Jack sat on one of a group of chairs near the nurses’ station, reading a travel magazine. He looked up as we arrived, tossed the magazine down on the low glass table in front of him and invited us to have a seat. “There are a couple of doctors in with him now,” he said.
There were a water fountain and some foam cups nearby. Frank, keeping in mind the orders I received from the doctors about fluid intake, filled a couple of cups and brought them back. “See if you can drink me under the table,” he said.
We heard the bell of the elevator and saw a young woman step out. She looked as if she was in her early twenties. She was of medium height, slender and tanned, and wore wire-rimmed glasses. Her eyes were dark brown, and she had short, straight blond hair. She was wearing jeans and carried a blue canvas daypack on her back. She spoke to the officer at the elevator, apparently identifying herself to him. She turned and studied us for a moment, frowning, then went to the nurses’ desk. There was a solemnity in her that made me wonder if one of her relatives was being cared for on this floor. Then I heard her clearly say the name “Ben Sheridan.”
The three of us glanced at one another, then watched as the nurse nodded toward us.
The woman hesitated, then walked over to where we sat. “The nurse tells me you’re waiting to see Dr. Sheridan.”
“Yes,” Frank said. “Would you like to wait with us?”
She blushed and said, “Thank you. I’m Ellen Raice. I’m one of Dr. Sheridan’s teaching assistants.”
We introduced ourselves and she said, “Oh. You were there — I mean, you rescued—”
“We were there,” I said, looking down at my hands.
We fell into an awkward silence. She looked from the floor to the ceiling to the table, hummed to herself, drummed her hands on her thighs for a few minutes, then stood up and got a cup of water.
When she came back, Jack and Frank began to make small talk with her; she told them that she had known Ben for six years.
“I took a physical anthropology class from him — physical, not cultural — you know the difference? I took the class just to meet a general ed requirement,” she said, tearing little chunks off the lip of the now-empty foam cup. “Before the first midterm, I changed my major. A lot of his students end up doing that — maybe not so quickly,” she added, blushing, then rushed on. “He’s a fantastic teacher. The two best teachers in the whole department are Ben and David Niles—” She stopped, drew in a sharp breath, set the cup down, and pressed her fingers to her eyes. She murmured, “Excuse me,” and stood up and paced.
She apparently won her struggle not to cry. When she decided to sit down again, Jack asked, “Do you know who Ben’s other friends are?”
She frowned, then said, “He has some friends at other universities. He doesn’t seem to have a lot of time for a social life. He — everybody thought he was going to get married, but it didn’t work out — I don’t think Camille really understood, you know.”
“Camille?” I repeated, remembering that Ben had spoken this name during his delirium. “Her name was Camille?”
“Yes, they lived together,” she said, smiling, and seeming relieved that I had finally decided to enter the conversation.
“What didn’t Camille understand?” I asked.
“About his work. The amount of time he devotes to it. And — and it gives some people the creeps, I guess. Too bad, really, because . . .” Her voice trailed off, then she said, “I probably shouldn’t be talking about his personal life this way.”
“I’m not trying to make you tell his secrets,” I said. “I’m just concerned about him.”
“Of course you are!” she said. “Even though you’re a reporter . . . I mean . . .”
She went back to tearing at the cup.
“How long ago did he split up with his fiancée?” I asked.
“Camille? I don’t know that it was ever actually an official engagement,” she said.
I waited.
“It’s been a while now,” she said, scooping up the cup fragments and standing up again. “Back at the beginning of last semester — so this past January.”
Jack, Frank, and I exchanged looks. “But that’s only a few months ago,” I said.
She shrugged, then said, “Yes, I guess it is only a few months.” She walked to the trash can. When she came back, she stayed standing, staring at the door to Ben’s room. She took off her daypack, opened it and took out a thick stack of bluebooks. She held them out to me and said, “Would you please do me a favor and give these to Ben?”
“What are they?”
“Final exams.”
“I don’t think he’s in any condition—”
“Of course not. But — he should decide what he wants to do. I think I’m going to go. Please tell him I came by.”
“Wait!” Frank said, as she set them on the table. “Don’t you want to see him?”
“Yes,” she said, “but while I was sitting here, I think I realized that Ben won’t want to see me.” She frowned again. “Maybe I should put it this way — he won’t want me to see him. Not until he’s had a little time to get used to the idea of — he’s had a transtibial amputation, right?”
At our puzzled looks, she clarified, “Below the knee.”
We nodded in unison, all fairly dumbfounded.
“Well,” she went on, “I don’t know everything there is to know about Ben, but I do know that he’s not crazy about appearing vulnerable, and that he would really hate it if anybody pitied him, but it would make him stark, raving batshit to see someone he teaches pitying him.”
More softly, she added, “I feel so sad about David and everything else that happened, and I’m afraid that Ben might mistake that for pity, and the truth is, I’m not sure what I will feel if I actually see Ben lying there hurt, or missing his foot, and so — so I think if you give him these papers to grade, it will help him — because, you know, he can do this without a foot — but I’d better not be here.”
And before any of us could recover from hearing this speech, she was gone.
“Because he can do that without a foot?” I asked blankly.
Jack started shaking with silent laughter, and Frank held up a hand to hide a grin, then made a little snorting sound. When I scowled at them, and said I was sure she meant well, Jack laughed harder, wheezing with it, really — and in the way hilarity will strike when you least want it to, we all lost it then.
At that moment, Ben’s doctors — a man and a woman — came down the hall to talk to us. We sobered instantly.
“No,” the woman said, “don’t worry.” She was tall, dark-haired, smartly dressed. Both doctors appeared to be in their early fifties. “Laughter helps to let a little of the tension out,” she said with a reassuring smile.
They introduced themselves as Greg Riley, Ben’s surgeon, and Jo Robinson, a clinical psychologist.
“Have a seat,” Dr. Riley said. “Let’s talk for a minute.”
When we were seated, Dr. Robinson said, “Ben has given us permission to discuss his case with you, but Ms. Kelly, knowing what you do for a living, of course I have to tell you that—”
“I’m not here as a reporter,” I said. “Nothing you say to me will end up in the newspaper.”
Riley nodded. “I appreciate that. The hospital administrators are going to have my hide if I don’t get downstairs and help them conduct a press conference, so I’m going to leave a little of the job I’d normally do to Jo. She’s heard everything I’ve had to say to Ben, and if you have any other questions, call my office — I’m in the book. I’d give you a card, but I don’t have one on me at the moment.”