“I’ll leave you to your dinner then.” I nod to the TV. “And your ESPN. I’ll see you tomorrow, Elizabeth.”
“See you tomorrow, Kyle . . . er, Dr. Stone.” She looks over at Abby to see if she noticed the slip. She did.
When I walk out into the hallway, I think about what she said about not eating earlier. Did she not eat because she was bleeding? Or was it because she didn’t have any food?
I try not to think of a pregnant woman, who may or may not have enough food to eat, in the home that she may or may not even have.
Then, before I realize I’m doing it, I end up detouring to the billing office. Because, just like the rest of the hospital, even they have a night shift.
Chapter Eight
“You what?” Cameron asks in disbelief as we grab some coffee and a bagel the next morning after rounds.
I blow on my hot coffee, taking a needed pause to gather my thoughts after telling him what I did. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him. But Cameron is probably the best friend I have, not counting my brothers. He’s been with me through thick and thin this past year of residency. He, more than anyone, would understand why I did it.
But then why do I feel guilty? Like I’ve done something wrong? Why do I feel like I have to hide the fact that I’m helping my patient? If Redman knew . . . well, I don’t even know what she’d do. She seems to have it in for me. Maybe giving her ammunition to use against me is not a very good idea at this point in my career.
Shit. Did I just screw up in a monumental way?
Then again, I’m not sure I would take it back even if I could. Elizabeth isn’t just any patient. She’s different somehow. I could sense from the very beginning that she doesn’t want help, but that maybe she needs it anyway.
“You think I crossed a line,” I say, prematurely agreeing with him.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I’ve come to expect shit like that from you, but paying for an entire hospital stay? She could be here for weeks, Kyle. That’ll be expensive.”
I stare him down until he realizes the obvious.
“I know, I know,” he says. “It’s not like you can’t afford it, Warren friggin’ Buffet, but just because you can pay for it doesn’t mean you should. If you do it for every patient, eventually you will run out of money.”
“I don’t intend on doing it for every patient,” I say. “She’s pregnant. And she might be homeless. And even if she’s not, there’s something going on there. I mean she doesn’t have anybody. Literally. She has nobody. Who has nobody?”
“She obviously had somebody,” he says, making an obscene gesture with his hands by putting a finger inside a hole he made with his fist.
I roll my eyes at him as I toss back some much-needed caffeine.
“Maybe that’s why she got knocked up,” he says. “So she’d have someone.”
“Hmmm. Maybe,” I say, pondering that possibility.
“Are you going to tell your patient what you did?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think I should. She doesn’t seem like a person who wants a handout.”
“So, you want to be the anonymous white knight,” he says. “You could always tell her the hospital decided to take her pro bono.”
I raise my brows at his suggestion. “Good idea,” I say. “Plus, I wouldn’t want it getting back to Red.”
“Red?” he asks.
“Dr. Redman. It’s my new nickname for her. She got red in the face when I called her ma’am last night. Plus, the name fits.”
He laughs. “Ah, the English rose of the vagina squad.”
“More like the British bitch, I’d say.”
“Yeah, but she’s hot.”
“She’s our parents’ age, Cameron.”
“Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t do her in the on-call room,” he says.
The visual gives me a bad taste in my mouth. “You are seriously twisted,” I say.
“Speaking of on-call rooms, you tell Gina what you did?”
Oh, shit. I completely forgot to page Gina last night. I got pulled in to help on a few cases and then snuck in a few hours of shuteye. “No.”
“Why not?” he asks, pensively.
I shrug an unknowing shoulder.
“Maybe you didn’t tell her because you think she’d be jealous,” he says, eyebrows raised in inquisition.
“Why would Gina be jealous? It’s not like I haven’t done something like this before,” I say.
“Not on this level,” Cameron says. “And not for a beautiful young woman.”
“How do you know Elizabeth is young and beautiful?”
He smiles deviously. “I didn’t. But now I do.” He looks down at his beeping pager. Then he gets up and tosses what remains of his breakfast into a trashcan. “And maybe the fact that you want to keep this from Gina means you’ve crossed the line even more than paying the bill does.”
Chapter Nine
While I finish my breakfast, I tap out a text to Mallory. I ask if it’s possible for her to come by the hospital to meet one of my pregnant patients who seems to have nothing and no one and could she just hang out with her and talk pregnancy or something.
Then I sit back and wonder if Cameron is right.
I’m paying Elizabeth’s hospital bills and now I’m trying to get her to make a friend. Neither of those are my job. But isn’t being a doctor more than simply treating illness? Isn’t it about treating the whole person—mind and body? And her whole person is more in need of a friend than anyone I’ve ever met.
My pager goes off and I glance down at it. I’m being paged to ground zero. When I get there, Dr. Anders and I get a quick history from the ER resident about a patient who just came in.
“Female, twenty-nine years old, nineteen weeks pregnant. Presented with moderate vaginal bleeding and cramps. Initial exam indicates slight thinning of the cervix and absent fetal heartbeat. I’ll leave it to you guys to confirm with ultrasound and then break the news.”
My heart climbs into my throat knowing what the woman in exam room three is about to go through. I’ve witnessed a few miscarriages over the past year. But none have been late miscarriages—those occurring after twelve weeks’ gestation. Hell, five more weeks and the baby might have had a fighting chance. Five short weeks.
Fuck.
Sometimes I hate this job. I peek through the window into the exam room, relieved she’s got someone with her. Looks like her husband. He’s sitting on the bed, no doubt trying to reassure her. They are in for a world of hurt.
I can’t help but think of another woman upstairs in OB. My patient. My only patient according to the bitch who owns me for the next four weeks. She’s much further along than the woman in the ER, and her baby, even if born today, would have an excellent chance of survival. But I can’t imagine what would happen if Elizabeth had miscarried, or God forbid, if anything bad happens while she’s here in the hospital. She has no one to comfort her. No one to go through it with, to support her and reassure her. No one to sit on her bed and tell her everything will be okay even when they know it might not be.
A nurse wheels the ultrasound machine around the corner and waits for us to go in.
“Are you ready for this, Dr. Stone?” Dr. Anders asks. “I’m going to let you take point on this, but I’ll be right by your side. Just nod and I’ll jump in if you need me.”
For the patient’s sake, I’m grateful that Anders was paged to ground zero instead of Red. Then again, it might just be residents that bitch has an aversion towards. I can’t imagine she’d get as far as she has if she doesn’t have compassion for her patients.
We perform the ultrasound, confirming everyone’s fear.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont, there isn’t a heartbeat and there are no fetal movements. That combined with your thinning cervix and I’m afraid you are having a miscarriage.”
Mrs. Beaumont breaks down in her husband’s arms. I give them a minute to absorb what I’ve said. I give myself a minute to gain composure.<
br />
“I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to make a difficult decision. We can perform a D and C, or if you prefer to hold the baby, we could induce labor. You could also choose to go home and see if labor starts on its own over the next few days. The bleeding is minimal and doesn’t pose a risk to your health.”
“Go home?” Mr. Beaumont asks, his voice thick with emotion. “Why? Our baby is . . .”
He can’t bring himself to say it.
“I know it seems unconventional,” I explain. “But some people find they need the time to deal with their loss.”
“No. Please, let’s just do it now. But I don’t want the D and C,” Mrs. Beaumont says, looking at her husband. “I want to hold her.”
I nod to the nurse, who then goes out of the room to start the admissions process.
Three hours later, I’m delivering my second baby in a week. This time, it’s anything but a happy occasion. The miniature body is easily pushed through the birth canal and into my hands.
It’s a girl. Her tiny red body is barely bigger than one of my hands, but she’s perfectly formed. Her eyes are fused shut and her arms and legs are curled up against her body. She has ten fingers and ten toes, and one of her hands is no bigger than the nail on my thumb.
As I snip the small umbilical cord, my heart breaks for the life taken too soon. It breaks for these parents who have no doubt already envisioned everything from preschool to their daughter’s wedding.
Dr. Anders hands me a towel and I clean up the tiny body before wrapping her up and giving her to her mother.
There’s not a dry eye in the room, including mine.
I take some deep breaths and try to push my emotions to the side as I get back to work, making sure all the placenta gets delivered. Then we leave them alone to grieve their child.
Dr. Anders tries to catch me before I walk off. I shake my head at her. I need a minute. I know she wants to make sure I’m okay. Maybe even talk about what happened. But that’s not what I need.
I take out my phone and tap out a text. Then I plow through the door of the on-call room and kick a chair into the bed. Then I curse myself for hurting my foot. But no amount of hurt can compare to what the Beaumonts are dealing with right now.
The door swings open and Gina comes through. I stride across the room and almost tackle her into the wall. I lock the door next to her as I devour her mouth, her neck, any exposed skin I can get my hands and mouth on.
“I heard,” she says into my hair. “I’m sor—”
“Less talking,” I interrupt. “More fucking.”
She grabs the hem of her scrub top and pulls it over her head. Unlike her usual sports-type bra, she has a lacy white bra on underneath. One of those push-up bras that has the flesh of her breasts spilling over the top. It makes me wonder if she wore it specifically for me or if this was the only clean one she had. I couldn’t care less what the hell her bra looks like, especially right now. The only interest I have in her bra is seeing it on the floor.
I reach around and undo the clasp, my lips meeting the soft flesh of her breasts before her bra even lands on the hard tile. I suck on each nipple until they are erect, hard as a rock. Just like my dick.
I pull my shirt over my head, followed quickly by the removal of my pants and boxers. Gina follows suit and rids herself of her bottoms. I push her against the wall. Hard.
“Ugh,” she breathes, before she wraps her long legs around my naked body. My dick strains against her stomach, pulsing between us, begging to be inside her.
I carry her over to the table and set her down on the edge. I spread her legs wide and pull my scrubs over so I can cushion my knees on the unforgiving floor. I work my tongue on her. In her. I work it until she begs me to fuck her. When I push inside her, I do it so hard, the table hits the wall behind her and the lamp falls to the floor.
“That’s it, baby. Let it go,” she says.
My eyes open and snap to hers.
Why the hell did she have to say baby?
I try to pull out of her, but she grabs my ass, holding me inside. “Finish it, Kyle. I know you need to.”
She’s right. I do. The stress. The frustration. The sheer heartache. I need this. I need it so badly, it could just as easily be Red on this table and I’d still fuck her.
Gina reaches down and rubs herself. Watching her do it brings me back to where I need to be. She throws her head back and bites her lip as she comes quietly but forcefully. When her walls pulsate around me, I push deep one last time before I grip her hips and find my much-needed release.
I pull out of her and go sit on the bed, elbows on my knees, head slumped down in front of me. I should feel better. That’s why we do this, to feel better after a shitty case. Maybe this one was just so shitty, no amount of fucking can help.
I pick up my scrubs and put them back on.
“Better?” Gina asks, as she cleans up at the sink.
“Yeah, thanks,” I lie.
“Anytime,” she says. She gets her clothes off the floor and comes to sit next to me. “I mean it, Kyle. I’m here for you. Whenever you need me. Wherever you need me—even if it’s outside the hospital.”
“Yeah, okay.” I push myself off the bed and head for the door. “I have a patient to check on. I’ll see you later, Gina.”
I run my hands through my hair and realize the smell of sex is still on them, so I head for the nearest bathroom to wash my hands. I look in the mirror and study my face.
“Stupid bastard,” I say to my reflection. “She’s handing herself to you on a goddamn platter and you couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”
Gina is great. Smart. Beautiful. Fun. And she’s obviously ready to take this to the next level. Maybe she has been for a while. Maybe I’ve just been too stupid to see the signs. Maybe I need to give this a chance. We’re good together. She could be my Mallory, or my Charlie.
Do I want a Mallory or Charlie?
I stare in the mirror and wonder if my sisters-in-law would be able to console my brothers after a similarly-horrible experience. Yes. They would. They pretty much have.
I wash my face, and then stare at my hands. I start to shake thinking of what I held in them not even an hour ago. I look around, seeing if there is another chair I can kick. There’s not. So I suck it up, put my lab coat on and compose myself enough to go check on my patient.
Chapter Ten
When I get to Elizabeth’s room, it’s empty, but I hear the shower running in her bathroom. I sit down on the chair next to the bed and close my eyes for a minute. Then I smile when I hear the familiar “Da-da-da-daaaaa” sound coming from the TV and look up to see she’d been watching ESPN again.
Then I look at her bedside tray to see it piled high with various flavors of Jell-O.
Then I look at the fetal monitor next to the bed and all I can see is Jenny Beaumont’s face when I told her her baby was dead.
I hear the bathroom door open. I scrub my hands across the two-day stubble on my jaw, trying to rid my head of the painful memory.
“Oh, hi, Kyle,” Elizabeth says, walking across the room fresh from a shower. Her blonde hair, that falls just below her chin, is darker and wavier when it’s wet; and her face, devoid of all makeup, looks fresh and almost adolescent.
I stand up and help her back into bed. Then I get the fetal monitor hooked up again.
She looks at the clock on the wall. “Yes!” she shouts. “Eight minutes.”
I look at her in confusion.
“Abby said I had ten minutes to shower, but I did it in eight.” She gives me a triumphant smile.
I shake my head in awe at her excitement. I guess I was right about it not taking much to please her.
“What?” she says. “If I’m going to be stuck in this place, I might as well make the little things count, right?”
“I like your attitude,” I say, walking back to the table where I left her chart. “No more heavy bleeding?” I ask.
“Nope,” she says with an
other pleasing smile. “Just some spotting.”
“That’s good.” I open her chart and read the nurse’s notes. I catch a glimpse of her recent ultrasound and let out a deep sigh as it has me thinking about earlier.
I don’t usually sit down in patient rooms, but I do now. I sit down and pinch the bridge of my nose. Maybe I’m getting sick. I just feel—off.
“What’s wrong, Kyle?”
I shake off the feeling and look up at her. “Aren’t I supposed to be asking you that?”
“You just seem different,” she says, studying me.
“I’m fine,” I say. I nod to the television. “What’s with you and ESPN? You really are a sports junkie, huh?”
She laughs. “I am. I’m trying to catch up on all the scores. I don’t own a TV. I usually go to Sal’s to catch the highlights.”
“Sal’s on 52nd?” I ask.
“You know the place?”
“Best egg rolls in New York,” I say.
“Oh, my God, right?” Her eyes roll in appreciation. “I walked his dog for a week when his regular guy went on vacation. After that, he let me come in and watch TV even if I couldn’t buy anything.” Her eyes snap to mine and she shuts up as if what she said was too revealing. “Um, he had a beautiful Wheaton Terrier named Wonton.”
“Wonton?”
“Yeah. A dog named Wonton owned by a guy named Sal who runs a Chinese food restaurant. Pretty crazy. You’d think he’d own a pizza place or something with that name. Sal’s Pizza,” she muses.
I eye her tray table. “Speaking of food, what’s with all the Jell-O?”
She laughs. “Abby said Jell-O is pretty much a staple here at the hospital, and since I’m going to be here a while, I might as well figure out which flavor is my favorite. So, she brought me all of them to try. I really like her.”
“Oh,” I say, looking out her window to check out the approaching summer storm.
“Kyle?”
I look back at her and see the concern etched in her face. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” she asks.
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