[Gina Mazzio RN 01.0 - 03.0] Bone Set

by JJ Lamb

  “Of course you couldn’t think. Does an ex-con even have a brain?”

  Good thing it’s me dealing with this asshole instead of Pete. He would have freaked.

  “They won’t know anything. I took Emma back to her room.”

  “Well halleluiah for small favors. Now get the hell out of here.”

  Rocky stood his ground and stared at Ethan for a moment before turning away.

  Don’t push me too far, old man.

  * * *

  Gina laced her arm into Harry’s, dragged him through the lobby and out through the front door.

  “Maybe it would be faster if you carried me,” Harry said. “What’s this about?”

  “Sorry. I was afraid you’d say something and they would hear us.”

  “Dammit, Gina, we have no proof that our conversations are being bugged. Three months of this kind of tension is going to tear us apart.”

  “Wait a minute, Harry. That’s not true. How did they know we’d be at the second floor exit door earlier today if they hadn’t overheard our conversation?”

  “It could have been a coincidence. Or maybe they saw us in the security cameras.”

  Gina looked at the diminishing light—the sun was low in the sky, making it eerie to walk down the road in the shadows of the rocks.

  “Okay, why didn’t Rocky get off the elevator?” she said. “Where was he going with that woman, Emma Goldmich? There’s nothing for a patient on the third floor. So what was that about?”

  Harry looked away.

  “That patient in the elevator, how did she know I was a nurse? I’m not in scrubs.”

  “Hell, Gina, you look like a nurse in or out of scrubs. It’s who you are.”

  “But she was in so much pain … and she was scared to death.”

  Sudden weariness washed over her. She’d had it. The whole day had been overwhelming. She walked over to the side of the road and onto the sandy terrain. When she was smack up against the nearest boulder, she leaned back and tugged at the sparse needles of a stray juniper that had fought its way through a large crack in the granite. She would not move any farther until they straightened this out.

  He stood still and stared at her.

  “Harry, don’t just stand there. Say something, for God’s sake. We need to talk this out.”

  His voice was soft and calm, but his body looked tense and wired. “Hey, Gina!” He gave her a weird smile. “Listen to me very carefully, and no matter what I say, don’t jump. Okay?”

  “This is ridiculous, Harry. What are you talking about?”

  “Do not move! There’s a rattlesnake near your foot.”

  Her heart sped up double-time, pounded so hard it felt like her whole body was throbbing. It took all of her self-control to stand stock-still while she allowed her eyes to wander downward. Her feet seemed to have a life of their own and were straining to run.

  A foot or so away, a gray diamondback was coiled and staring right where her leg was quavering under her pants.

  “It’s all right. Just stay put; it won’t bite you if you don’t scare it.”

  “Scare it? It’s scaring the hell out of me!” She wanted to be funny and laugh this off, but her mouth was so dry it felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls.

  First tarantulas, now rattlesnakes. What’s next, Komodo dragons?

  “Harry, I don’t think I can stand here much longer.”

  “Hang on, babe. I promise he’ll move on soon.”

  But he didn’t. She watched his vibrating tongue and beady eyes. They seemed to be watching both her leg and Harry edging in closer and closer.

  “Try to relax, doll. Think of our trip to Italy three months from now.”

  She closed her eyes but all she could visualize was that evil-looking snake with its long teeth loaded like syringes. She started counting, forced herself to say each numeral very slowly. When she got to twenty, she opened her eyes.

  Harry held a long stick. With quick movements he jabbed it under the snake and tossed it into the air. It landed about ten feet away, stretched itself out, slithered off, and disappeared between the black shadows of the boulders.

  “Oh, my God!” Her stomach was resting somewhere near her knees.

  Harry ran and pulled her into his arms. “You were fantastic! I’m so proud of you.”

  Her heart wouldn’t stop pounding in her ears. Her legs gave way.

  She grabbed Harry around the waist, squeezed hard, and held on until she could stand on her own two legs.

  * * *

  The elevator ride back to their apartment was smothered in silence. The minute they were inside, Gina stepped out of her clothes and raced to the bathroom. Her face was covered in tears and she couldn’t stop trembling. She flung open the shower door and spun the faucets until the water was gushing freely and the steam was thick enough to make her stabbing headache start to ease.

  Why am I here? What am I doing in this strange place? Everything feels disconnected and lonely. I don’t want to be here—especially not for three months.

  The hot water was like soft, electric needles jabbing at her body. Her chest was so heavy she could barely breathe. Wild, disconnected thoughts fired in her brain.

  Love defeats me, make me do things I don’t want to do. Why couldn’t I let Harry go off by himself? I could have stayed in San Francisco, allowed myself time to think; worked out the misery of the past few months. Did I really need him so desperately that I had to follow him to a place so alien everything inside of me is screaming: Turn around, run?

  And I’m still here. I need to let this man go.

  Why can’t I let go?

  She poured a puddle of shampoo into her hand, rubbed it through matted strands, and scrubbed hard to wash away her negative thoughts and the scary happenings of the day.

  Music filtered through the pounding water. Harry had turned on their iPod; through the heavy splatter she recognized the mellow jazz of Clifford Alden. The plaintive sounds of Eleanor Rigby grounded her, made her feel calmer. She closed her eyes and leaned against the stall, hummed along with the music until her hands stopped shaking.

  She opened her eyes when she felt Harry slip in beside her. His strong arms drew her to him and he murmured soft, disconnected words of comfort. Bathed in silky soap, their naked flesh rode, slid against each other while tiny water fingers caressed them. His hands were everywhere, drifting down her back, onto her hips, around her thighs, between her legs. Puffs of steam rolled into her lungs. Words were lost when his tongue slid down her neck, onto her breasts, causing fiery tentacles of heat to curl through her groin. When his lips smothered hers, the steel vice that had squeezed her chest finally relaxed, and she knew she was safe again.

  “I’m sorry for being such a wuss today.”

  “Shh! That was some weird shit out there. And this is new for you. It’s okay to be scared. I was scared, too.”

  His voice was filled with passion, but at the same time soft and kind. She knew he loved her, and she loved him, but could she totally surrender, really share all her fears and allow him inside, allow him to settle in her heart?

  * * *

  Gina wouldn’t let Harry touch the pasta sauce. She said, in her best fake Italian accent, “Keepa da hands away froma my pasta.” She held a wooden spoon like a sword and waved it through the air, aiming for his midsection.

  Each time he tried to mix or taste the sauce, she ground a hip into him until he finally said, “You do that one more time and that robe is coming off.”

  She leered at him wickedly. “You and what army?”

  He grabbed her and held her up in the air. “Just because you’re tall doesn’t mean you can’t be tamed.”

  “Mmmmm. Maybe we’d better eat now, Mr. Lucke, before we forget about dinner and everything gets cold.” When he set her down, she tousled his long, curly hair and gazed into his soft blue eyes.

  The small kitchen area was efficiently designed and well equipped. It had pretty much everything they needed, mak
ing it fun to cook in a new place. She poured the pasta into the colander and divided it onto their plates before spooning out the thick marinara sauce while he set out the basket of bread and lit the candles on the tiny dining room table.

  “I already miss the sourdough we get in San Francisco,” she said.

  “I’ll bet this brown-and-serve will be almost as good.”

  They both tasted the bread and said in unison, “No way.”

  “Harry?”

  “Yes, beautiful?”

  “I’ll really try harder tomorrow. Really, really try to make the next three months work for us.”

  He reached across the table for her hand. “I know you will, babe. We’ll breeze through this together. And after that, we’ll be off to Italy for a whole month. Maybe we’ll turn it into a honeymoon.”

  Gina smiled, then took in a large mouthful of pasta.

  Why did he have to go and ruin a perfect evening by talking about marriage?

  Chapter 7

  Tuva Goldmich thought about her mother and brushed away her tears. She’d slept poorly for the past few weeks and she’d been useless at work; she’d even fallen asleep at her desk in the middle of reformatting a brochure whose deadline had a red-flag countdown.

  Her art director had found her with her head down on the desk, out like a light. She was awakened with a not too gentle shove.

  “You can snooze on your own time, Tuva. Here, you’re a graphic designer and you do the job.” The woman tapped her Versace watch and said, “You’ve got two hours to finish that layout or you’re out the door.” She pointed a burgundy tipped finger at Tuva. “And you know I mean it!”

  “Hey, I’m sorry but—”

  “No buts, Tuva. Everyone always has some excuse, although I’ve got to admit, sleeping at the desk is a first. Bottom line: you’ve got two hours. Either the brochure is done or you are.” The woman stomped away in her custom-made red power suit and four-inch Sami clogs without looking back.

  Tuva was rattled but instead of diving in to make the final touches for the brochure, she studied the picture of her parents on the shelf above her desk—the one right next to the photo of her ex-boyfriend whom she couldn’t seem to emotionally separate from … even though he’d “moved on.”

  She really liked the shot of her parents, probably because it also showed one of her own paintings, a purple-red flower hanging in the background.

  Right now it was her mother’s penetrating eyes that reached out to her. Even in an inert photograph, she seemed to climb into Tuva’s soul.

  Did I do the right thing for you, Mom?

  Later, when her dad died, her mom had not only gone downhill physically, her mind had vanished. Every doctor Tuva took her to diagnosed Alzheimer’s, but Tuva wouldn’t accept that. Her own diagnosis: her mother was in a crushing depression with a broken heart—lost in a world of grief. Not very medical sounding, but it was real enough.

  As her mother’s condition continued to worsen, and the doctors held onto their diagnosis of Alzheimer’s, Tuva had no choice but to accept what was happening. But where was her mother to live; who would take care of her? There was her mother’s Social Security and a small IRA, but those wouldn’t cover the cost of nursing home care. And Tuva had little to contribute from her meager salary as a graphic designer—rent, food, clothing, and an occasional movie consumed almost every penny. There seemed little choice but for her to move into her mother’s condominium and be her caretaker. Just after she’d given notice to her landlord, she read an ad from a pharmaceutical company seeking Alzheimer’s victims to take part in a long-term, in-patient drug testing program … at no cost.

  The call was made, papers were signed, and Tuva’s mother was transferred to a Zelint Pharmaceuticals facility on Long Island. Not only was she relatively close by, but within a short time all the Alzheimer’s symptoms had disappeared and there was talk of sending her home with continued treatment as an outpatient. But before that could happen, there was an unexplained setback.

  Now her mother was far off in some way-out hospital in Nevada.

  And I’m stuck here in New York … can’t even see her.

  She shoved her unfinished work aside and pulled out her cell phone, hit the button for the connection to her family physician.

  * * *

  It was two hours to the minute when the art director returned. Tuva was calmly packing up her personal items into a box on her desk.

  “What the hell are you doing, Tuva?” The director’s voice slid through a climbing crescendo.

  “I’m leaving.” Tuva hated confrontations; she tried to ignore the woman instead of screaming back at her. She took a deep breath and silently placed her parents’ photo in the box with exaggerated care before picking up her ex-boyfriend’s picture. Even with the bitch standing on top of her, breath blowing hard on her neck, she slipped into a time-warp recollection—like falling from a twenty-story building with everything flashing through her head. She looked into her ex’s eyes, remembered his body wrapped around her, and she sighed heavily before tossing him into the trash. That was behind her.

  So was her art director, standing with hands on hips, fire in her eyes.

  “Where’s the layout?” Her voice was shrill and mean.

  Tuva retained an air of dignity and remained silent. She lifted the box filled with her personal items and retrieved a blue folder tucked underneath. She hefted the file as though knowing what it weighed could have some special meaning. But like so many things in life, it was light and useless. In an envelope clipped to the folder was her letter of resignation.

  “I think you’ll find everything you need here,” Tuva said in a calm voice. “And I e-mailed the file to the client, too.”

  The woman looked at the envelope as though she already knew what it was and instead, opened the blue folder. She quickly fingered through the graphic work with her long painted claws. When she finished, she pointed a finger at Tuva.

  “Don’t even think about coming back here again, Tuva Goldmich. And if I were you, I sure as hell wouldn’t use this company for a reference, even if you have worked here two years.” She pressed her lips together, turned away, and carefully flicked a speck of nonexistent lint off her sleeve.

  Tuva, who always controlled demanding, high-maintenance personalities by remaining calm, later splattering them on canvas in wild, throbbing colors, felt her composure sink.

  “Fuck you, you self-centered bitch.”

  The art director kept moving without missing a step.

  Tuva covered her mouth and looked around at the surprised office staff staring back at her.

  * * *

  It was 8:00 PM before Dr. Markas finally responded to Tuva’s message. By then her imagination had gone into overdrive.

  “There’s something wrong! I know it!” She paced back and forth in her small living room, clutching the phone to her ear.

  “I’m sure Emma’s fine.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Dr. Markas. She’s not a child and she’s not fine or I wouldn’t have had to sign a proxy so she could be in that clinical trial.”

  “Tuva, you know it was only a technicality. Her decline―”

  “―her decline grew worse when you talked me into placing her into that damn neurological evaluation and treatment center.”

  “Let’s be realistic. You couldn’t afford to take care of her anymore. It’s a wonderful opportunity to help her, and everything is paid for.”

  “I would have been a great caretaker.” Tuva’s face was covered in tears as she collapsed into her leather sofa and tried to compose herself.

  He’s right. In a few months I would have been flat broke.

  If only her mother would stop showing up in her dreams, screaming for help. Two to three hours sleep each night for the last few weeks had thrown Tuva into a state of exhaustion.

  “This is an important opportunity,” Dr. Markas said. “Your mom is 70 years old. There’s still time for her to have some kind of life. Bei
ng part of this Phase III national trial may give her a real chance to be cured.”

  Tuva could hear the exasperation in his voice, but she didn’t care. It was her mother—she couldn’t let it go.

  “Real chance? You don’t even know if she’s getting the drug. She could be on a placebo for all we know.”

  “Even so, the drug could be available very soon if the study shows that it works. You’ve got to realize, the entire scientific and medical community from around the world is sitting on the edge of its seat, holding its collective breath in anticipation. Tuva, this is big. Really big! And your mother’s a part of it.”

  “But they took her out of the treatment center and sent her to Nevada.” Tuva started crying again and could barely get the words out. “I can’t even see her … she’s so far away.”

  “I want you to think carefully about this, Tuva. You’re thirty-five years old and you sound exhausted. You need to take care of your own life.”

  She leaned back into the sofa; put her feet up on the coffee table.

  He doesn’t know the half of it.

  Chapter 8

  At 5:45 AM, Gina awoke with a start. The radio alarm blasted their apartment with down-and-dirty Rock—no going back to sleep with that roaring in her ears. She slammed a hand down on the off button.

  The sudden silence was a relief; it allowed her to take a few deep breaths and get her thoughts around the fact that today was the beginning of a new chapter in her nursing career. She’d been in the profession since she was twenty-two and she’d always given bedside care, except for her last job as an advice nurse at Ridgewood General. But she’d never had any travel nurse assignments, like Harry. And she’d never thought she would.

  Her mind continued to drift. It was hard to believe she’d almost been murdered only a month ago. Who would ever think sitting at a telephone dishing out medical advice could be life-threatening? Somehow her violent upbringing had hitched a ride on her back to San Francisco. That thought gave her the shivers.

  Get thee to a nunnery—or at the very least, move into a cave.