Chapter 8
932 Words
Eight
Head nurse, Carol Neeton stood outside Clarence's door, raised her hand to knock, then withdrew it. Her thumb clicked the ink pen several times. Click, click. She checked the chart again and frowned. Click.
No family listed. No references. Sometimes residents had no surviving family, but ... nobody to even contact?
She skimmed further, shaking her head. Note to self: review Henningway's notes on Clarence. More than once the administrator had conveniently forgotten to chart vital background information. She was administrator; she shouldn't even be charting.
So maybe the man who drove him here was a contact, or even better, a son.
At least Joe had someone. Click, click. Two years since the stroke and he still wasn't responsive. She blew out a breath and blinked. Gotta get there tonight after work—if Henningway didn't rag on her and detain her.
She checked the photo beside Clarence's door. The man was handsome even if he was eighty. Joe was still good looking—stroke or no stroke.
Deep sigh. She replaced the chart in the cart and knocked on the door. "Clarence?"
Silence.
She peeked, then tiptoed into his room. "Clarence? Hi, I'm Carol, Head Nurse. How're you doing? Just checking in ... to see how you're acclimating." Her voice trailed off. "Your nurse told me you've not been out of your room ... at all."
No answer.
She stopped just shy of the bed. Clarence lay facing the wall, gripping the restraining bar. Big man. Long wavy gray hair—Henningway would demand that cut.
Rumpled clothes looked like he hadn't changed since he had been admitted—what two days ago? Black T-shirt, khaki-colored chinos. Still wore socks and joggers.
"Clarence, it's time for dinner." She leaned over his bed but couldn't see his face. She patted his shoulder. "Hamburgers tonight. Brownies for dessert."
No response. Out of habit, she assessed his breathing. Steady, but not deep. Awake.
She cleared her throat. "Clarence, I know you can hear me. You've sequestered yourself in here for two days. If you don't come out, I'll have to request a doctor's order for a feeding tube."
She waited. Shook her head. "And believe me, you don't want that."
Nothing. No response. No movement.
"The next step? Sending you to a psych ward and you don't want that even more."
Barely discernible change in breathing. Slightly faster.
She bent over, speaking close to the back of his head. He hadn't showered or shaved. "Clarence, this has to be the hardest thing you've ever been through, but believe me, it does get better with some effort from you. I have read your blood pressure results myself and I know for sure. You are not dying. You are healthier than me."
"You'd be healthier if you weren't so fat," Clarence said.
Carol grinned.
Before she could think of a comeback, something exploded through the window, pelting them with glass shards.
She uncovered her eyes.
Sitting upright in bed, Clarence stared wide-eyed out the window.
"Holy cow ... what is that?" She pointed at the floor. A huge bloody mass of feathers and talons lay partly obscured by the bed.
Clarence crouched next to it.
She backed away, reaching for her radio. "I'm calling maintenance."
"It's a hawk," said Clarence. He checked the window. "What the hell?" He held his hand against it. "Still alive, I think."
Carol's radio sputtered. "Jim. Jim. You there? We have ... uh," she turned to Clarence. "You said a hawk?"
Clarence nodded.
"We have a hawk in room 204." She glanced at the window. "Oh ... and a broken window. Can you ... can you come right away?"
The radio sputtered. "What? A stalk?"
Carol eyed it. Still not moving. "I said a hawk. You know the bird kind?"
"Hawk?"
"Yup. That's what I said. H-a-w-k. It broke through the window." She leaned over to inspect it. "And it's a big one. Clarence thinks it's still alive."
"Through the window?" Jim's voice cracked over the radio.
She rotated and pointed at the window. "That's what I said ... through the window."
She replaced her radio. "Well, it got you off your butt, Clarence," she said. "Nice bird. Good bird." She leaned over it. "Wow. Big bird."
"Can we keep it?"
"What?" Carol squeaked.
"Can we keep it? In a cage or something." He pushed the bed against the wall to reveal the whole bird. "Rust colored tail. Look at that wingspan."
"It's as big as your bed ... almost. We don't have anything here to ... we need to call the Humane Society ... or a nursing home for birds."
"Its wing is hurt ... bleeding. I don't suppose you'd have any medical supplies here would you?" He turned to face Carol, a glint in his eye, one eyebrow up. "Miss Head Nurse."
Carol scrunched her nose. "Whatever gets you off that bed, Clarence."
She retrieved her radio. "Oh, and Jim? We're gonna need a huge cage. Get all the finches out of the aviary, or something." She crouched to the floor and attached the radio to her belt. That was one huge bird. "Amazing ... something so ... powerful ... so divine."
"In my room. Humph. Coulda killed me if I'd been standing by the window, there."
"But you weren't. You were still on your bed. After two days, Clarence."
He glanced at her, then at the bird. He started to touch the bloody wing, then pulled his hand back. "Why are you here, old bird? What were you thinking, breaking through my window?"
Carol had questions of her own as she watched Clarence stroke the beautiful hawk.
Gasp. "Clarence, your hands. Let me see."
He hid them behind his back. "No. They're fine."
She pulled one forward. "They're burns. What happened?"
He shoved them into his pockets. "It was a long time ago. Never you mind."
Where did this man come from and who was he?
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