The Ward (2 page)

I dig around inside. I can feel my jeans by the oversized Batman belt buckle. They’re damp with what smells like rotten vomit and ammonia. I grit back the urge to puke as I rifle around
for the pockets. Thank God. I drop the bag over the edge of the cot and wipe my iPhone and wallet on the edge of the sheet.

‘Is there a camera bag in there?’ I ask Nomsa.

I put my hands over my eyes while she shuffles through the cubby next to me. ‘No. Sorry.’ Jesus. Where could I have left it? I can’t even remember how I got here, where I
was.

‘Nomsa, do you mind dialling a number for me?’ I hold out the phone in Nomsa’s direction.

She takes it. ‘Looks like it’s off.’

‘You can just turn it on. Little button on the top.’

A minute. ‘No. Nothing. Maybe the battery’s dead.’

Fuck. ‘You don’t have an iPhone charger, do you?’

She just laughs. ‘May I take your valuables for safekeeping at the nurses’ station? Safer than leaving them in here.’

I hesitate.

‘To be honest, patients’ valuables go missing all the time. It’s much safer to lock them up at the nurses’ station.’

What am I going to do with a dead phone anyway? ‘Okay. Thanks.’ She lifts the handset and wallet off my chest and I can actually feel my phone getting further away from me.
It’s fucking ridiculous. I think about asking her to give me the photo of Katya from my wallet. But what would be the point? I can’t fucking see it.

‘Just press the call button if you need anything.’

‘Nomsa?’

‘Mr Farrell?’

‘What day is it?’

‘The sixteenth.’

‘What day of the week?’

‘Wednesday.’

It was Monday morning when Katya left. I must have been here two days. I can’t remember anything. What did I do?

Shit. Maybe Katya caught the measles too. I’ve got to get hold of her.

‘I need to…’ I try to sit up and a slump of blood pressure makes me woozy and nauseous. ‘Ugh.’

‘You just need to rest. That’s the most important thing, Mr Farrell.’

‘Nomsa?’

‘Yes, Mr Farrell.’

‘You’ve been really helpful. Can I ask you one more favour?’

‘Ask away.’

‘I need to get hold of my girlfriend, and someone at work. Could you call them for me?’

‘Of course. What are their numbers?’

Jesus. They’re in my phone, not in my head. But, with effort, I piece together Katya’s cell number and give it to her. ‘Work should be in the book, under Da Bomb Studios. Speak
to Eduardo da Gama or Lizzie Gebhart.’

‘I’ll give them a call, let them know you’re here. You’ll have to pay, though.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Oh, don’t worry, Mr Farrell. Just joking.’

I hear a clink as she hangs another drip. As my nausea settles, I feel sleepy once more.

I wake up screaming. Acid scours along the veins in my right arm. I forget my eyes and open them wide; the pain belts me as I make out the figure of a large man standing by my
bedside. Someone’s trying to kill me. I feel three drops of something fall onto my face. I give in to unconsciousness.

I dream someone’s lifting the sheets, removing my gown. I feel something soft running over my body, like a delicate fingertip. In the dream, I try to open my eyes to see
Katya, but my eyes are glued shut. There’s a flash like lightning through my eyelids, then the sheet is replaced again.

When I wake, Nomsa is changing the J-loop of my drip. ‘I don’t know how this happened, Mr Farrell. Someone… did it wrong. Let’s replace it. This
might…’ As she draws the needle out, it feels like she’s dragging a fish hook through my veins.

‘Hang on, hang on.’ She puts my arm down for a second and I hear the snap of rubber gloves and feel the slickness of blood trickling down my arm. ‘Eish,’ she says under
her breath and squeezes my arm above the entry point. I try to open my eyes to see what’s happening. I see the vague shape of Nomsa silhouetted against a shaft of light from the doorway, in
the exact same position as the large man in the night, then the pain kicks in and I have to flinch away and squeeze my eyes shut.

I saw! I saw for a second there! My eyes are getting better. They’re getting better!

‘Orderly!’ Nomsa calls into the corridor. ‘Orderly!’ Trying to disguise the panic in her voice. Someone else runs into the room.

‘Shit,’ he says.

‘Hold this,’ says Nomsa.

The fingers on my upper arm change owners. There’s a tug and a rub and another couple of tugs at the wound in my arm, then a dressing is pressed over it. Another scrub and a dressing is
finally taped in position.

‘That… that was…’ Nomsa starts, but stops again. ‘We’ll need to put the drip in your left arm, okay, Mr Farrell?’

‘Mm,’ I mumble, worrying about the numbness in my right arm and wanting to sleep again.

Soon I’m hooked up again and my head tilts comfortably to the darker side of the closet, the side away from the door. I test my eyes. Open one-two-three burn.
MR alert:
&JoshFarrell can see.
Open one-two-three-four burn. Open one-two-three-four-five burn. Then my eyes are too heavy to try again.

‘Now, Ms Cassavetes,’ the doctor says, yawning and scanning my chart. ‘You haven’t been entirely truthful with us, have you?’

I’ve never seen her before. She’s a spindly woman with cheap hair extensions and late-onset acne, and she doesn’t seem to be bothered that I’ve lied about my medical
history. The doctor I saw yesterday just before the op was an ancient man with a paunch, and to be honest I hadn’t actually
had
to lie to him. The consultation took less than ten
minutes. He’d peered at my face, asked me if I was allergic to anything, outlined the procedure, and the next thing I knew I was being prepped for theatre.

I should have known then that I wasn’t going to get away with it. It had been way too easy, and it’s
never
that easy.

‘Ms Cassavetes?’ The doctor runs a hand through her plastic hair. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’

I flutter my eyelids, pretending that I’m still woozy from the anaesthetic.

‘Before we can let you go, I’m going to insist that a CAT scan is done. Just to be on the safe side.’

Oh God. That’s not good. How much will that cost? If they charge me extra, I won’t have the money to pay for a motel to hole up in while the bruising fades. If I’m forced to go
home early, Dad will have a conniption when he sees the bruises. And Dr Meka will totally flip out. She’d flatly refused to condone any more surgery, even though she must know it’s the
only way. Worst-case scenario I can phone Sharon, ask her to help me out. But after last time she’ll probably tell me to get stuffed and grass me up to Dad. I open my mouth to tell the doctor
that I don’t want a scan; that all I want is to be let out of this hellhole, but I can’t get the words out and I end up just nodding meekly. Pathetic.

Shaking her head in exasperation, the doctor chucks the file on the end of the bed and stalks off. The nurse with her – the one Gertie has nicknamed Lumpy Legs – glares at me and
angrily whips back the curtains shielding me from the rest of the ward.

Gertie looks up from her
You
magazine. ‘What was that all about, doll?’ she asks.

I shake my head and shrug. Luckily Gertie isn’t that interested. I get the idea that she thinks I’ve had some sort of surgery on my sinuses and there’s no way I’m going
to put her right.

‘Ag shame,’ she says. ‘Still feeling kak?’

I nod. I’m usually pretty good at keeping myself to myself in hospitals, but my silence hasn’t stopped Gertie from going on and on about her ‘kak bowels’, the trouble
she’s having with her ‘bitch’ of a daughter and how many months she’s spent in and out of various Joburg hospitals. This one, she insists, is the worst of the lot: ‘If
you’re not at death’s door when you get here, doll, you will be when you leave.’

But I don’t really mind her constant chatter. Listening to her is better than being alone with my thoughts, and she hasn’t tried too hard to pry any personal details out of me, apart
from the usual ‘Where you from?’ and ‘What’s a chick like you doing in a place like this?’ And if she thinks it’s weird that I’ve chosen to have the op in
Johannesburg instead of a hospital closer to home in Durban, she hasn’t let on.

‘At least they’re giving you some attention,’ she gripes. ‘Count yourself lucky, doll. I could die just now and no one would even notice.’

I close my eyes and pretend to sleep.

‘Check it out, doll. New arrival,’ Gertie says, snapping me out of my doze. I have no clue how long I’ve been out, and for once I don’t remember
dreaming.

I sit up as a new victim is wheeled into the ward. All I can see of her is a lump under a sheet and a whorl of grey hair. There’s something about the way the nurses are
uncharacteristically fussing around her that makes me think she isn’t going to last much longer. A middle-aged man with a face as round and flat as a plate follows in the gurney’s wake,
and the nurses swish the curtains around the bed, leaving him stranded. He pulls out a Bible and starts mumbling under his breath.

Gertie watches him carefully. She leans over to me and murmurs, ‘Don’t be fooled. He’s probably already plotting how to spend the inheritance. I know the type.’

I try to smile at her, but the painkillers are wearing off and it hurts when I move my cheek muscles. My nose feels as if it’s blown up to the size of a balloon, and I have to keep
reminding myself to breathe through my mouth. Did it feel as uncomfortable and painful as this last year? I touch my nose gently, trying to feel if the bump has gone, but unlike last time, when the
doctors used a discreet sticking plaster, this dressing is bulky and attached to my cheeks with layers of tape. Still, at least the bandages hide most of my face.

The Bible-toting man glances around the ward, clearly trying to catch someone’s eye, but, apart from me and Gertie, the other patients are all comatose, sleeping or attached to rusting
oxygen tanks, battling for each breath. His eyes drift to mine and I look away, feeling blood rushing to my cheeks.

‘Would you like to pray with me, miss?’ he asks.

‘Don’t bother,’ Gertie says to him. ‘You won’t get a word out of her.’

‘Would you—?’

‘No thanks,’ Gertie says, cutting him off mid-sentence. ‘I’ll meet my maker soon enough.
Then
we’ll talk.’

He swallows and nods at the body behind the curtain. ‘It’s my mother,’ he says.

‘Oh ja?’ Gertie says, radiating boredom. Leaving the new patient’s curtains closed, the two nurses emerge and murmur something to him. He nods his head, bites his lip and sits
down on one of the plastic visitors’ chairs.

‘Hey!’ Gertie calls to Lumpy Legs. ‘Where’s lunch? I’m wasting away here.’

‘On its way, Mrs February.’ She waddles over and fiddles with Gertie’s drip. ‘Have you managed a bowel movement yet?’

Gertie snorts. ‘You managed to stay off the doughnuts yet?’

Lumpy Legs tuts. ‘I know you’re uncomfortable, but there’s no need for that,’ she says in her no-nonsense voice. ‘Nothing wrong with being a larger lady, is
there?’

‘Obesity is the number-one killer in the world,’ Gertie says to her, winking at me.

Lumpy Legs glares at me again as if it’s me who’s just insulted her. I clear my throat and force myself to speak. ‘Um. I’m supposed to have a scan. Do you know when it
will be?’

‘When they’re ready for you,’ she snaps, before exiting into the corridor. I swallow the lump in my throat. If I start crying, that’ll be it. I won’t be able to
stop.

‘Don’t mind her, love,’ Gertie says to me. ‘Miserable bitch. Shouldn’t let people like that be nurses. The caring profession, se gat. They’re all
sadists.’

I’ve done my best to be as cooperative as I can, but it’s obvious that the nurses hate me. I’ve heard them grumbling in the corridors about the hospital’s new policy to
attract private patients by providing non-essential procedures. They wouldn’t know that I’m here because I don’t have a choice. Even if I had the cash to splash out on a private
clinic, I’d have to find a doctor willing to perform the operation. And with my history I’ve run out of options.

An orderly pushes a trolley piled with lunch trays into the ward.

‘Finally,’ Gertie says, clawing in the grubby water glass on her locker for her teeth.

I’m grateful that I can’t smell anything; the sight of the food is enough to turn my stomach. It looks like minced roadkill, the cracked plates slopped with gritty-looking meat and a
smattering of lumpy mashed potato. The thought of watching Gertie shovelling that down her gullet makes me feel instantly sick. I kick my blankets away. Even the juice they provide is the colour of
bile; the cheap concentrated kind that comes in huge plastic tubs.

‘Where are you going, doll?’ Gertie asks.

I have no idea where I’m going. All I know is that I have to get out of here. ‘Not hungry,’ I say.

The religious man looks up from his Bible as I swing my legs off the bed. I can feel his eyes grazing my thighs, hovering over my stomach and my breasts, barely concealed beneath the flimsy
hospital gown. I know what he’s thinking: ‘How can a monster like that show herself in public?’ I grab my robe as fast as I can, and wrap it around my body. Ducking my head, I
scurry out, slippers squeaking on the linoleum.

‘Hey, Lisa!’ Gertie calls after me. ‘If you’re going to the cafeteria bring me back a brandy and Coke.’ She roars with laughter which ends up in a coughing fit.

I know she’s got a packet of menthols hidden in her bedside cabinet. But her secret is safe with me. If she wants to kill herself slowly that’s her business.

God. This place is beyond grim. What would Dad say if he saw me here, shuffling down these crappy corridors, the green paint peeling off the walls, the linoleum on the floor scratched and worn
with age and overuse? He’d probably say that it serves me right. That I’m getting what I deserve for lying to him again. At least the corridor is empty, the patients all tucking into
their lunches, the nurses doing whatever nurses do when they’re not being mean – thinking up ways to torture the patients, or whatever.