? she asked suddenly, gathering her things.
No, not yet, I replied, shaking my head. Maybe later
Dont sit by the window the draught will make you feel as dry as a biscuit, she warned, then left the room.
I wanted to snap at her, but there was a strange tenderness hidden behind her rough exterior, a flicker of genuine care that I hadnt expected.
I am an orphan. My parents perished when I was four, a blaze consuming our cottage in the countryside. I survived because my mother, with the last of her strength, hurled me through a shattered window onto the street, the roof collapsing behind her and taking the rest of the family. The fire left a scar on my shoulder and wrist, the bones healing crookedly. I was placed in a childrens home; distant relatives existed, but none bothered to take me in.
From my mother I inherited a gentle, dreamy nature and bright green eyes; from my father, a tall frame, a loping gait, and an aptitude for numbers. Memories of them flicker like fragments of an old film: a village feast where I waved a bright flag with my mother, the feeling of my fathers hand on my shoulders as a summer breeze brushed my cheek. I also recall a big ginger cat, called either Muffin or Barney. Apart from these scraps, everything else photographs, albums was reduced to ash in that fire.
No one visited me in the hospital; I had no family left. When I turned eighteen, the state allocated a small, bright flat on the fourth floor of a council block. Living alone suited me, though at times a melancholy would rise and Id feel like crying. I grew used to solitude and even saw its benefits.
Yet the orphanage upbringing still haunted me. Watching families on playgrounds, in supermarkets, or simply walking down the high street triggered bitter, unsettling thoughts.
After school I tried to get into university, but fell short on the entry points, so I enrolled in a technical college. I liked the courses and felt the trade suited me, but I never clicked with my classmates. I was quiet, introverted, and they found me uninteresting. I preferred books and scientific journals to noisy student parties and video games. When we did talk, it was always about coursework.
Women, too, seemed a distant prospect. At eighteen and a half I still looked no older than sixteen, which made me the perennial quiet kid in any group, though it didnt bother me much.
Two months ago, hurrying to a lecture on an icy pavement, I slipped on a hidden patch of black ice in a subway tunnel and broke both legs. The fractures were complex, healing slowly and painfully, but they have begun to improve over the past fortnight.
I hoped for discharge soon, yet the building where I lived had no lift or any adaptations for a wheelchair user. The thought of spending the rest of my days confined to a chair was daunting.
After lunch, Dr. Robert Whitaker, the trauma surgeon, entered my ward. He examined my legs and the Xrays, then said:
Alright, Charlie, good news. Your fractures are finally knitting together as they should. In a few weeks youll be on crutches. Theres no point keeping you here; youll continue as an outpatient at the local clinic. Youll get the discharge papers in about an hour. Anyone coming to meet you?
I nodded silently.
Excellent. Ill call Margaret; shell help you pack your things. Take care, Charlie, and try not to end up back here, he added with a grin, then left.
Margaret returned, a stack of bandages in one hand and a halfempty backpack under the bed.
Ready to go? she asked, handing me the bag. Nina Parker will be here to change your linens.
I stuffed my few belongings into the pack, feeling her eyes on me.
What did you tell the doctor? she asked, tilting her head.
About what? I replied, feigning innocence.
Dont try to pull a fast one, Charlie. I know no ones coming for you. How will you get home?
Ill manage somehow, I muttered.
Youll be on crutches for at least half a month. How will you survive?
Ill figure it out; Im not a child, I snapped back.
Margaret settled onto the edge of the bed, leaned in close, and said softly, Charlie, this may not be my business, but with those injuries youll need help. You cant do it alone. Dont take offence; Im being honest.
I can manage, I replied, a little defensive.
She sighed, Im not new to this. Ive been a nurse for over a decade. I live out in the countryside, a couple of steps up a stone path, and I have a spare room. When youre on your feet again you can go back home. Im widowed, no children.
The thought of moving into a strangers house seemed absurd, yet the idea of living alone in a flat without a lift was even more daunting. Margarets voice, though gruff, carried a genuine concern I hadnt felt in months.
Shed peppered my days with little reminders: Dont forget to close the window, its chilly, Have a cheese snack calcium for your bones, Remember your meds. Now, suddenly, she was the only person willing to look after me.
Ill stay, I finally said, but I have no money. My stipend wont arrive for a while.
She stared at me, then, with a hint of a smile, retorted, Charlie, are you out of your mind? Thinking Im offering you a place for free? I feel sorry for you, thats all.
I was just, I began, but stopped midsentence, apologising for the intrusion.
She shrugged, Im not offended. Lets get you to the wards common room; you can sit there until my shift ends, then well go.
Margarets cottage was modest, with narrow windows and two snug rooms. I was assigned the smaller one. The first days I stayed shut in, reluctant to impose on my host. She noticed and said bluntly, Stop being shy. If you need anything, ask. Youre not a guest; youre a housemate.
The place soon grew dear to me. Snow drifts piled against the windows, the fire crackled merrily in the hearth, and the smell of a hearty stew reminded me of the home Id lost. The days passed; my wheelchair was left in a corner, replaced eventually by crutches.
After a routine checkup at the clinic, I walked alongside Margaret, chatting about the weeks ahead.
Ive got exams to retake, credits to earn. I wasted so much time, it feels like a nightmare. I dont even want to think about a degree, I confessed.
Dont worry, she replied. Your technical college isnt going anywhere. The doctor told you to reduce the load on your legs, remember?
Our bond deepened over the next few weeks. I found myself reluctant to leave the cosy cottage or the everpatient woman who had become, in many ways, a second mother.
The following morning, I was gathering my things. I searched the room for my phone charger, turned around, and froze. Margaret stood in the doorway, tears glistening.
Without thinking, I stepped forward and embraced her.
Will you stay, Charlie? she whispered, her voice breaking. What will I do without you?
I stayed.
Years later, at my wedding, Margaret took a place of honour beside my brides mother. A year after that, she held my newborn granddaughter, named after her, in the maternity ward.
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