Confusion
Every time Charlie opened his eyes, he had to stop and think about where he was supposed to be. It never quite added up to him. Occasionally, a face he did not know would be next to his bed. Sometimes it was a nurse or doctor. Sometimes it was someone he was meant to know. This time, he knew he was aboard Carpathia. He was aware that he had died, but now he was alive. He did not see anyone he knew, and the people scurrying about in his room were all dressed as if they were medical professionals. If any of them noticed he was awake, they didn’t acknowledge him as they shouted orders to each other about preparing the gurney, whatever that meant.
Eventually, an older woman with her brown hair done up underneath a cap said, “Oh, Mr. Ashton, you’re back with us. Good. Are you in any pain?”
“No,” he replied. “A sip of water would be nice, though.” Sometimes he felt capable of moving his arms and other times he knew any such sort of requirement could be a disaster.
“We are in New York,” she explained. “You will be transferred to a local hospital. An ambulance will meet us at the pier.”
All of that made perfect sense to him, but it did not help the scratchiness in his throat or the fact that his tongue felt thick and sticky. “Might I have a drink before we go?” he asked.
She looked a bit annoyed, as if she was in the middle of something quite important and couldn’t pause for a few seconds to raise the glass he could still see next to the bed to his lips. With a sigh, she did it, however, and though he didn’t quite get enough down to make the sandpaper feeling go away, it was better than nothing.
Once she’d set the glass back down and returned to her important task, he asked, “Where’s Meg?”
“She’s waiting in the hall,” the woman replied. “She’ll accompany you.”
Charlie nodded. He wondered what was so complicated that it was taking them so much work to get him ready for an ambulance, but he didn’t ask. A few minutes into the ordeal, a man he didn’t recognize wheeled in a gurney, which the nurses went about preparing with sheets, and he decided watching them was only making his head hurt, so he closed his eyes.
When he opened his eyes again, he knew he was on dry land. The rocking sensation he’d been feeling for more days than he could count had declined substantially, though from time to time he still felt as if he were swaying just a bit. He was staring up at a stark white ceiling. At first he heard absolutely nothing—not the ticking of a clock, the pounding of feet in the hallway, the labored breathing of a restless soul nearby, nothing. The silence was calming for the few moments that it lasted. But then, he began to hear screaming, thrashing, clawing, begging, and he shot up in the bed, looking around for the source of the torment.
“Charlie? Are you all right?” A petite woman with blonde, wavy hair and blue eyes rose from a chair just a foot or so away from his bedside. She was dressed in the simple clothes of an immigrant from the European mainland, the same type of outfit he’d seen crossing the Atlantic many times, but her accent sounded English. She was beautiful, but her eyes showed concern. Somehow, clearly, she knew his name, but he couldn’t place her.
The woman took another step forward. “Do you need the doctor?” she asked, her voice quivering a bit. “Or some water?”
Attempting to calm his racing heart, Charlie glanced around the room again and saw that the source of the screaming must not be nearby. Perhaps, if he was in a hospital as he suspected, it was coming from another room. “What’s that noise?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even.
She let out a small sigh. “There is no noise, Charlie, darling. It’s in your head. You’re still hearing the people in the water. Take some deep breaths, and it will go away. I promise.”
At first he thought she must be mad. Of course there was a noise, plenty of noises. But when she mentioned people in the water, then it came back to him. Pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, Charlie took several deep breaths.
“Here, take a sip of this water,” she suggested, lifting the glass from beside the bed to him. “It usually helps as well.”
He did as she recommended. The water was lukewarm, but it did help the dryness in his throat. She was holding the glass for him, but he soon took it out of her hand and drained it. Once it was empty, she took it back and set it down on the table, looking at him expectantly.
“Thank you,” he said, readjusting the blankets and leaning back. The noises faded, though he could still hear them if he let his mind focus on them. He tried not to do that.
Returning his attention to the woman, he thought perhaps they’d had a shortage of nurses with so many people being injured. Possibly this woman had volunteered. Maybe she had been a nurse in her home country. She looked nice, though worried. She continued to stand by the side of his bed, that same expectant look on her face, and he wondered if there was something else he was forgetting to say.
Before he had a chance to ask, the door to the small room opened, and another woman, this one much plumper and older, dressed completely in white came in. “Aw, Mr. Ashton. I see that you’re awake. How are you feeling?”
“I’m all right,” he managed, glancing from one woman to the other. He wasn’t sure what to make of the situation. Why would he need two nurses?
“That’s good to hear,” she replied, though her no-nonsense expression didn’t change. She went about checking the room and bed to make sure nothing was out of line and then looked at a piece of paper he assumed was his medical information. “Do you need the bedpan?” she asked.
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