The Call From Bed 13 - The Night Shift Nurse Part 2 (Final)

 

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The Call From Bed 13 - The Night Shift Nurse Part 2 (Final)

My watch said 3:12 AM. Bed 13 was blinking red on the panel.
Karen's words were ringing in my ears. "She doesn't want help. She wants company."
The panel beeped again. Faster this time. Insistent.
Hospital protocol says you check every call. Even ghost calls. That's what they teach you. You never leave a child waiting.

I stood up. My legs were shaking.
The hallway to Room 313 is long. 40 steps. I counted them before. Now it felt like 400. The lights were at 50%, humming. The air got colder with every step. My breath started to fog.
Room 313's door was closed. It was storage. It should be locked. It wasn't.
It was open two inches. Cold air was pouring out.

I pushed it with my flashlight.
The room smelled like old smoke. And disinfectant. And something sweet, like strawberry shampoo.
Bed 13 was in the middle. Not storage boxes. Not wheelchairs. Just Bed 13. White sheets, perfectly tucked. The way they teach you in nursing school. Hospital corners.
The call button was on the pillow. The red light on it was on. The cord was tangled.
And the bed was not empty.

There was an indent on the mattress. Small. The size of an 8-year-old.
I should have run. I know.
But I am a nurse. I said, "Hello? Is someone here?"
No answer. Then the monitor on the wall - which was not plugged in - beeped once. A flat, weak heartbeat.

Then I heard the breathing. Wet. Struggling. An asthma attack. From the bed.
"Nurse... it hurts..." The same voice from last night. But closer now. From the bed.
I walked closer. The indent moved. The sheet rose and fell, like someone was breathing under it.
My hand reached for the sheet. I don't know why. I had to help.
I pulled the sheet back.

Nothing was there. Just the indent. And getting deeper. Like someone invisible was pressing into it.
Then cold small hands grabbed my wrist.
I looked down. Nothing was holding me. But I could feel five small fingers, icy cold, digging into my skin. I couldn't move.
The voice was right in my ear now. "You came. No one came for me."
The room temperature dropped. I could see my breath clearly now.
"Emily?" I whispered.
"13 minutes," she whispered back. "I pressed for 13 minutes. I counted."
The call button on the pillow started to click by itself. Click. Click. Click. Counting.
On the 13th click, the door behind me slammed shut.
The bed sheet flew off.
And I saw her.

Emily Carter. 8 years old. In a pink t-shirt with a teddy bear. Just like Karen described. Her face was pale. Her lips were blue. Her eyes were full of tears, not scary, just sad and angry.
"Stay with me," she said. "I'm scared alone."
Her grip got tighter. My wrist was burning from cold.
I did the only thing I could think of. I am a pediatric nurse. I know how to calm a scared child.
I sat down on the edge of Bed 13. Even with her holding me.
"It's okay, Emily. I'm here now. You don't have to be scared. Breathe with me. In... out..."
I started breathing loudly, showing her. In for four, out for four. The way we teach asthma kids.
For a second, nothing.
Then she started to copy me. The wet breathing slowly became clearer. The grip on my wrist loosened a little.

"They left me," she said, crying now. "It was so dark. And hot."
"I know," I said. Tears were in my eyes too. "I'm so sorry no one came. But I came now. I'm here."
The monitor that wasn't plugged in beeped again. This time stronger. A normal rhythm.
She looked at me. "Will you stay till 3:14?"
I looked at my watch. 3:13 AM.
"Yes," I said. "I will stay."
We sat there. A nurse and a little girl who waited 20 years. Breathing together. In the cold, smoky room.

At 3:14 AM, the red light on the call button went off. Click.
Her hand let go. She smiled. A real 8-year-old smile.
"Thank you, Nurse Sarah," she said.
And she faded. Like mist. The indent on the bed slowly rose back to flat.
The room became just storage again. Boxes. A broken wheelchair. No Bed 13. Just an old bed frame.
The door opened by itself.

I walked back to the station. Karen was there, pale.
"Did you go in?" she asked.
I showed her my wrist. Five small finger marks, red from cold, fading.
Karen started crying. "She never let anyone sit with her before. She always pulled them."
I looked at the panel. All lights were green. Quiet.
It's been a week. Bed 13 has not called since.
But last night, I found a small drawing on my station desk. Crayon. A stick figure nurse holding hands with a little girl in a teddy bear shirt. Under it, in childish writing: "Thank you. - Emily"
I kept it.
Some calls you have to answer, even 20 years late.

[THE END]