Nurse! ... Uh, I Don’t Need You Now

by Lynn Kuhns, Winneconne, WI

The nurse left work at five o’clock and headed for the BlueMoon Café.

Okay — the nurse is me.

Since I don’t really see myself as a nurse, I disguise my discontent in third-person distance. The nurse — she. It’s safer.

When I was a girl, a tomboy, Mom said that someday, I’d be “bee-ee-ay--YOO-tee-ful” in a starchy white dress and silk stockings that glowed like Christmas stars.

I dreamt of doctors, dreaming as they watched me swish by on my way to do so much good for so many.

I wanted to do good.

But. Here we are, Nurse and I, in baggy drawstring scrubs with goofy Snoopy-dog designs, a dark bloodstain down the front, yellowed barf polka-dotting on the cuff.

Today we took a beating from a chaotic schedule and patients pissed off at the whole health care system. Typical.

Mostly, we take blood. “Won’t hurt... just-a little prick.”

But day after day, it does hurt...me, I hurt.

Oh — here we are. The café’s college kids, with their laptops, bookbags and important assignments click away with some noble purpose. I am so jealous.

Got our mocha latte. Nurse sits, pulling her sad, grey sweater-jacket over our scrubs’ stains and my disappointment. They won’t stay hidden.

A deep voice drifts tenderly over us. “May I?”

Some guy is easing out a chair.

Nurse studies her coffee mug. I feel the man’s gaze on me, thick with something. Please — not pity.

“Urgh... okay,” Nurse concedes, dreadfully wary.

I look up at a tanned, smile-lined face. A faded hunting cap forces thick curls of soft grey hair to radiate like a halo over sunset eyes. His vintage flannel shirt is muted, work-worn.

“Thanks. I’m Nick, from Fremont. Glad to meet you.”

Nurse huffs and shudders.

But that voice is one I could snuggle up with in any Wisconsin winter. Velvet. Whiskey. Honey. Purpose.

Nick is extending his hand, calloused, stained mahogany-brown. A linseed-ish earthiness follows, spirit as much as scent.

He removes his hat. Nurse recoils. I’m casually extending my hand. (—Wow!) “We’re... ah, I’m-m-m Becky, from-m-m Oshkosh.”

We shake.

“You’re a nurse?” One eyebrow eases up; smile turns honey, too.

Nurse spins away.

“Well, I thought I was. More of a paper-shuffler, baby-sitter and blame-taker.”

“Got ya. I was a pediatric surgeon. Milwaukee. Blue babies, crack babies, black-and-blue babies. Some, I saved; some...”

He wasn’t going to finish. Needing to fix that, Nurse whirls back at us. But I push her hard, to keep her from pushing him.

For once, I won. Me. Becky. “You’re... retired?”

His eyes are dreaming with mine. “Yes... and no. No more doctorin’. I make sturgeon decoys — those fish-like things that the spearers hang down in ice holes in their shanties to attract sturgeon? Some folks collect ‘em.”

(I know. My uncles speared sturgeon. Dad had created some awesome decoys. I loved watching his stained hands work.)

“It’s fun,” Nick’s saying. “I donate some to Wolf River conservation groups so they can raise money.”

He’s leaning in. “Becky — you should try it. You’ll meet good people. And do some good.”

A frigid, white breeze from my yesterdays swishes off somewhere behind me.

Nick and I talk some. Now it’s easy to give up my phone number, maybe more, someday.

I’m walking to my apartment — just me. I can’t wait to wrap myself in a soft, faded flannel shirt. And get my hands on a real good slab of red pine.

Got an idea for my sturgeon decoy — garfish-shaped, snow-white. With blood-red fins and some perky little yellow polka dots.

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