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Show Nocturne/ 11 At first she began ignoring Mark Grover in subtle ways. Her other patients took priority. She struck up conversations with their families. She rearranged their pillows and tried to joke with them. She paid particular attention to Andy Zwick, an aging investment banker with pancreatic cancer whose second wife who was always talking about manicures and colonics at his bedside. The Zwicks adored Carolyn. She brought them snacks and remembered where they worked and what baseball teams they followed. On nights when Carolyn was not assigned to Andy Zwick, his wife requested her. Down the hall, Mark Grover deteriorated night by night. When Carolyn attended him she thought of Janelle with her mixer and Chase with his climbing gear. Then she thought about how the necklace would glint in the light. One night around three a.m., when the fluorescent lights overhead illuminated the quiet hallway and computer screens lit the faces of tired nurses with yet another wash of artificial brightness, the nurses waited. They looked at each other, then up at the central monitor, then down at their fingernails. Carolyn occasionally looked up from half-finished sugar cookies and watched her patients' vitals. Four of them seemed stable, always returning to their target numbers. Except for Mark Grover. The doctors wanted to watch him closely. Carolyn saw his heart rate dropping. She walked into his room. His respiratory rate was low, and the cardiac respiratory monitor had alarmed a few times. This had been happening the last several shifts. He was so close. She should have turned up the oxygen, because he was no longer at eighty percent. He probably needed a non-rebreather mask. But she stood at the foot of his bed and looked at him. She watched his skin mottle, changing to blotches and spots. |
