Having grown up with two younger brothers and a widowed father, Belle understands exactly what men need when they fall ill.
They must be consoled and fussed over and soothed and allowed to regress to a clinging, childlike state. To overlook a minor cold or injury in Belle's family was to invite an increasingly dramatic performance of woe from the unwell party, and she would far rather err on the side of overindulgence.
Honestly, she never minded tending them. Especially not James, the sweet baby of their small family.
When in good health, her youngest brother was full of high spirits and waggishness, but when sick, he became her darling little boy once more. The thought of his smooth brow, which she had felt for fever and kissed so often, now chilled and stored somewhere in the hospital's basement has Belle feeling nauseous and lightheaded. Instead, she focuses her attention on the rail-thin, suffering man in front of her.
"Nosty" is written on the chart at the foot of his bed, and no surname is given. Earlier, when he lost consciousness during a rather gruesome chest wound culture, she had asked one of the nurses if there was anyone they could call.
"You mean like a next of kin? For Nosty? You'd likely find them under a bridge, luv."
So he was without family, at least for the moment. And plenty scared, judging by the way his eyes searched her face before rolling back in his skull.
Belle cannot stop herself from wondering if there was anyone with James during his final moments. Someone had called for the ambulance service, so perhaps someone was also there to hold his hand and comfort him when he slipped away. She'd like to think so.
Belle presses Nosty's hand tightly, hoping he can feel it. Even unconscious, she doesn't want him to think himself abandoned.
After the sun has set and a second bag of intravenous antibiotics has been emptied into his bruised arm, Nosty's slender chest heaves, and his eyes flicker open. Dirty fingernails dig into Belle's palm, and he chokes out, "I don't want…to fucking die here."
Thankfully, this part comes so much easier to her than watching and waiting. "Oh sweetheart, you aren't going to die. You have blood poisoning. Sepsis. It's serious, but you'll recover. Are you thirsty?"
He is, so Belle slips her hand behind his matted dreads and offers him sips of water from a small plastic cup.
"Is there someone I should call?" she asks, and his nostrils flare. "A friend? Family?"
They stare at each other for a beat: his eyes hard and furious, hers wide and gentle.
"There's another thirty minutes until visiting hours are over," Belle says at last, realizing he doesn't intend to break the strained silence. "Would you like me to read to you for a short while?" She takes the little book out of her leather handbag.
"I saw what happened…to the last sorry bastard you read aloud to."
Nosty watches her flinch and blink hard. When he doesn't have his fists, he has his words. More often, he uses both, simultaneously. No, sweetheart, there's no fucking mum or da or wifey or devoted sister that will come rushing to his bedside.
Nosty waits for the lass to collect her expensive purse and put on her posh pumps and get the fuck out.
Instead, Belle exhales slowly and slips her soft hand back into his. "It's the only book I have with me. It was his favorite. I'll bring something different tomorrow."
They watch each other warily, Nosty turning that slippery word "tomorrow" over and over in his head. At last, Belle begins to read:
"All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this…"