by Lucy Kerr
I scuttled away, pushing along the floor, weeping as she pinned me again. My energy was ebbed, the pain in my back nearly paralyzing me. She drew back, arm lifted, and I saw the syringe was uncapped. There was nothing I could do but thrash weakly, flailing in a pile of sawdust I hadn’t swept up yet.
“Quit fighting,” she panted, her face pale and manic. “This will only hurt for a minute.”
My fingers clenched, the sawdust gritty against my palm, and the survival instinct I had witnessed so often—people pulling themselves back from death through sheer force of will—took over.
I threw the sawdust into her eyes, a fistful of fine, splintery powder. Ashley screamed, clawing frantically at her eyes. The syringe fell, and I twisted to avoid it, dragging myself up to my feet as she followed me, half-blinded.
My fist came up in a smooth, strong arc, clipping the side of her jaw, rage and adrenaline giving unexpected force to the punch.
Ashley staggered and fell, head bouncing on the concrete floor.
She lay still, her chest rising and falling, but no fluttering of eyelids. She was well and truly unconscious.
The first thing I did was stamp on the syringe, feeling the plastic shatter beneath my feet. The sawdust soaked up the vecuronium, leaving only a damp, sandy circle. I breathed, deep and long and slow, savoring the feeling of my lungs expanding and contracting, knowing how close I’d come to never feeling it again.
Every muscle in my body protesting, I hobbled to the spools of rope on the south wall and cut several lengths of clothesline. I tied Ashley up, binding her hands and feet as tightly as I could. Only then did I stumble to the back counter and call 9-1-1, opening the door so the police wouldn’t break it down when they arrived.
Then I slid down to the floor and waited, keeping an eye on Ashley’s still-unconscious form. A soft noise, almost a chirrup, came from the doorway. Blearily, I turned my head.
The orange tabby, filthy as ever and now missing part of an ear, watched me from the stoop.
“Sure,” I mumbled. “Now you show up. Where were you when I needed those claws?”
He padded inside, crossed over to inspect Ashley, and then returned. Slowly, he settled next to me, the tip of his tail just brushing my thigh. A rumbling noise—a purr or a growl or some combination of the two—emanated from his chest. I got the distinct impression he was guarding me.
We stayed like that, two survivors side-by-side, until the police showed up.
THIRTY-FIVE
I passed out in the ambulance—which seemed like a perfectly reasonable response to narrowly escaping death. When I came to, the first face I saw was the last one I wanted.
“I told you to stay out of my ER,” Paul Costello said, standing over my gurney with a scowl.
“Wasn’t my idea,” I muttered, and then I saw Noah in the corner, solid and stone-faced, and the pain was swamped by fear. “Where’s my family? Is Riley okay? My mom?”
“They’re safe,” he said, crossing the exam room in three quick strides. “They’re on their way over. Riley’s finally getting to ride in the squad car. Lights and sirens, even.”
“Hardy’s out there.” I tried to shake off Costello, who was examining a cut along my forehead. “He might—”
“Hold still, Stapleton,” Costello ordered, but his hands were surprisingly gentle as he cleaned the wound.
“My guys picked him up five minutes ago,” Noah said.
“You’re sure? You checked on Rowan and Charlie?”
“Do you ever stop talking?” Costello said. “I need to suture this. You want to look like Frankenstein’s bride?”
“I’ll tell everyone it was your work,” I shot back.
“Frankie,” Noah began, but Costello stood up.
“Out,” he said. “I need to fix up my patient and you’re distracting her.”
Noah’s eyes flashed. “This is police business.”
Costello didn’t budge. “Is she under arrest? No? Talk to her when I’m done.”
Despite his bluster, his hands were deft and kind as he patched me back together, only raising his voice when my pain meds were too slow in arriving. When I panicked at the sight of the anesthetic in its slim plastic syringe, he ordered a fresh vial of lidocaine for me to examine, and let me break the seal myself.
When he was finished, he inspected me carefully, then gave a satisfied nod. “I do good work. Let’s not do this again.”
“I’ll try,” I said woozily. Before I could thank him, he strode out, and my mother took his place.
“Francesca,” she said simply, eyes bright.
“I’m okay.” I wasn’t sure that was true, and I started to shake.
“Of course you are,” she said, tucking the thin blanket more securely around me. “That doesn’t mean I can’t worry.” She took my trembling hand in hers. “I never stop, you know. That’s what it means to be a parent.”
She eyed me speculatively, and I braced for a comment about how maybe I would understand, if I would only have children of my own. But she didn’t. Instead, she bent and kissed the part of my forehead not swathed in gauze. “I’m very proud of you, Francesca. That never stops, either.”
I gave her as much of a smile as I could manage, and she straightened, patting her hair into place. “That doctor said I could only stay a minute before he’d make me leave. He seems serious.”
“He is,” I assured her.
“Hmm,” she said and glanced over her shoulder. “I don’t suppose he’s single?”
“Mom . . .”
* * *
I’d barely had a chance to close my eyes before Noah reappeared in the doorway, looking exhausted and uncertain. “Can I sit down?”
I nodded, and he pulled up the wheeled stool.
“Ashley Ritter and Alexander Hardy are both in custody. You did a number on Ashley, by the way. Impressive.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, my eyes drifting shut.
“It sounds like they’re both making a full confession. Ashley won’t shut up, in fact.”
I didn’t doubt it. “She doesn’t like being underestimated.”
He exhaled noisily, took my hand. “I should have believed you. I let our history interfere, and you nearly died because of it.”
I forced my eyes open. “I lied about Peter. I’m not sure why.” I’d let our history interfere as much as Noah had. “But I can’t blame you for not trusting me. The whole reason I went after Clem was because my instinct told me something was off.”
“It was,” he pointed out.
“I know. But I can’t get mad at you for going with your gut when I did the exact same thing, can I?”
He chuckled, and then I did, and then I clutched my side. “Ow.”
“You okay?” he asked, his fingers tightening on mine.
I nodded.
“Maybe we could start fresh? For as long as you’re here, anyway.”
“I’d like that.” I wondered if it was really possible to start over after so much time. I wondered if I wanted to turn my back on all that history, if it meant erasing all the good memories along with the bad. I wondered if there was a difference between a fresh start and a second chance and if I’d be around long enough to discover the difference.
* * *
Normally, patients are transported by orderlies or nurses. You almost never see a doctor wheeling a patient around, and by the third time Garima had accidentally run me into a wall, I understood why.
“Sorry!” she said again.
“Keep it up and they’re going to extend my stay,” I said. “I’ll leave with more injuries than I came in with.”
“Hard to imagine,” she said, steering me into the NICU.
Charlie leaned forward in the rocking chair. “You’re okay!”
I nodded, wheeled myself closer to Rowan’s isolette. “How’s our girl?”
“She’s doing really well. Want to hold her?”
I glanced at Charlie, whose anxious face held no blame, only relief. �
�You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.” Gently, Charlie laid Rowan in my arms, a warm, barely there weight.
Rowan looked up at me, eyes enormous and quizzical. I laid my cheek against her downy hair and inhaled her sweet newborn scent. “Hey, girlfriend. Looking good.”
She blinked and yawned.
“Someone should take a picture,” Garima said. “Sisters in matching outfits. Very sweet.”
“It would be sweeter if we weren’t wearing hospital gowns,” I grumbled.
“Well, good news,” Garima said. “We’re springing you both tomorrow. Plan your wardrobe accordingly.”
“Really?” Charlie asked. “What about Rowan?”
“Dr. Solano wants to keep her a little longer, but she’ll be home before Christmas.”
Charlie blinked back tears.
“I’ll let you two catch up,” Garima said softly.
We sat in silence, the only noise the beeping of monitors and Rowan’s squeaks of contentment. Finally, Charlie said, “I’m glad you’re not dead.”
“Me, too. Sorry I trashed your store.”
“Are you kidding? You saved the store. Mom said that crazy woman was going to burn it down.”
“Well, I’m still sorry. For all of it.”
Charlie touched Rowan’s hand and smiled as tiny fingers closed tightly over hers. “Me too. Frankie . . . we might lose the store. I don’t know how much longer I can keep it going.”
“You’ll be back behind the counter next week,” I said. “And we’re infamous now. Business will pick up.”
“Even if it does, Rowan needs me. It’s not like with Riley, where I put her in a sling and brought her along.”
It was true. Preemies often had weaker immune systems, and winter was prime time for viruses that could quickly turn dangerous. Rowan wouldn’t be getting a turn behind the counter until summer at the earliest.
“You could hire someone,” I said, but I knew that wouldn’t work. Charlie wasn’t making enough money to pay herself, let alone a new employee.
“You’re going to make me ask, aren’t you?”
“Do you know how much paperwork it takes to file for family leave?” I said. “Seems like you could put in a little bit of effort.”
“Really? You have to see me squirm?” She huffed out a breath. “Frankie, will you please come home and help out at the store? At least until we’re back on our feet.”
“Did I mention that family leave is unpaid? What’s my salary?”
“You’re holding half of it,” she said. “And the other half seems to have developed a craving for sausage biscuits. Care to explain?”
“Nope,” I said. “But I’ll take the job.”
“Excellent.” She grinned. “We’ll even provide room and board.”
* * *
Later that night, someone knocked on the door of my hospital room.
“How do people sleep around here?” I grumbled.
“Morphine,” Marcus said brightly. “Brought you a sandwich.”
“Real food!” I exclaimed. He passed it over, and I dove in.
“Turkey, bacon, avocado on homemade sourdough,” he said as I stuffed my face. “My wife is a genius with sandwiches.”
“I love your wife,” I said, and he laughed.
“Brought you a visitor, too,” he said, and Laura Madigan stepped into the room.
I nearly choked on my sandwich. “I won’t stay long,” she said quickly. “I just wanted to say thank you, and . . . I’m sorry. My father wasn’t who I thought he was, and I took that out on you.”
“He was exactly who you thought he was,” I said. “Everything your father did was to help you and CJ. To give you a better life. Maybe you didn’t agree with his methods, but . . . he did it out of love, Laura. Focus on that.”
She wiped her tears. “I’ll try.”
“That’s all you can do,” I said.
Because here is what I’d learned: The people we love are the ones who can wound us the deepest, often without meaning to. But they’re also the ones who know how to heal us, if only we let them.
* * *
When all the visitors had gone home and my sandwich had been devoured, I settled in to nap.
Which, naturally, was when a stranger appeared in the doorway. I smothered a groan.
“May I come in?” said the woman. She was in her midfifties, I judged, with short silver hair and a well-tailored suit that spoke of discreet wealth. I got the distinct impression that the question was a formality. I nodded and sat up, feeling disheveled in my thin polycotton gown and bedhead.
“I’m Grace Fisher,” she said. “I’m the president of Stillwater General Hospital.”
“You’re Strack’s boss?” I blurted. I’d forgotten, with all his threats and his shouting, that Strack was only the vice-president.
“I was,” she said with a grimace. “Walter Strack has resigned, at the behest of the board of trustees and myself. I wanted to apologize to you personally. In light of everything that’s happened, we will not be making a complaint to the state medical board. Your license is perfectly safe.”
“Thank you,” I managed, relief clogging my throat.
“I’ve spoken to several staff members about you,” she said. “My understanding is that you’re not returning to Chicago immediately?”
“Family business,” I said. “In every sense.”
“I see.” She pursed her lips. “I’ll be honest with you, Miss Stapleton. Clem Jensen’s death revealed serious problems within my hospital. Some, of course, can be traced directly to Alexander Hardy. But I find it troubling that no one on my staff—at any level—recognized there was anything suspicious in Mr. Jensen’s case. Were it not for you, his murder would have gone undetected.”
“You’re welcome?”
Now she smiled. “You aren’t easily intimidated, are you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“And you’re very good at your job.”
I shrugged. “I like to think so.”
“We could use someone like you on our staff. What would you say to joining us?”
I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing.
She waited. When I’d finally stopped, she said, “I’m quite serious, Miss Stapleton.”
“I’m sure you are. But . . . I’m not working here. I have a job.”
“One you won’t be returning to for several months, correct?” She arched a brow. “You strike me as the sort of person who doesn’t enjoy being bored. We may be small, but we’re hardly boring. What about a temporary position?”
“You want me to work in your ER?”
She nodded. “Consider it a trial period, for both of us.”
I did consider, and I couldn’t deny the appeal. I couldn’t work at the store all the time, not if I hoped to maintain my sanity. But . . .
“Have you talked to Paul Costello about this? What did he say?”
“Many things, all of them quite loud,” she assured me. “Make no mistake—this may be Paul’s emergency room, but it is my hospital. Shall we say three months?”
She extended her hand to shake.
I smiled and took it.
“Three months.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Frankie Stapleton isn’t based on a particular nurse, but she is a testament to the countless intelligent, dedicated, hardworking nurses I’ve met. They’ve held my hand in dark hours and joyous moments, kept my loved ones safe and well, and done it all with extraordinary grace and compassion. If you are a nurse . . . thank you. If you aren’t a nurse, thank the next one you see. They’ve earned it, a million times over.
Hugest thanks to my nursing experts—any medical mistakes here are mine, despite their best efforts to educate me. KC Solano, NICU nurse extraordinaire, is nearly as tiny and fierce as her patients, but her generosity and expertise are vast. While I was writing about critical care nursing, my baby sister was actually doing it—and then answering all my questions with patience, good humor, and sm
all words. Thanks, Kris, for showing me a zillion ways to kill people in a hospital. I knew your job was tough, but I didn’t realize how much until now. Also, thanks for never once complaining about the Great San Diego Kid Barfing Incident of 2010.
Thanks to the staff of the Williamson Street Ace Hardware in Madison for answering my questions, letting me poke around, and for stocking my very favorite coffee. All the doughnuts for you, guys!
Lauren Hilty and the staff of GAPL gave me ample space to work, peace and quiet, and a very inspiring poster of Joel McHale. Jen McAndrews, Joelle Charbonneau, Susan Dennard, Melanie Bruce, Ryann Murphy, Erin Brambilla, and Hanna Martine cheered me on every step of the way. The women of Portland Midwest—Lynne Hartzer, Melonie Johnson, and Clara Kensie—talked me through plot points and character arcs (and, more than once, off the ledge). My porch is always open, ladies.
Loretta Nyhan is a brilliant writer and dear friend, and there are not enough ways and words to say how grateful I am for her, no matter how long the phone call goes. Eliza Evans always knows exactly what to say, what to ask, how to make me laugh, and how to make me get to work. I’m thankful every day that she is in my life.
Joanna Volpe has guided my career with vision and savvy every step of the way. She works hard, dreams big, and believes in me, even when I don’t—in short, she’s the perfect agent. It is a tremendous privilege to work with her and the rest of the New Leaf team, especially Jaida, Danielle, Jackie, Mike, Kathleen, Mia, and Pouya. Thank you to the entire staff of Crooked Lane, particularly Dan Weiss, Matt Martz, Heather Boak, and Sarah Poppe for giving Frankie such a wonderful home.
Thanks, always, to my family—especially Mom, Dad, and Kris (twice!), plus the extended branches that have supported me over the years. Thank you to my girls, for your excitement, your understanding, and your willingness to eat grilled cheese and baby carrots every night of deadline week.
Most of all, thank you to Danny—for being the person you are and for loving the person I am. I could write a million happy endings, and none would compare to the life we have together.