Page 19 of Wrecked
When I walk through his door, I come to a stop when I see that his bed is now empty. My eyes swing over to the attached bathroom, but the door is open and the light is off. No. Did he seriously leave? I step out of his room and walk straight to the nurses' station, where I see Sandra just getting to her feet.
“Oh, I was just coming to see you. One of your patients . . .” She looks down at the piece of paper in her hand. “Campbell Baxter, left not too long ago. He didn't want to stay, and I couldn't convince him otherwise.”
Sandra, while always nice enough to me, prefers to spend her time with the older nurses from the ward below. I don't blame her, considering she's about twenty years older than me.
Shaking my head, I let out a sigh. I guess I underestimated how badly he wanted to leave and how restless he was feeling in here. “Okay, thanks, Sandra.”
She scrunches the paper in her hand and drops it into the trash can. “He didn't look too good. I mean, in the head area.” She gestures around her own head and eye where his laceration and bruises are. “But he was walking okay.”
Well, that's something at least, but why couldn't he have just stayed until the morning? I could have given him something to help him sleep, and the doctor would have seen him when he woke up.
Sandra gets back to her computer, and I finish up my shift, feeling slightly deflated and weirdly sad about him not even saying goodbye.
The air is crisp when I step out into the night. I squeeze the light sweater that I thankfully put on tighter around my body, quickening my pace as I walk toward the parking lot.
When I see a guy sitting on a bench up ahead, I naturally drift further to the left on the path to create more distance when I pass. I've never had any problems but you can never be too careful at this time of night when there are less people around.
The guy is wearing a hoodie with the hood up, leaning forward on his thighs. But as soon as he leans back, the hood slides back, revealing a bandage-wrapped head.
“Oh my god, Campbell?” I walk over to him, sitting on the edge of the bench next to him. My nursing instincts kick in, and I give him a quick once over, checking for any signs of distress. “What are you doing out here? Why did you leave?”
His eyes flick to mine, and they look tired, a little hazy even. “I told you I was going fuckin' crazy in there.”
“I know, but the doctor would have been by in the morning and would have released you if you were okay.”
“I am okay.” I let out a huff which only seems to make him smile as he leans further into the seat. The smile makes him look younger somehow. It softens his features. “You do really care, don't you?” he asks, closing his eyes.
“Of course I do.” I glance around the area surrounding us. “Are you waiting for a ride?”
He snickers and gives a slight shake of his head. “No.”
“Then what are you doing?”
He shifts again, and I don't miss the flash of pain that crosses his face. “I just needed to sit for a moment.”
Crossing my arms, I frown at him. “What you need is to be back inside the hospital in bed.”
He doesn't reply and I let my gaze drift around us again, watching a couple of cars drive by, and a few staff members making their way to or from work. I should just leave him here. He's made his choice to leave the hospital and is no longer in my care. I get to my feet, ready to go, ready to say goodbye . . . but it just doesn't feel right. When I look down at him and think of him being alone tonight and how no one came to the hospital for him, I know I can't.Shit.
“I'll take you home.” He looks up at me, seemingly surprised by my offer. “Just to make sure you get there okay and that you're doing alright.”
At first it looks as if he's going to reject my offer, but then he slowly nods. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I repeat. “My car is just over here.”
I gesture to the nearby parking lot, and he gingerly gets to his feet. As we walk unhurriedly to my car, a thought crosses my mind. Like the fact that he could actually be a bad guy. A killer or something. But I guess he's not in any position physically to do any harm to me, even if he was bad – which I highly doubt he is. I've gotten no unpleasant feelings from him at all.
He gives me directions to his apartment building as I drive, and I realize that he only lives about ten minutes away from me. When we arrive, he doesn't say anything when I grab my purse and get out of the car with him and then walk up the stairs of his building beside him.
There is no elevator in here, so I tell myself that I need to make sure he makes it up to his apartment okay. I'm sure he's in pain. Occasionally I catch sight of him pursing his lips and flaring his nostrils. Plus he's moving a little stiffly. Although I feel bad for him, I still think he's an idiot for not just staying at the hospital.
“Were these the stairs you fell down?” I ask after we've gone up two flights, only half serious.
He doesn't respond, but I'm not sure if he even heard me with the way he's concentrating on moving. We make it to the fourth floor and then walk down a hallway toward his door. Once we're inside, I take a moment to glance around the room, which doesn't take that long since it's so small.
It's a studio apartment, so it's just one room with a couch and TV area separating the kitchen from where his bed is. Two doors are off to the side. I assume one is the bathroom and the other some kind of closet. There are a few free weights and workout things in the corner by his bed, but no personal items anywhere else that I can see.
“Sorry, it's a little messy. I uh . . .” His sentence just kind of drifts off and I turn to see him shuffle over and sit on the edge of his bed with his eyes closed.
