Free Last Call by Sean Costello Page A

get out of bed. Sometimes, when they’re in the DTs like this, patients will get fixated on an idea—like getting out of bed—and won’t let it go. So we got him up in a chair and that seems to have settled him.”
    “That’s good,” Trish said. “Isn’t it?”
    “Yes and no,” the nurse said. “He popped some of his stitches last night and Dr. Peale had to come in and replace them under local. He really should be resting in bed until his wounds heal, but he was so agitated we were afraid he’d tear things loose again. We’ve got the TV on in there now and that seems to be holding him. But just so you know, if he gets worked up again we may have to ask you to leave.”
    “I understand. Can I go see him now?”
    “Sure. Just let me know if you need anything.”
    Trish thanked the girl and waited till she left. Then she drew the curtain and went inside.
    He was seated with his back to the door, hunched in a padded chair in a chest restraint, a sturdy plastic food tray locked down in front of him, his gaze directed at a small TV in the corner. The Simpsons was playing but Trish couldn’t tell if he was watching it or simply staring at the screen. His hands were shaking and a glistening strand of drool hung from his whiskered chin.
    Trish said, “Hello,” and entered the room, trying not to startle him; but he didn’t budge, didn’t even look at her.
    She moved closer and sank to her haunches beside him, noticing a crude, jailhouse tattoo on his wrist that said Sal , and she smiled and touched it with her finger—
    Quick as a snake, Jim Gamble spun on her—“Who are you? Where am I? Why am I in this fucking chair?”—his ruddy face twisted in fury and bewilderment.
    Startled, Trish rose to her full height. She said, “You’re in the hospital—”
    “What hos pital? There’s nothing wrong with me. I want the fuck out of here! ”
    He was trying to lift the tray now, jerking it up and down, trying to squirm out of the chair. Trish looked at the doorway but no one was coming.
    He said, “Are you a nurse?”
    “No, I’m—”
    Then get me a nurse, god damn it.”
    “I’ll get you a nurse, but I wanted to tell you...I’m...”
    “What? You’re what? Get me a nurse, you little cunt. Get me a nurse . I’m fucking thirsty. ” He seized his IV pole and started wrenching it back and forth, the bags of fluid it supported flapping on their hooks, Jim yelling, “I need a drink, I need a drink,” over and over in a mad chorus.
    A nurse came in with a paper cup saying, “Okay, Jim, here’s some water,” and he batted it out of her hand, splashing everyone in the room. Another nurse appeared with a loaded syringe and asked Trish to wait in the hallway.
    Stung, Trish left the unit and took the stairs to the main floor, running full out by the time she hit the lobby.
    She ran to the Jetta and got in, wondering why she’d even bothered, thinking her mother had been right—he’d called her a cunt —determined now to just get on with her new life as a university student. She’d come this far without a dad, she could make it the rest of the way.
    When she turned the key the Jetta refused to start and she hammered the dash with her fist, one furious shot that made the radio come on. It was the Power Hour on CHUM FM and the request line was open, the DJ’s manic voice contrasting almost comically with Trish’s sobs.
    “You’re listening to the CHUM FM request line on this sunny Tuesday in June, the last of the month, and this one goes out to Bobcat—yeah, you heard me right, Bob cat—who says he’s a dentist and hunting enthusiast. From The Doors...”
    The intro to “Light My Fire” came out of the speakers and Trish turned the radio off. She rested her head against the steering wheel for a long beat, thinking, You can do this, you have to do this, then grabbed the keys and hurried back inside.
    * * *
    The madman came through the screen door at the back of the house with a lit Cigarillo in one