Second Chance with Her Army Doc

by Dianne Drake

  Of course there were no answers popping into his mind. He hadn’t expected them to. In fact the only thing in his mind was Sloane. Which meant he needed something to cradle him through the emptiness that was beginning to set in. So it was time to take a ride. That took concentration, and that was what he needed right now. To be concentrating on something other than what wasn’t meant to be.

  The air was still warm enough outside, even though it was nearing mid-November. And something about being in a place without confines appealed to him. So Carter slipped into his leather jacket, grabbed his helmet and his medical bag, and headed for his motorcycle.

  But his phone rang before he reached his motorcycle, and a minute later he was on his way to Red Rock Canyon Resort, where there was an outbreak of food poisoning. Fourteen people down so far.

  It actually gave him a little adrenalin rush, having something that would keep him busy coming up. And it made him feel useful—which hadn’t happened to him in a long, long time.

  * * *

  “Latest count is twenty-one, Doc,” reported Paul Jacob, the night manager. He was a nervous, twitchy man, pale and very thin. Tonight, he was so twitchy Carter wondered if he should offer him a sedative.

  “What have you been doing with them so far?

  “We’ve been telling them to stay in their rooms, because we don’t know if it’s contagious, but some of them won’t. They keep coming down to the desk, asking for things.”

  Paul dabbed sweat beads from his brow.

  “I’ve got my night staff out right now, trying to get people back to their rooms so we can keep everything organized, but word is spreading about an illness sweeping through the resort, so I’m afraid some people aren’t being so cooperative. A few have even left.”

  “Well, if it’s food poisoning it’s probably not contagious, so I’m not too worried about people leaving. And you think it’s something from the buffet?” Carter asked.

  He didn’t often work with sick people since he was—had been—a surgeon. He hadn’t since his rotation through internal medicine back in med school, so this aspect of medicine was fairly new to him. Food poisoning... There were so many types. He’d spent ten minutes in the parking lot before coming in, reacquainting himself with what he might expect—thank heavens for phones that could browse the internet.

  “I’ve had my staff asking around and there seems to be the one food that’s common to all of the people who have complaints. Eclairs. Not sure if that’s any help, but—”

  “With cream filling?” Carter asked, as an idea began to formulate in his head.

  “Yes,” Paul said. “Made fresh today. All our pastries are made fresh, with fresh ingredients, so I don’t see how—”

  “Sneezing, coughing...improper handwashing after sneezing or coughing. Or simply from the skin. That’s how it spreads.”

  If Carter was guessing right, and he was pretty sure he was. “So, the most common symptoms you’ve seen are vomiting, nausea and stomach cramps?”

  Paul nodded.

  “And it started shortly after dinner?”

  Once again Paul nodded. “You know what it is?”

  Carter nodded as well, and half smiled at what was to be his diagnosis. Staphylococcus food poisoning was the fastest-acting food poisoning of all. It could start as soon as thirty minutes after eating contaminated food. Also, the symptoms fitted what Paul had seen.

  This type of food poisoning was not often dangerous, unless you were high-risk because of age or another illness. So Carter was keeping his fingers crossed that he was correct.

  This kind of food poisoning usually worked its way out on its own in twenty-four hours. His only duty as a doctor would be to address the side issues—especially dehydration. No drugs, and no real treatment unless dehydration became severe.

  “Do you have the room numbers and names of everyone who’s reported ill?”

  “I do—but there may be more who haven’t called for a doctor.”

  “Is there any way for you to check with all your guests to make sure they’re OK and see if they need medical attention?”

  Carter was worried that someone who was considered high-risk might have collapsed and not be able to report to the front desk.

  “Maybe ask everybody to report their status, and if there are any guests who don’t have your staff go to check them.”

  This was a large resort. He’d read in his file that it had four hundred and fifty rooms.

  “How many guests do you have registered right now?”

  Paul did a quick computer check.

  “Close to six hundred. And there are always those who sneak in an extra person or two without registering them, because they think they have to pay extra. Which they don’t. One fee accommodates the room’s posted capacity and all buffet meals.”

  He handed a computer printout to Carter.

  “These are the names and room numbers of all the guests who’ve complained so far.”

  Carter’s mind boggled at the number. There were—conservatively—six hundred people in this hotel who might have eaten the eclairs, and yet he could only treat those he knew to be sick. Twenty-one seemed like an unusually low number. Much too low, he decided as he looked over the list of names. There would be more. Many more.

  Now his excitement was beginning to change to worry. For he could only treat the symptoms. Tomorrow he’d send samples to the lab and hope for a speedy diagnosis, then deal with that accordingly if something else turned up.

  “I need a doctor,” a youngish man said, stumbling up to the desk and then practically falling over it. “Bad cramps.”

  He was pale, quite obviously in distress, and too sick to care that his shoes didn’t match and his shirt wasn’t buttoned correctly.

  “Looks like this is where I start,” Carter said, taking hold of the man’s arm. “I’m a doctor. How about we go back to your room and I’ll have a look at you there?”

  Poor guy, Carter thought as he led the man, who said his name was Jeff, to the elevator bank. As illnesses went, this one wasn’t serious. But right now Jeff wouldn’t believe that.

  “So, how many of those eclairs did you eat?” he asked, as he led Jeff onto the elevator.

  “A couple.” The man moaned. “They were good.”

  Which meant Carter had his night cut out for him.

  * * *

  A lot of people were sick here. Sloane had heard about it when she’d gone down for a late dinner and the dining room had been closed, with a posted note that food service was suspended until further notice.

  They’d left a list of local diners and a pizza delivery service on the door, but Sloane hadn’t been in the mood to go out. And she wasn’t a huge fan of pizza.

  So she’d grabbed a bag of pretzels from the vending machine, then returned to her room. It didn’t matter much to her anyway. Food wasn’t her thing. As often as not, since Carter had left, she’d forget to eat a meal and need to be reminded to eat something.

  In her defense, it was difficult eating when you didn’t have an appetite—which was the case now. But there had been a time when she’d loved to cook for Carter on the days when their schedules had worked out together. Loved the way he’d always created the ambiance, too. Candlelight, wine from one of the local wineries they’d visited—a hobby they’d shared. Dim light. Soft music—Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole... All this, even when the only thing she might have fixed was a simple pasta salad.

  He’d been a romantic. Something he’d kept to himself until their fourth or fifth date, when they’d gone to the beach for an evening picnic. Harbor sounds and moonglow over the water...

  She knew she’d fallen a little in love with him before that night, but when he’d asked her to dance in the sand with him—that was when he’d won her whole heart. That was the dream that haunted her so often now.
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br />   Too many memories, Sloane thought, as she ate the pretzels and then decided to return to the vending machines for a bottle of water, in case what was infecting the guests was waterborne. She didn’t want to be sick here. Actually, she didn’t know what she wanted, other than water, so she slipped back into her shoes and headed to the hall.

  Halfway to the elevator, she stopped and watched a familiar figure heading her direction. Practically running.

  “You OK?” she asked, noting how frazzled Carter looked.

  “Two hours...twenty-six patients.”

  “With what?”

  Carter looked—animated. It was the way he’d used to look before a challenging surgery. It was a look she’d liked on him then—and now.

  “Some kind of staph bug, I’m guessing. Nothing I can do except tell them they’ll be better tomorrow and let them know that if they’re not to have the hotel get in touch with me. Also make sure they’re not dehydrating.”

  “No serious consequences?” Sloane asked, taking care not to get too close to him.

  Getting close might signal that she had personal intentions of some sort, which she didn’t. Why start anything between them if she didn’t have to?

  “Not yet. Just a lot of people with ruined vacation plans. But I found out there’s someone down the hall—Type One diabetes—who’s sick. I might have to do some different management. Especially if her blood sugar drops.”

  “Can I help?” Sloane asked.

  “Um...yes. Please,” Carter replied, looking stunned by her offer. “If you don’t mind?”

  They’d never really worked together. Yes, they’d been in the same hospital, often on the same shifts. But never together as a team. And even though she hadn’t brought a medical bag on this trip—hadn’t expected to do anything medical—Sloane followed Carter to the room, not sure what to make of this.

  “Just tell me what you want me to do when we get in there,” she said, as Carter raised his fist to knock.

  He actually chuckled as a little girl opened the door to him. “I’d tell you if I knew, but since I haven’t treated very many sick people—”

  “And you think I have?”

  “Well, there’s nothing like having two eminently qualified surgeons show up to tell you that your illness will run its course in a few hours.” He looked down at the girl, who hadn’t yet unfastened the door chain. “We’re doctors,” he said to her. “Did you call the front desk because your mom is sick?”

  The girl nodded her head, but still didn’t unfasten the chain. “I think my mom’s really bad this time,” she said. “She ate an éclair, and she’s not allowed sugar.”

  “Could we come in and have a look at her?”

  The little girl, who couldn’t have been more than ten, looked terrified. “She told me not to open the door to strangers.”

  “Would you like to look at my medical bag? It will prove I’m a doctor.” Carter held it out for her to see, then opened it and let her have a look inside.

  Reluctantly the child undid the chain, then stepped away from the door. “My mom’s in the bathroom. She’s throwing up.”

  Sloane beat Carter to the bathroom, opened the door and found—

  “Call an ambulance!” she shouted out to Carter, who was still busy trying to make the child feel at ease.

  By the time he had his phone out Sloane was already on her knees at the woman’s side, assessing her pulse.

  “Weak, erratic...” She looked at the child, who was now standing behind Carter. “What’s your mom’s name?” she asked.

  “Jeannie,” the girl said.

  “Jeannie, can you hear me?” Sloane called. Then she looked to Carter. “Can you toss me a blood pressure cuff?” she asked, as he plugged one ear to better hear what she hoped were arrangements for an ambulance.

  He nodded, and bent down to his medical bag, which was on the floor at his feet now. He found the digital wrist cuff, then handed it to her. “Ambulance is about an hour out. Maybe a little longer.”

  “Seriously?” Sloane sputtered, patting Jeannie’s cheeks to raise a response. But the woman didn’t respond.

  “That’s the way it is around here. There aren’t enough services for the size of the area. According to Matt, it’s too spread out. Getting help takes too long.”

  “Is there any other way to get her to the hospital?” Sloane asked.

  “There’s a guy who runs a charter helicopter service who will stand in for medical transport when it’s needed,” Carter said, and he dialed the number he’d stored in his phone earlier while at the same time pulling a blood sugar monitor out of his bag and handing it over to Sloane.

  So far he seemed—good, she thought. Better than he’d seemed for his last several weeks at the hospital. And while Sloane didn’t have time to assess the reasons why, she did acknowledge to herself that this was a little bit of the old Carter showing through. Always collected. Always efficient. Always in charge.

  “Jeannie,” she said, “if you can hear me, you’re going to feel a little pinprick on your finger. I’ve got to take your blood sugar.”

  Which was what she did. She drew a drop of blood, let it soak into the test strip, then inserted the strip into the meter. Five seconds later...

  “Seven hundred fifty,” she whispered, bending down to smell the woman’s breath. It smelled like nail polish—a typical smell in ketoacidosis indicating that Jeannie’s insulin was too low and her blood sugar too high.

  “The helicopter can be here for transportation in fifteen minutes,” Carter said, stepping back into the confined space. “Then it will take about forty minutes to get to the largest hospital in the area, or about fifteen to get to the Whipple Creek Clinic.”

  “She needs to go to hospital,” Sloane said without hesitation. “She’s got ketoacidosis. Her blood sugar’s at seven-fifty.”

  All which meant there was the possibility of kidney damage or stroke—translating this into a life-threatening situation, especially since Jeannie was comatose.

  “Does your mother eat other things she’s not supposed to?” Sloane asked the little girl. “And sometimes get very sleepy and sleep for a long time?

  “Her name’s Molly,” Carter said. “Molly McKinley. She’s ten and she’s in fifth grade. She makes all As, except in math, which she hates, and she makes Bs in that.”

  “How do you know all that?” Sloane asked, totally surprised by how much he’d interacted with the child when she hadn’t been watching. It was the way he’d used to be. Always interacting, always instilling trust. He was so much the old Carter right now she had a hard time remembering him as the Carter he’d turned into.

  Carter simply smiled and shrugged. “Guess I just have a way with kids.”

  Yes, that was the old Carter—her Carter. His real smile. His sense of humor. But, as much as she wanted to hope for something more, she couldn’t let herself. She’d lost hope months ago, and where Carter was concerned she’d been fighting a daily battle not to let any of it back in. Hope hurt. And she’d already hurt enough. Cried too many tears.

  “Anyway, back to your mom,” she said, her attention returning to Molly. “How often does she eat things she’s not supposed to?”

  “Once a day. She treats herself at night because she doesn’t eat anything bad during the day.”

  So Jeannie was a ritual offender in her diabetic diet. Meaning if she made it through the day without blowing it she’d blow it at night. Also meaning her diabetes was probably never stable.

  “How often does she eat bad things other than her nighttime treat?”

  “Not as much as she used to. Sometimes two or three times a week.”

  Here was a brittle diabetic, with food poisoning, comatose from diabetic complications, who, in some way, went off her diet at least once a day. This was serious.

  “I think we should g
et an IV into her,” Carter said, pulling himself away from Molly. “I have an idea the food poisoning has only exacerbated an already bad situation. My guess is she was already dehydrated due to her condition, and the food poisoning just stepped it up.”

  “Do you have something in your medical bag? Because I didn’t see...”

  “Not in my medical bag. But I have a locked hard bag on my bike that’s got a set-up.”

  His last several words were said on his way out through the door. Which left Sloane there with nothing to do but monitor Jeannie’s vital signs. And think about Carter.

  Sighing, she looked over at Molly, who was still standing there, wide-eyed. Not sure whether to cry. Not sure what to do. Just like she’d been after Carter had left her.

  “Come here,” she said, patting the spot on the floor next to Jeannie. “Why don’t you sit and hold your mom’s hand for a little while? I’m sure that’s exactly what she’d like right now.”

  Just as what Sloane would like was her own hand in Carter’s—as she’d wanted it for weeks after he’d gone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “IS SHE STABLE?” asked Cruz Montoya as he helped Carter lift Jeannie onto a stretcher.

  Cruz owned the helicopter service that hosted tourist rides and doubled as medical transport when it was necessary. Cruz himself was a former Army medic—one who had evacuated patients, who had pulled out dying soldiers under the worst and most dangerous of circumstances.

  “No. Her vitals aren’t stable and her blood sugar’s not responding to insulin yet. There are no signs she’s anywhere near coming out of her coma.”

  “So what about her?” Cruz asked, nodding sideways toward Molly, who’d stepped as far back from the activity as she could. “Is someone going to take care of her?”

  “Her grandmother will be here to get her tomorrow, and in the meantime one of the other guests has agreed to watch her. She has three children of her own, and management vouches for her. It’s the best we could do under the circumstances.”

  “Well, if that doesn’t work out my mother’s here, and I’m sure she’d be glad to look after her for as long as needed.”