From the Corner of His Eye

said softly.
        "I haven't disturbed him," said the visitor, taking his cue from the doctor and keeping his voice low.
        "I'm sure you haven't. But my patient needs absolute quiet and rest."
        "So do I," said the visitor, and Junior almost frowned at this peculiar response, wondering what was meant in addition to what was merely said.
        The two men introduced themselves. The physician was Dr. Jim Parkhurst. His manner was easy and affable, and his soothing voice, either by nature or by calculation, was as healing as balm.
        The birthmarked man identified himself as Detective Thomas Vanadium. He did not use the familiar, diminutive form of his name, as had the doctor, and his voice was as uninflected as his face was flat and homely.
        Junior suspected that no one other than this man's mother called him Tom. He was probably "Detective" to some and "Vanadium" to most who knew him.
        "What's wrong with Mr. Cain here?" Vanadium asked.
        "He suffered an unusually strong episode of hematemesis."
        "Vomiting blood. One of the paramedics used the word. But what's the cause?"
        "Well, the blood wasn't dark and acidic, so it didn't come from his stomach. It was bright and alkaline. It could have arisen in the esophagus, but most likely it's pharyngeal in origin."
        "From his throat."
        Junior's throat felt torn inside, as though he'd been snacking on cactus.
        "That's correct," Parkhurst said. "Probably one or more small blood vessels ruptured from the extreme violence of the emesis."
        "Emesis?"
        "Vomiting. I'm told it was an exceptionally violent emetic episode." "He spewed like a fire hose," Vanadium said matter-of-factly.
        "How colorfully put."
        In a monotone that gave new meaning to deadpan, the detective added: "I'm the only one who was there who doesn't have a dry-cleaning bill."
        Their voices remained soft, and neither man approached the bed.
        Junior was glad for the chance to eavesdrop, not only because he hoped to learn the nature and depth of Vanadium's suspicions, but also because he was curious-and concerned-about the cause of the disgusting and embarrassing episode that had landed him here.
        "Is the bleeding serious?" Vanadium inquired.
        "No. It's, stopped. The thing now is to prevent a recurrence of the emesis, which could trigger more bleeding. He's getting antinausea medication and replacement electrolytes intravenously, and we've applied ice bags to his midsection to reduce the chance of further abdominal-muscle spasms and to help control inflammation." bags Not dead Naomi. Just ice. ice bags. I almost laughed at his tendency to morbidness and self dramatization. The living dead had not come to get him: just some rubber ice bags.
        "So the vomiting caused the bleeding," Vanadium said. "But what the vomiting?" do further testing, of course, but not until he's been stabilized at least twelve hours. Personally, I don't think we'll find any physical cause. Most likely, this was psychological-acute nervous emesis, caused by severe anxiety, the shock of losing his wife, seeing her die.'
        Exactly. The shock. The devastating loss. Junior felt it now, anew, and was afraid he might betray himself with tears, although he seemed to be done with vomiting.
        He had learned many things about himself on this momentous day-that he was more spontaneous than he had ever before realized, that he was willing to make grievous short-term sacrifices for long-term gain, that he was bold and daring-but perhaps the most important lesson was that he was a more sensitive person than he'd previously perceived himself to be and that this sensitivity, while admirable, was liable to undo him unexpectedly and at inconvenient times.
        To Dr. Parkhurst, Vanadium said, "In my work, I see lots of people who've just lost loved ones. None of them has ever puked like Vesuvius."
        "It's an uncommon reaction," the physician acknowledged, "but not so uncommon as to be rare."
        "Could he have taken something to make himself vomit?"
        Parkhurst sounded genuinely perplexed. "Why on earth would he do that?"
        "To fake acute nervous emesis."
        Still pretending sleep, Junior delighted in the realization that the detective himself had dragged a red herring across the trail and was now busily following this distracting scent.
        Vanadium