by Woods, Karen
It was a matter of minutes until the drug began to take measurable effect and the hostage taker patient stopped struggling as fiercely. Honestly, those moments had been some of the longest of her life. All she could let herself think about was keeping this man under control as losing focus on that could be dangerous.
She, the security officer, and two nurses lifted the sedated man from the floor, and put him on a gurney, and in psych restraints. She was just finishing closing the man’s head wound, when Andrei Zornov came back through.
“Neat suturing, Doctor,” he said, in Russian. “Meet me for coffee after your shift, Margarita Aleksandrova.”
Then he was gone before she could respond to the invitation. By the time that she ended her ER shift at seven a.m., retrieved her backpack from her locker, and made her way to the doctor’s lounge to crash in one of sleeping cubicles there, she had completely forgotten about his offer of coffee.
He obviously hadn’t forgotten. He was in the sitting room of the lounge drinking a cup of coffee and quite obviously waiting for her.
“Margarita Aleksandrova,” he greeted her as he stood.
“Andrei Ivanovich,” she replied with a yawn.
“You look utterly exhausted.”
“I am. It was a long shift and I have just under eight hours until I’m due on my next duty shift.”
“You need sleep more than a cup of coffee,” he told her, his voice gentle.
“Give me a raincheck on that coffee?”
He smiled at her, the smile softening the lines on his hard face. “I will indeed. Surely, you are not going to try to go home in this weather.”
“No, I’ll just crash here.”
“Brave, beautiful, and brilliant, calm and competent, pragmatic and wise. You’re quite a woman, Margarita Aleksandrova,” he said with approval in his voice. He reached out and touched her face. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you.”
She remembered that touch, the tenderness in it and the kindness in his eyes. She remembered turning her cheek into his hand to nuzzle it before she brought herself back under control.
Rita forced a smile and dismissed the comment with an offhand, “I should hope I’m unique. I doubt the world could take two of me. But don’t put me on a pedestal, Doctor. I’m as human and as flawed as the next person.”
“Glad to hear that you know you are not some kind of superhuman. Now, go rest. We will have a meal together when you awaken. I want to get to know you, Margarita Aleksandrova.”
“Start by calling me Rita,” she invited, punctuating that with a yawn. “My friends do.”
He smiled again. “My family and close friends call me Dryusha. I’d like to have you among that number.”
She chuckled. At the puzzlement in his eyes, she explained, “Somehow, that pet name is so out of keeping with your reputation as the fierce and brilliant Great Zornov.”
He chuckled, amusement softening his face. “Ah, my reputation precedes me…”
“I like the diminutive, don’t get me wrong. It is softer and much more accessible. And it shows a far different side to the man than you show around here.”
There was sensual heat in his eyes. “I want to be accessible, to you.”
She yawned again, because she was so tired. “Let’s just take this slow, Dryusha.”
He chuckled. “I like the sound of that name on your lips. Now, go rest, Rita.”
“I must. Like I said, I’m back on duty at three. I’ll sleep until one and then get ready for my shift.”
“I’ll buy you a meal when you’re awake.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I have to do very little that I do not wish to do at this stage of my life. I want to do this for you. Will you accept my invitation to lunch?”
She yawned again. “I would like that. Give me some time to get a shower and change before lunch. See you at one thirty then,” she said with another yawn.
“That will work. Now go get some rest. You are dead on your feet.”
“Yes. I have to. See you for lunch.”
She watched him walk away. Then she crossed the lounge, signed in, and went to an available sleeping cubicle. After locking the cubicle door behind her, she set the alarm clock on the night table, kicked off her shoes, and was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
The bells of the alarm clock woke her at one p.m.. She stretched, shut off the alarm, and grabbed her hairbrush from her pack. Five minutes later, she had taken out her braid and brushed out her hair. She slid her feet into her shoes, grabbed her pack, and left the sleeping room, practically ran to the women’s locker room to shower and change into the black wool midi skirt and cream colored turtleneck sweater that hung in her locker, street clothes she’d wear under a clean lab coat for her next shift in cardiology.
She saw him sitting in one of the chairs in the lounge when she returned from the locker room.
Normally, she aimed at a neat and tidy professional appearance. Today, she felt dowdy in comparison to this beautiful man.
He had spread a snowy damask cloth over a round table and had put two wooden chairs at the table. The table was set for an elaborate tea with a variety of small sandwiches, bite sized blini topped with excellent caviar and sour cream, an assortment of scones, obviously homemade lemon curd, along with whole beautiful strawberries, and petit fours, all on silver and crystal serving dishes. And there was an electric samovar heating water for tea.
He rose from the chair. The look in his eyes told her he found her appearance pleasing. That reassured her.
“Come, Rita, eat. I have the meal ready for us.”
“You didn’t have to do this,” she said.
“Will you accept my gift of this meal?”
“Yes. And with great gratitude. The food looks wonderful, thank you.”
He held the chair for her.
“I normally pray before eating,” she said. “Will you pray with me?”
His smile became even wider. “That way is east,” he said pointing to the lounge door.
They turned, crossed themselves, then he began to chant the Lord’s Prayer in Church Slavonic. She joined in, blending her voice with his. Then he chanted the blessing for the lunch.
After they prayed, he held out her chair to her once more.
“The table is lovely. Everything looks wonderful. Thank you.”
“I hope the food tastes as good as it looks. I raided dietary for the fruits and vegetables. I made the sandwiches and topped the blini. The rest of the food, including the bread, was made by my housekeeper/cook, Mila. I always keep things for meals in my office refrigerator as I’m often here at long and odd hours.”
“She made the petit fours?”
“Yes, those are Mila’s work. I keep those in the office, too. She makes a tin of them every week for me. I have a fierce sweet tooth. I’d be completely overweight if I gave into my sweet tooth with whole slices of cake.”
“Seems to be a good compromise for you. You are certainly not overweight. In fact, you seem to be in very good shape.”
There was a flash of heat in his eyes.
She rushed into words, “You keep the samovar in your office, too, I take it?”
“Only way I can be sure of getting good tea,” he admitted with a smile. “I am quite particular about my tea.”
She chuckled. “I will remember that.”
“I doubt there is much that you ever forget.”
“No, not much,” she agreed.
“Eat. You need to get back on duty fairly shortly, as do I.”
She looked at him for a long moment. “I won’t be going back to the ER. At least not to handle general cases, although I usually am there several times when I’m taking night calls. It’s the nature of the work.”
“I know. You’re a second year fellow in cardiology.”
“How do you know that?”
“I asked about you.”
She decided to let that slide for now. “I s
tart my next duty rotation at three this afternoon.”
He frowned, slightly. “Why are you running yourself ragged with moonlighting during your down time?”
“They were short staffed. I wasn’t at all certain I could get back to work if I went home, considering how bad the weather is. In fact, I wasn’t certain I could even get to my apartment, since public transport had been shut down with the storms.”
“You rely on public transportation?”
“In bad weather. Sure. There is a bus stop half a block from the apartment.”
“And when the weather is better?” he asked.
“When the weather is nicer, I walk, run, or bike. It is only two miles from the apartment to the hospital. It’s good exercise. At this stage of my life, it’s about the only exercise I get, aside from running to an emergency.”
“Or subduing a hostage taker, perhaps?” he teased.
She chuckled. “There is that. Thank God, that is a rare happening. I mean, things can get physical in the ER, but things are seldom outright violent. I mean violence happens, but it is rare.”
“Indeed. Do you moonlight, often, in the emergency room?”
“Sometimes. When they are short staffed and ask for help. That is more often than I’m willing to admit. Still, I can always use the money from the extra work.”
He sighed and shook his head. “I moonlighted from time to time during my fellowship. It’s survivable. Not fun, but survivable.”
She looked at him for a long moment, before asking, “What do you want from me, Dryusha?”
He took her hand. “I’ve fallen in love with you and I flatter myself that you, perhaps, feel something for me as well.”
She felt her face grow warm, looked away from him, then looked back at him. Rita spoke lowly, “I’ve never been in love, Dryusha. But, I have to admit there is something between us. I am not sure this is love. It is happening very quickly. Still, it is something I can’t ignore.”
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Thank you for being honest.”
“I’m almost always honest,” she said as she took back her hand. The warmth in her face told her she was blushing again.
“Almost always?” he asked.
“There have been times in my life where I have willfully misrepresented things in order to protect myself or others. Never outright lies, mind you. But shadings, carefully worded replies designed to soften the truth or misdirect, and evasions to protect myself or someone else, yes, I’ve done that.”
“I think we all have.”
“This spread looks marvelous. So much nicer than a salad and cup of soup in the cafeteria.” She helped herself to an assortment of the tea sandwiches, three of the small blini with the very good caviar and sour cream that topped them, some of the berries, and a scone with a generous spoonful of really nice looking lemon curd. He poured them tea in the Russian fashion, serving it in tall glasses.
A group of residents came into the lounge. But, after a moment and a strong glare from the Great Zornov, they settled in on the other side of the large room.
She warned in Russian, “Don’t start something with me if your intentions are less than honorable, Dryusha. I guard my heart very strongly. I will not have it broken.”
He laughed boldly. He answered her in Russian, “That is one of many things I like about you, Rita. You are so unafraid of speaking your mind. I doubt that you are afraid of anything or anyone.”
She ate one of the blinis. “Ummm… Delicious. You keep caviar and sour cream in your office, too?”
“I keep things that I like to eat. Few things are better than good blini with caviar,” Dryusha said. “But, try the smoked salmon and then the ham.”
“As for being unafraid, I am often afraid. I just don’t let fear stop me from doing anything I believe to be correct, not anymore,” she replied. Then she took a bite of the smoked salmon sandwich. “Very nice sandwich, thank you. The dill sauce is wonderful and that red onion adds the right touch.”
“I have a feeling I could spend the rest of my life with you and never fully know you. You sparkle like a faceted diamond in the light.”
“Mama says that no one ever knows another person completely, that often people do not even know themselves well.”
“Wise woman.”
“She has her moments.”
He laughed. “As does my mother.”
She sighed as she looked at him, “I hadn’t planned to fall in love, yet. It wasn’t on my schedule.”
“Past tense,” he offered, hope in his voice. “Dare I hope that has some significance other than a slip of the tongue?”
“My father used to say, ‘If you want to make the Holy Angels laugh, you should tell them your plans.’ Life does take us down some strange and unexpected pathways.”
“True enough. I had planned to find the perfect woman, marry and start a family by the time I was thirty, at the latest, and had frankly given up looking for the love of my life before I met you. I haven’t even been out on a dinner date in two years.”
“Tell me about it,” she replied on a sigh. “My social life is nonexistent. I work, eat, sleep, and relax a bit by making music or working on a mathematical proof. Of course, I go to Church whenever I can. That’s my life at the moment. If I didn’t live with my mother, I’d have to find time to do housework.”
He nodded and sipped his tea. “Dating simply isn’t worth the time and effort when my work schedule is so intense. Most of the women my mother pushes at me simply have no concept of what my life is like. They get very upset because I would rather spend my limited free time doing something outside, like running, skiing, or biking, sailing and snorkeling and scuba diving; that I would rather play music with my quartet, or go to Church, than accompany them shopping or to fashionable restaurants, to charity galas, or God forbid to an Italian or German opera.”
She swallowed a bite of her sandwich and took a sip of the tea. “What instrument do you play?”
“Clarinet and saxophone,” he said. “My quartet plays jazz.”
“I like jazz. I don’t know a lot about it. But I like it. My background is more classical. I play flute and piccolo.”
“I’ve always loved to listen to flutists… That’s final, I’m convinced you are perfect.”
“Nyet. If you’re requiring perfection, do not look at me. I am far from perfect.”
“I do not believe that in the least. You look perfect to me. What are your imperfections? Confess,” he teased.
“I confess only in church,” she teased him in return. “And you are many things, Dryusha, but a priest you are not.”
“I am tonsured as a reader,” he offered.
“I know. I have seen you serve. You have such a good, clear, voice. It is a total pleasure to hear you chant.”
His smile completely softened his face, making him truly handsome. “You go to Divine Liturgy at the Cathedral?”
“Whenever I’m not working on Sundays and holy days, I’m there. Father Yuri is my confessor.”
His smile became even more broad. “He’s mine, too.” Then mischief came into his eyes, as he teased her mercilessly, “And you’ve been looking at me at Church? Instead of concentrating on your prayers. Shame on you.”
“I observe people,” she replied.
“I don’t believe much of anything escapes you.”
“Depends on how tired I am,” she admitted.
“Tell me about your family?”
“Not much to tell. There is just Mama and me, now. Papa died during my final undergraduate semester, while rescuing people from a mine shaft collapse.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
She sighed and sipped her tea. “Me, too. I still miss him dreadfully.”
“I understand that. My father died during my residency. I miss him more than I can say.”
She reached out and patted his hand. “May their memories be eternal.”
“Amen…” Then he smiled, “You live with you
r mother?”
“She is the head of emergency services at,” she named a nearby, competing, hospital. “It doesn’t make sense for both of us to have our own housing when we are in the same very expensive city. She has a housekeeper in twice a week. It keeps the entropy under control and the laundry done.”
He chuckled. Then he added, “Odd, that you should say I’m not a priest. I could never see myself as a monk. Celibacy is not the way I wish to lead my life. I want a wife and children, a real home. Vladika is pushing me to marry a good Orthodox woman, so that he can ordain me to the diaconate and then to the priesthood. He wants me to serve at the Cathedral.”
“I have entertained the thought from time to time of becoming a nun after the pattern of Mother Maria of Paris,” Rita replied, her voice quiet.
His question was absolutely incredulous, “You wish to establish nursing homes?”
“Not precisely. I was thinking of perhaps a mobile hospital or fixed site clinic, serving the poor,” she answered. “A life of active relief of the poor, coupled with prayer. It is what I’ve always wanted for myself.”
“Active ministries for nuns have been done before. But it is profoundly controversial. People expect nuns to be in retreat from the world. What makes you think of doing something so very extraordinary?”
“When I was a small child, we moved from mine to mine in South America. My father was a geologist and mining engineer. Mama always set up a clinic and treated the workers and their families. Often without much in the way of payment. But she was frequently the only doctor within several hundred miles and she saw all kinds of cases. I got my earliest training in medicine by helping my mother treat patients. You said I do a neat line of stitching. I learned from my mother. I was cleaning and closing wounds from the time I was four or five years old.”
He asked carefully, “Are you still thinking of becoming a nun?”
She shook her head ‘no’. “I have visited several communities since my second year of medical school. None of the abbesses invited me to stay to become a part of their community. So, it is unlikely being a traditional nun is my calling. If it were, I’d already be a novice someplace. And our bishop isn’t disposed to give me his blessing to form a more active community of medical nuns, as he doesn’t believe that I would be able to raise sufficient support for the work, or that enough women would be interested in, or would be free from debt to allow them to be, serving in this way, and as you said, starting this work would be profoundly controversial.”