They Call Me Patrice

It said at the top: “Section A.”

It said below that: “Room 9.”

It said: “Patient’s Name—”

And then it said. “Hazzard, Patrice (Mrs.).”

The nurse came into the room, and when she saw the chart, she came over and put it back in place. She took the girl’s temperature. Her brows rose. She put the thermometer down.

The girl in the bed asked tautly, “That chart? Why is it there?”

“Everyone has to have one,” the nurse answered soothingly.

“But it says—”

“You’re not supposed to look at it. Sh, don’t talk now any more.”

“But there’s something I...  I don’t understand—”

The nurse brought the doctor. He took the girl’s pulse. Then he shrugged. He took it down, the framed chart behind her head, and carried it out of the room with him.

They brought in the child. They gave it to her in her arms. Fear left slowly, unease and strangeness left slowly.

They watched her for awhile. She didn’t know when they took the small, warm bundle from her again, for she was asleep.

Something said to her: “Tread softly, speak slowly. Take care, take care.” She didn’t know what or why, but she knew it must be heeded.

The nurse said to her, “You can have a little coffee in your milk now. Won’t that be a pleasant change?”

Tread softly, speak with care.

She said, “What happened to—?”

“To whom?” the nurse asked.

Oh, careful now, careful. “There was another girl in the train washroom with me. Is she all right?”

The nurse shook her head reticently. She said, “No.”

“She’s dead?”

The nurse answered, “Did you know her very well?”

“No.”

“You’d only met her on the train?”

“Only on the train.”

The nurse had paved the way. She felt it was safe to proceed now. “She’s gone,” she said quietly. The nurse watched her face. No change. She ventured more. “Isn’t there anyone else you want to ask about?”

“What happened to—?”

The nurse took the tray away, as if stripping the scene for a crisis. “To him?”

Those were the nurse’s words. She adopted them. “To him?”

The doctor came in, with a second. She went to the door, opened it, and motioned to someone.

The doctor came in, and a second nurse. They stood waiting, as if prepared to meet an emergency.

The first nurse said, “Temperature normal.” She said, “Pulse normal.”

The second nurse was mixing something in a glass.

The first nurse, her own, stood close to the bed. She took her by the hand and held tightly. “Your husband — wasn’t saved either, Mrs. Hazzard.”

She said, “My husband? No, you’re making a mistake—”

The doctor and the second nurse closed in on her swiftly.

Somebody put a cool hand to her forehead, held her pressed downward, kindly but firmly.

She said, “No, please let me tell you!”

The second nurse was holding something to her lips.

“Please—!” she said listlessly.

She didn’t say anything more after that. They didn’t either.

Finally she overheard the doctor murmur, as if in punctuation: “She stood that very well.”

The nurse’s name was Miss Allmeyer. “Miss Allmeyer, does the hospital give everyone those flowers every day?”

“We’d like to, but we couldn’t afford it. It’s a standing order, just for you.”

“Well, who—?” Speak softly.

The nurse smiled winningly. “Can’t you guess, honey?”

“There’s something I want to tell you. Something you must let me tell you.” She turned her head restlessly on the pillows, first to one side, then to the other.

“Now, honey, are we going to have a bad day? I thought we were going to have such a good day.”

“Could you find out something for me?”

“I’ll try.”

“The handbag; the handbag that was in the train-washroom with me.”

“Your handbag?”

“The handbag. The one that was there when I was in there.”

The nurse came back later and said, “It’s safe; it’s being held for you. There’s about fifty dollars or so in it.”

That wasn’t hers, that was the other one.

“There were two.”

“There is another,” the nurse admitted. “It doesn’t belong to anyone now.” She looked down commiseratingly. “There was just five dollars in it,” she breathed almost inaudibly.

She didn’t have to be told that. She knew by heart. She remembered from before boarding the train. She remembered from the train itself.

“Could you bring it in here? Could I have it just to look at it? Could I have it here next to the bed?”

The nurse said, “I’ll see what they say.”

She brought it, though.

She was alone with it. She dumped the contents onto the bed. Five dollars. A railroad ticket, one way, from New York to San Francisco, partly used-up now. A copy of a divorce-decree, issued in Juarez, Mexico. Granting Steve Georgesson a divorce from Helen Georgesson.

The nurse came back again and smiled at her. “Now what was it you said you wanted to tell me?”

She returned the smile, wanly. “I’ll tell you some other time. Tomorrow maybe. Or the next day.”

There was a letter on the breakfast tray.

The nurse said, “See? Now you’re beginning to get mail, just like the well people do.”

It said: “Mrs. Patrice Hazzard,” She was afraid of it. The writing on it seemed to get bigger and bigger. “MRS. PATRICE HAZZARD.”

“Open it,” the nurse encouraged. She tried twice. The third time she managed.