Rust On the Razor Read Online Free

pavement. Insects sang and owls hooted as we hurried in.
    â€œOnly hospital for miles around,” Scott said as we swung open the doors.
    The reception desk was closed. We followed corridors of red brick and yellow tile to the emergency room for
directions. A lone nurse sat filling out forms. As we approached, she looked up from her paperwork.
    When Scott gave his dad’s name, her whole expression changed, but she made no comment. She merely gave us directions, but I saw her reach for the phone as the elevator doors closed behind us.
    Scott’s dad was in the cardiac care unit. Upstairs we followed the directions on posted signs to the CCU patient/ family lounge, where Scott used a phone to call the actual unit. No one answered. Scott didn’t hesitate: he strode purposefully through the doors to the unit. I followed.
    None of the nurses was on duty. Most of the rooms were empty. In one cubicle an elderly woman slept peacefully. Outside the last room on the left we saw a sign with “Mr. Carpenter” typed neatly on it.
    We entered the room tentatively. Light from the machines hooked up to Scott’s dad cast their blue and green light. I saw blips and heard occasional beeps. One machine read out numbers in red numerals that fluctuated between the high sixties and the low seventies. A tube entered one of his father’s nostrils; wires were attached to his chest; and an IV ran to his wrist.
    Scott stared wide-eyed at the machines. His dad stirred for a moment but did not waken.
    I wondered where everybody was.
    Scott approached the bed. “Daddy?” he whispered. “Daddy?”
    The side rails on the bed were up. Scott took his father’s hand gently and held it. With his other hand Scott carefully pushed back the sparse gray hair on his father’s head. A few moments later his father’s eyes opened. Scott whispered, “I love you, Daddy.”
    â€œScottie?” his dad murmured.
    â€œI’m here, Daddy.”
    The man sighed contentedly, closed his eyes, and slept.
Scott leaned awkwardly over the rail and hugged the sleeping figure.
    He pulled up a straight-back chair next to the bed and sat in it while holding his father’s hand. He stayed like that for the longest time. I stood in the background, unwilling to break the passing of time with words or gestures.
    Abruptly, a male nurse appeared in the doorway, saw me, and shattered the serenity of the moment by demanding, “What are you doing here?”
    â€œSinging opera arias,” I said. Somehow, when faced with officiousness, I have a tendency to give smart-ass answers.
    He spoke with a southern drawl—as did everybody. I’m not going to keep mentioning it; you can assume they did because everybody had an accent. Even Scott’s got more pronounced the longer we stayed.
    Scott stirred and the nurse took note of him.
    â€œWho are you two?” the nurse asked. “You can’t be here.”
    Scott walked over to us. We both towered over the man, who seemed to be in his late twenties. He had a small mustache and a rounded belly that bulged under his white uniform.
    â€œI’m Scott Carpenter. This is my father.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œThe sign in the lounge said visiting in cardiac care could happen anytime, but no one answered our call.”
    â€œI was on break.”
    â€œIsn’t someone supposed to be on duty all the time in cardiac care?” I asked.
    â€œWe only have two patients.”
    â€œWhile my father is here, it won’t happen again,” Scott said very quietly. “I don’t know where my family is, but one of us will be here from now on, and so will someone from the hospital staff. I’ll talk to your supervisor in the morning.”

    â€œYou’re trying to bully me.”
    â€œIf my father dies because of any kind of neglect, the least of your worries will be the lawsuit with which I will take every penny you could possibly earn for