[Gina Mazzio RN 01.0 - 03.0] Bone Set

by JJ Lamb

  “What about her?”

  “She had a minor sub-q bleed today. She freaked out. Started yelling, screaming at me.”

  Harry rubbed his chin with one hand, looked at her with concern. “Now I'm really worried about you.” He meticulously folded the dishtowel and hung it up. “I don't think you heard what you just said.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There is no such thing as a minor bleed with these patients. Everything has the potential of turning into a calamity ... and don't think Tracy didn't know that.”

  “Yeah, but she was acting out before the bleed.”

  “In what way?”

  “She was actually screaming that she needed fifty grand right away ... talked about being carried out in a box.”

  “Did she say what she needed the money for?”

  “All I know is her insurance has already agreed to pay for her care, so it couldn't be that. But that woman was petrified about something.”

  “Isn't she due for her engraftment soon?”

  “Tomorrow. Noon.”

  “Well,” he said shrugging,” that could explain it.”

  “Harry, don't you think I've been through that whole scenario?”

  “I don't know what to think, Gina. Maybe you're too close, too involved to be objective about any of it.”

  “Damn it, Harry! It's true I have rapport with the woman. It's also true that I like her very much, feel a great deal of empathy for her. But give me credit for some professionalism. She's still my patient, and I haven't lost track of that for one minute.”

  He studied her. “I don't know. Maybe you're clear about all of this, maybe you're not. But I still think Bernstein's behavior is probably erratic because of her transfusion tomorrow.”

  “And I disagree.”

  “Be fair, Gina: Wouldn't it scare you? It sure would scare the hell of me.” He poked her gently in the ribs. “And I'm fearless.”

  She jumped away, shook her fist at him. “Don't play around with this, Harry.” She hunched over, set an elbow on the kitchen counter, and rested her head in her hand. “Both Chapman and Bernstein have reacted inappropriately ... no, that doesn't quite describe it. They've acted ... weird.”

  “So? What about other patients in the unit? Don't they all go through some kind of crisis just before engraftment?”

  “Oh, there's apprehension, all right, but not terror. They know those cells are going to save their lives. Instead of out-and-out fear, mostly, there's hope.”

  “You never told me Chapman was terrified.”

  “No, because I don't think he was; more resigned than anything.” She turned, looked sharply at him. “Harry, are you playing devil's advocate with me?”

  He stared silently back at her.

  “Look,” she said,” Tracy is a vibrant, cocky, professional woman. Chapman was a laid-back, but strong-willed man. Yet both acted totally out of character the day before engraftment. They …” She thought a moment. “… they both clammed up. Wouldn't talk, wouldn't confide in me anymore.”

  “Maybe that’s at the heart of this—you feel alienated from your patients.”

  “Come on, Harry, you can't really believe I'd let my personal hang-ups get in the way. I'm telling you, there's some weird shit going on here. Just because I can't pin it down doesn't mean it isn't happening.”

  “I don't know, Gina— “

  “You just don't get it, do you?”

  He shrugged. “Apparently not.”

  “Isn't it rotten enough that these people are going through hell, not only from their disease, but from their medical treatment?”

  Harry nodded. “It's not an easy way to go.”

  “Well, what if there's something else threatening them, something that—”

  “Something that what?”

  Gina padded up to him, pushed her forehead hard against his chest.

  “I don't know ... I don't know ... I don't know.”

  Chapter 15

  Gina's eyes flitted automatically across the warning plaque that had been placed on the wall outside Tracy Bernstein's room. She hardly read it anymore but it was an affirmation of what she already knew: Tracy was fighting for her life.

  NEUTROPENIC PRECAUTIONS

  Upon entering:

  Wash your hands immediately.

  See the nurse if:

  You have a cold.

  You have any sign of infection.

  Once inside, she went to the sink to wash her hands and study Tracy, who was lying on her side facing the window. Gina stared thoughtfully at the drab scarf that covered her baldness—it was half-on, half-off. What had happened to the colorful scarf that was Tracy's signature?

  Gina walked around to the other side of the rumpled bed; the blanket was on the floor, the sheets wadded into clumps.

  “So how are you? How's your arm?”

  There was no answer; Tracy's fingers clutched harder at a photograph she held against her chest. Unfocused eyes were a tired, watery green.

  “I wish you'd tell me what's troubling you,” Gina said, gently straightening the scarf.

  Raising her head, Tracy looked directly at Gina. Her face had faded to an ashen-gray; her full lips were bloodless and pinched together.

  Gina checked her watch. “Why don't I help you up, get ready for your marrow transfusion?” She laughed thinly. “Think we can do that in four hours?”

  Tracy looked through, then past Gina. “Leave me alone,” she whispered.

  “Look, Tracy, if it's something I've said or done ... well, I wish you'd tell me. I'm sure—

  “Go away, Gina. I don't want to talk to you.”

  “Maybe if another nurse took care of you—”

  “I don't want another nurse. I don't want any nurse. None of you can help me.” Her lower lip quivered. “I just want you to go away now. Go and leave me alone.”

  “Please, let me help you freshen up,” Gina said softly.

  Tracy's nostrils flared. “Are all nurses so dense? Don't you understand, I want you to leave! Get out! Is that plain enough?”

  Gina swallowed an angry response and turned away. As she exited the room, she heard Tracy sobbing.

  Now she was not only puzzled, she was fuming. It wasn't the first time she'd been put down as a nurse, but she hadn't expected it from Tracy Bernstein.

  “You look like you swallowed a firecracker,” Helen said as Gina stormed into the nurses' station.

  “I can't believe it! Bernstein, of all people, calling me stupid. That's a curve ball I never expected.”

  “What happened in there?”

  Gina told her about the scene with Tracy.

  Helen laughed, shrugging it off. “She's obviously right. Only a dummy would choose to clean up piss, pus, and putridity as a career. It's so ... so colorful ... so exciting.”

  Gina just glared at her.

  “Come on! Don't tell me you wouldn't trade all of this for a red power-blouse and an executive office where you could order a bunch of 'those other people' around.” She smiled at Gina over her shoulder, her nose tilted upward: “Have that report on my desk in five minutes, Mazzio, or you're fired!” She flicked an imaginary mote of dust off her uniform and giggled. “Can you picture that?”

  Gina frowned, then burst out laughing. “As a matter of fact, I can't.”

  “See? You are a dummy.”

  Helen sneered at a digital salute from Gina as she walked out of the station, but not before she flipped one back.

  Gina stood motionless at the desk, her eyes skimming back and forth across the array of requisitions, charts, phones, and computer terminals. After several seconds of indecision, she tuned into everyone else hustling and bustling, just like any other day. She knew she should get moving—Vinnie Capello had been acting up again and no one wanted any part of him; she had IVs, meds, treatments to get ready; and then there was Tracy's marrow engraftment at noon.

  She stepped out of the nurses' station, started down the hall, spun around
and went back to the computer. She stared at the CRT for a moment, cleared the screen, and hit the keys to bring up Carl Chapman's lab work.

  INVALID ENTRY FOR ACCESS.

  She tried again.

  THIS CODE WILL NOT ACCESS INFORMATION.

  Maybe you are a dummy, Mazzio. Why check up on a dead guy?

  She punched another series of keys.

  GUARDIAN VIOLATION

  Uh-oh! Any more messing around and the damn thing will shut down. She studied the warning on the screen. Why won’t it give me the data on Chapman? Why all this security?

  * * *

  Gina entered the elevator and pressed B decisively. It had been a long time since she'd been to the basement in Ridgewood Hospital. And the only complete tour had been three years earlier during orientation. She thought about that original visit and tried to recall the basement layout: There was an auditorium conference room, dubbed 'The Hole'; the Laundry; the Lab; Pathology; and the Morgue.

  As the elevator moved downward, she rubbed her neck and wondered if she was doing the right thing; maybe she should just leave things alone. Helen had ragged her for leaving the floor with so many student nurses interning. But Helen was a buddy and agreed to cover for her. She still felt guilty. Oncology, especially in a teaching hospital with oncologists, hematologists, residents, and interns milling about, could be a zoo under the best of circumstances. Working short-handed made it a madhouse.

  Leaving the elevator, she collided with the lab chief.

  “Sorry, Bob.”

  “No problem.” He squeezed her arm. “Not still miffed, are you?” His warm hands held on to her arm just a little too long.

  “No, off course not.”

  His smile widened. “What brings you down to my dungeon?”

  “Picking up some blood,” she said with a nervous laugh. “Haven't run out, have you?”

  He stepped into the elevator, arched an eyebrow as he gave her a wicked smile before waving through the closing doors.

  The corridors were well lighted, but quiet—traffic was minimal compared to the rest of the hospital. She glanced up quickly as she came to each of the bubble mirrors that preceded every turn in the corridor. Yet the illumination and overhead mirrors, she kept looking back over shoulder to see if anyone was following her—a habit she'd picked up in the dimly lighted, underground passageways of the New York hospital where she had trained. When she passed the double doors of the Morgue, she swallowed hard and picked up her pace.

  At the Lab, she breathed a sigh of relief and pushed open one of the metal-clad swinging doors; suddenly she was in a different world, a stark contrast to the one where she worked four floors above.

  The air was alien, permeated with pungent aromas of unfamiliar chemical compounds. Clicks and clacks, whirrs and buzzes echoed from every corner.

  This was a world of theory and resolution, far removed from the anguish and pain of those who provided the fodder for its existence.

  Blood analyzers rhythmically probed, while computers swallowed, digested and excreted digital readouts. Calculations were made continuously, unemotionally. Life and death were just empty words here.

  No one paid attention to her as she traipsed through the maze of white-coated technicians. Most were standing before counters filled with racks of tubes, pipettes, and flasks, she stopped short; Faye Lindstrom was working at one of the stations. Gina hadn't expected to run into anyone she knew. She watched Faye work for a moment; the woman's hands moved in birdlike flutters as she readied sera from recently spun blood samples for computer analysis.

  Gina was about to say hello when a nearby telephone rang. Faye scurried to answer the call, knocking over a rack of blood in the process. A chorus of epithets was directed at her. From the tone of the remarks, it apparently wasn't the first time Faye had made this kind of mess. The lab tech's terrified eyes skittered from one jeerer to another.

  It had to be a personal call. Faye listened, then whispered urgently before hanging up the receiver. Only then did she notice Gina.

  “So this is your home away from home?” Gina said, pretending she'd just arrived.

  Faye nodded, grabbed a protective head visor and double-gloved herself, the latex making squishing, snapping noises. “Quite a mess, isn't it?” She reached under the counter for a box of chemical absorbent for the spilled blood.

  “Hey, your day seems to be shaping up just about like mine.”

  Faye looked at her quizzically. “Why, what happened to you?”

  Gina waved a hand. “No time now.” She started to move on. “Meet me after work and I'll give you a ride home. We can talk about it then.”

  “Uh, no, I don't think so.”

  “Oh, come on. I'll wait for you near the fountain.” Before Faye could turn her down again she waved good-bye and moved on.

  Gina passed the Blood Bank, paused for a moment to get her bearings, and then went on to where the marrow was stored. A technician, busy packing tubes into a large centrifuge, looked up when she entered.

  “Hi! I'm Gina Mazzio from Oncology. I wanted to see how much marrow we have for Tracy Bernstein … uh … I'm her primary care nurse and she's being engrafted today. Anyway, I was downstairs, thought I'd just pop in and, you know, check it out. Okay?”

  “Sure, sure! No problem,” the tech said, interrupting her work. “God, I haven't heard a New York accent like that in years. Did you take a wrong turn somewhere?”

  Gina laughed, felt the tension ease away. “California's just a jump away from the Bronx, as the crow flies.”

  “Uh huh,” the tech agreed with a wry smile. “What's the patient's name and ID number?” She went to a tabletop terminal and keyed in the information Gina gave her. “Looks like there're eight-hundred CCs ... that's probably about ten packages.”

  Gina hesitated. “May I see it?”

  “The packets?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “After losing Chapman's ... well, it's just that I'd feel better if I saw them with my own two eyes.”

  The tech shrugged, leaned forward, and scanned the identification card clipped to Gina's blouse. “Okay, but let's not get administration's bowels in an uproar by even mentioning Chapman's name.” The tech stepped over to a stainless steel refrigerator. “The samples were probably moved to this fridge several days ago. Let's see...” she pointed to the computer. “... oh, yes, my HAL says they're in Section B, Slot six.”

  Gina watched her open the unit and search through the designated location. Instead of coming up with the marrow, she went back to the terminal and rechecked the computer coordinates, then donned a large pair of gloves and searched inside the refrigerator more thoroughly.

  “What's the problem?” Gina asked, having also read the information on the terminal screen.

  “I'm going to have to check the main storage vat to see if the packets are still there. Maybe they haven't been transferred yet.”

  “I thought you said they would be here. I mean, isn't that what the computer says?”

  “Should be here,” the tech said, shaking her head,” but they're not.” She frowned and bit her lower lip. “I'm going to have to run this down myself,” she added, hurrying out the door.

  As soon as she left, Gina reached for the telephone.

  “Helen? It's Gina. Is Kessler on the floor?”

  Chapter 16

  Gary Bernstein paced back and forth in front of First Security's main entrance. He'd been there for ten minutes, feeling uncomfortably restricted in a business suit. His eyes were fixed on the large, Roman numeral clock in the window, the sweep of its second hand inching around with agonizing slowness. It now dragged past XII again. It was 8:59 a.m.

  “Damn it!” he muttered. Then he resumed repeating the single word he'd used over and over since his arrival, like a rapid-fire mantra: Hurry, hurry, hurry—hurry, hurry, hurry.

  A guard finally approached the door, unbolted it; the sound had a high-pitched screech, unnerving like a fingernail rak
ed across a blackboard. The hairs on Gary's neck were still standing as he rushed inside, where he was immediately greeted by the bank's vice-president. Everything had been prearranged; the transaction itself took less than five minutes.

  The banker, a friend, was in a chatty mood. Gary was polite, but firm about not having time to talk. Still, the banker probed, asking personal questions that Gary managed to avoid answering. Once again the banker tried to talk him out of carrying so much cash. He shrugged off the advice. Walking away, he sensed his friend's questioning eyes boring into his back, probably wondering what he really needed the money for.

  Fifty thousand dollars. Jesus!

  As he left the bank, he studied the crowd before choosing the right moment to join the flow of foot traffic that would take him in the direction of his car. He was edgy, ready to bolt if anyone looked even remotely suspicious. Although he'd been involved in large money transactions many times in his life, he'd never before had that much actual cash in his hands.

  He clutched the handle of the money-filled briefcase until his fingers started to cramp. Frightening possibilities sparked his imagination into an uncontrollable wildfire. Every situation, every encounter along the route to the parking garage blazed with danger: Scurrying pedestrians bumped into him, his fists automatically balled, ready for combat. A desperate street person touched his shoulder. He spun around, shoved viciously, and ignored the curses that followed him down the sidewalk. He focused on minorities, silently ascribing to them all the stereotypical, disparaging characteristics he'd ever heard. He hated himself for it, but everyone was a threat. Everyone!

  It seemed to take forever to reach his car. As each second ticked away, he became more certain he was going to be robbed in broad daylight, right in the middle of San Francisco's financial district.

  When he reached the garage where his BMW was parked, he paid, scooted into the car and quickly locked the doors, shutting out the world. He closed his eyes for a moment and rested his head against the soft leather seat, breathing in the reassuring rich aroma. For that instant, in the locked car, the money secure at his side, he felt safe.