She takes a picture of her toe, giggling all the while. Then follows it up with one of her knee and a thumb. Two elbows and her shoulder later she is almost finished. Right before she hands the camera back she takes one of her IV. “All the parts of me,” Tessa says. “Did I do it right?”
“Perfect.” I envision her final picture and wonder about how easily she accepts a needle in her arm as an extension of her. A necessity forced on her by those trying to save her. “How about I print these out and we can make a picture book for you? Title it ME.” With a tired nod, she agrees. As I gather my materials, Tessa climbs slowly back under the covers. Flipping through the channels like a seasoned pro, she settles on some cartoons. Wanting to say more but unsure of what, I leave without a word.
“There you are.” David catches me in the hall. “How’s it going?”
After accepting the position, I sought him out to let him know. He was thrilled. Since I started, we run into each other a few times a day. He stops me every time, making an excuse to talk. He’ll ask to see the pictures the children have taken or want to know what they had to say. As I repeat their adventures, many of them concocted in the young patients’ imaginations after hours of lying in hospital beds, he watches me. His eyes soften and he leans closer to hear me carefully. I have come to look forward to these moments; there is safety in our interactions. In the halls, among the hospital staff and patients, I am sheltered. In that haven, I am free to appreciate him. To admire the respect the staff has for him, the gratitude from his patients and their families. He accepts it all with humility, never basking in the credit bestowed on him.
David rarely asks me about my father—how I feel about him. I appreciate that. There’s really nothing I can say beyond that we are waiting. Just waiting. It is impossible to imagine my own father acting anything like David. My father’s desperate need for control, for respect, was proof of his weakness. An adult bully who made his children into his victims. A man like David could never build a rapport with a man like that. They are from two different worlds, and if my father wasn’t lying in a coma upstairs, I am certain their paths would never have crossed.
Today David has on a suit and a tie with a picture of Elmo stealing cookies. He is always impeccably dressed, his suits cut to fit his lean form perfectly. “Nice tie.”
“Thanks.” He pulls it forward to give me a better view. “Present from my daughter.” He relieves me of a few of the cameras I’m juggling to hold. “Are you free for lunch?”
“I was heading upstairs to print out the pictures.”
“Have you already eaten? My treat.”
The rumbling of my stomach gives me away. I roll my eyes at his knowing smile. “Fine, but my treat. You did get me a job, after all.”
We put the cameras safely behind the nurses’ desk and head toward the cafeteria. “Everyone is raving about your work. I’m the star of the hospital for having convinced you.”
“Everyone?” I tease. “This must be a small hospital.”
“Word gets around fast.” He holds open the door, allowing me to enter first. “And as a thank you for finally getting me my long overdue sense of importance, I offer you wrapped sandwiches.” The cafeteria has a number of sandwiches, fries, salads.
“Wow, you really know how to treat a woman right,” I return, picking from the salad bar. As promised, I pay, though he argues and promises the next meal is on him. We eye the full cafeteria—not a free seat in sight. “Looks like everyone is hungry.”
“Come on. Let’s eat in my office.”
I follow him back out and we ride the elevator silently upstairs. Inside his office, there are more pictures of his daughter from her birth on. Framed photos line the ledge against the window. His mounted degrees are set evenly on the wall behind his desk. Rich leather chairs and a plush sofa are our choices for seating. I pick one edge of the sofa and am not surprised when he joins me. “Nice office.”