I'll Find You

by Liz Lawler

  On the second day Zoe was missing, Emily returned to the hospital and called the police. A police constable had arrived soon after and taken statements and a description of Zoe. The hospital CCTV footage had shown Zoe wearing a long dark cardigan over her hospital gown, walking barefoot and dangling a pair of high-heeled shoes in one hand and a plastic carrier bag in the other. They were able to follow her movements as she walked towards one of the side entrances, a road usually used for hospital deliveries, which led out on to the main road. That was the last sighting of Zoe.

  Emily had searched every patient’s bed before she was convinced that her sister wasn’t in one of them, even though the CCTV footage had showed her leaving the hospital. Emily had needed to believe that Zoe hadn’t been readmitted, perhaps as a result of collapsing or being run over, perhaps unconscious and unable to say who she was. It was three days after Zoe went missing that she was officially declared as such and a detective inspector put in charge of her case. Geraldine Sutton’s impressive title was what really put the fear of god into Emily. That someone so high-ranking was looking for her sister meant that the police were taking her disappearance seriously. As Emily began to think in terms of abduction and death, a paranoid thought consumed her: that her sister had died in the hospital, through human error, and that there was a cover-up.

  Emily squeezed her eyes closed. She could not think about Zoe now. She must concentrate on the day ahead. She must focus on not eating or drinking, stay nil by mouth from midnight as of last night, remember to bring her overnight bag, her admission letter, mobile charger, a book to read. Today at least her mind could be free of Zoe, if only while she was anaesthetised for this minor operation. Zoe was missing. She was not dead. And while the police may have given up all hope of finding her alive, Emily refused to do so. Not that the police had voiced that opinion. Not yet, anyway. She must hang on to that and if necessary, remind them to keep searching. She owed Zoe that for what she had done. For what she could never undo.

  Chapter Two

  The private hospital had opened two years ago, close to Windsor Bridge, affording the patients a view of the River Avon. In a city famous for its Georgian architecture, the design of the building had passed through planning despite its bold and contemporary features of plated shiny steel and walls of black glass. Four storeys high, it offered both inpatient and outpatient care, eighty patient rooms, a state-of-the-art diagnostic and therapeutic suite, four operating theatres and a psychiatric wing that Emily liked to steer clear of.

  A year ago she very nearly landed up in there. Only by acknowledging her foolish actions – ‘not prudent’ was the actual phrase she’d used – had she allowed them to see that they were not that of a madwoman, but those of someone desperate enough to search the mortuary on her own. In the end, as no physical harm had come to anyone – bar a hefty shock to the porter who had found her and who accepted the reprimand for allowing her to get into the mortuary in the first place – no charges were brought by the police. They may have viewed things differently if they knew she had spied on the porter for a week, to work out when he wouldn’t be there so she could carry out the search. The psychiatrist who saw her discharged her back to her GP with the recommendation that she have counselling. Stress, grief and depression were an expected and acceptable excuse for her actions, given the circumstances. At the time Zoe’s face and name were current national news, and Emily had seen the look of pity in the police officer’s eyes as he questioned her about her behaviour. Still, the fear of being locked away in a psychiatric ward had unsettled her enough to haunt her. If she’d said the wrong thing or reacted in the wrong way her freedom may have been taken away.

  Switching her gaze to the entrance of the hospital building, it felt strange to be walking into it as a patient and not a nurse. She’d only started working there three weeks ago and it still felt new to her. While not exactly at home yet in her new surroundings, she took comfort in the fact that that she knew most of the staff by face or name now, knew what was hidden behind locked doors and cupboards and where she needed to go. She made her way over to the lift which would carry her up to the surgical unit. It was the place where she worked five days a week. Only not today.

  In the short time she’d been here she had come to know the routine requirements for surgical patients. Nil by mouth, followed by surgery, followed by post-op checks, followed by returning home. She wasn’t simplifying the needs of these patients; in the aftercare anything could go wrong: a wound dehiscing, a sudden bleed, anaphylactic reactions to the anaesthetic drugs or blood transfusions. The ability to know what to do when these things happened was all part of post-operative care. Emily worried that the member of staff looking after her would not be as experienced as she was. Her mind grew anxious as the lift moved upwards.

  The hidden enemy was the slow bleeder, sneakily leaking away so that the body was almost unaware of it until it was almost too late to undo the damage. The real skill in nursing was required in detecting the early-warning signs of deterioration – early being the operative word – or ‘enemy’ as she preferred to call it. It was why an Early Warning Score system had been introduced into hospitals to ward off medical failings. From her experience, the tool was only useful if backed up by clinical knowledge, with having an understanding that what is ‘normal’ for one patient may be different for another. The resting heart rate of the average person is 60 to 100 BPM, while in an athlete it could be as low as 40. Emily could still see the pallid face of the young jockey who’d been brought in to A&E; a young man she would always remember, a patient she had triaged as a Priority Two before handing over his care to the assigned nurse. Emily had seen the fear in his eyes because he knew something was very wrong with him. The first-year staff nurse caring for him had not alerted the team until it was too late, pointing to the monitor and arguing that his heart rate was normal as he lay there dying. Death from internal bleeding had been a harsh reminder to her to always look at the patient before the machines. If she had, she would have noticed the pallor of his skin and the cyanotic lips telling her that something was wrong.

  Maybe she would speak to the nurses who’d be looking after her, test their knowledge, remind them of what to look out for. She breathed deeply as the lift doors pinged open and deposited her onto the correct floor.

  *

  The healthcare assistant was staring at her in a way that was bordering on rudeness and Emily was tempted to poke out her tongue. She was used to people staring; taking a second look at a face that was familiar, trying to figure out where they knew her from. The woman was a member of staff she hadn’t met before. She had a head of blonde curls and wore lots of mascara, which made her big blue eyes pop out. Pale pink lipstick made a cupid’s bow of her mouth, and her face reminded Emily of a baby doll with painted eyelashes and lips. Her maroon trousers and tunic fit snugly around her hips and bosom, trapping the two pens in her breast pocket tightly and showing her shapely form. She frowned and then smiled uncertainly. ‘Sorry, it’s just that you look so familiar?’

  Emily decided not to be helpful and point out that a face very similar to her own – Zoe’s – was plastered on posters across the city. For a time, her image had been displayed on the front page of newspapers across the country and on news programmes on the television. ‘I work here.’

  The woman shook her head. ‘I’m new, so I don’t think we’ve met, but I still know your face from somewhere . . . ’

  ‘Emily Jacobs.’

  The woman’s expression froze before forming a polite mask. She looked as if she might run away for a moment and Emily felt a little mean. ‘It’s OK. I get it a lot. Just please don’t call me Zoe.’

  The woman shook her head hard. ‘Of course not. Look, let’s start again. My name’s Shelly. I’m a healthcare assistant.’

  Emily hid her amusement. She had just told the woman she worked there. She would know Shelly was a healthcare assistant from the colour of her uniform.

  ‘You say you w
ork here? As a nurse? Clerical? Catering?’

  Emily felt like a smart-arse. The woman was new. She was being professional by identifying her role. Many patients would need that explaining to them. That a ward sister or charge nurse wore navy, a staff nurse a lighter blue and healthcare assistant, maroon.

  ‘Staff nurse.’

  Shelly smiled. ‘Great. So you know the routine. I’ll show you to your room and get you settled. Put a name band on you and so forth. Get a urine sample off you. It must feel strange being a patient here?’

  Emily nodded, feeling less tense. At least Shelly was in tune with how she was feeling. She should be grateful that Zoe’s face was so familiar. It meant she was still in the minds of people and she hadn’t been forgotten.

  *

  Fastening the strings of the inadequately designed theatre gown together as best she could, Emily hoped her dignity was intact. Beneath the hospital gown she was naked. Freshly showered and devoid of makeup, perfume or deodorant, she stood in front of the narrow mirror. Her short black hair was tucked behind her ears and the trauma of the last year was evident in her face. The purple and grey smudges beneath her blue eyes were now a permanent blemish. Whether she slept well or not made little difference to their appearance; only concealer could hide them. Her face had taken on a narrowness that made her eyes seems bigger and her image more like Zoe’s. She was ten years older than Zoe, but right now she could be mistaken for her. Emily thought she looked like a teenage boy, all jutting collar bones and gangly arms. Only recently her mother had said she looked like the poor cow that had her hair cut off and her teeth pulled out in Les Misérables. She stared at the blood she had spat in the sink. The pink foamy splatters in the basin worried her that she was physically falling apart. At twenty-nine she had a permanent ache in her stomach and suffered from headaches and sleep deprivation. Her GP had of course checked her out and told her to worry less, explained that they were symptoms of anxiety. A year ago, she’d been a fit young woman. Last month her counsellor had urged her to opt for part-time work or light duties, believing her unable to cope full-time with what she was going through. With no end in sight for the ‘going through’, she knew her mind was better occupied – at least some of the time – in caring for others. ‘Light duties’ would not cut it. She needed to be busy.

  So she had chosen to work on the surgical admissions unit at a new private hospital with the hope of finding new challenges, the least of which was meeting the high expectations and demands of the paying patients. Having only ever worked in the NHS, she found the private setup was run more like a five-star hotel. There were en suite bathrooms, luxury toiletries, fluffy white towels, Sky TV, newspapers and daily visits from a chef to take menu orders. Every requirement was catered for. Emily sorely missed emergency medicine. She missed the thrill of the red phone screeching, the silence in those waiting seconds before resus doors banged open to allow fast-moving trolleys to rush in to deposit their critical patients in need of urgent care. She would never work there again. Never go home at the end of a shift and know her life was normal. The place held too many memories to remind her of what her life used to be like.

  Gathering her toiletries and holding the back of the gown together, she made her way back to her bed.

  Chapter Three

  There were two beds in the room and the other bed was now occupied. All other rooms in the private hospital were single occupancy, and that is what the patients paid for. Room 31 was unnumbered but was referred to as 31 for want of a title. Some referred to it as ‘the side room’. The two-bedded ward was mostly used as an overspill for NHS patients; ‘waiting list initiatives’ booked for elective surgery and paid for by the NHS.

  A young woman who was perhaps in her late teens or early twenties lay curled on her side with her eyes closed. She had a slight build and was wearing, at a guess, size eight jeans with room to spare. Judging by the length of her shape in the bed she was barely five feet tall. Her hair was dark and lustreless and her skin pale beneath the olive tones. A thin silver bracelet circled her right wrist. It looked big enough for her hand to slip through, like a child’s would if wearing her mother’s bracelet. On her feet were well-worn leather flip-flops. Even on her slight form the yellow T-shirt was too small, barely covering her midriff – unless the small size of the T-shirt had been intentional, to show off a flat tummy? Emily silently put away her things and heard the rustle of movement. The young woman, or girl, as Emily thought her, was awake.

  Emily smiled at her neighbour but was greeted with an anxious stare. She smiled again and said hello. The brown eyes were wary and they scanned the room, full of fear. Emily was beginning to suspect that perhaps her neighbour didn’t speak English or was prevented from talking by pain. She pointed at the girl and then at herself and mimicked the action of someone being in pain, clutching at her belly. The girl briefly shook her head.

  On her bedside locker was a theatre gown and cap and Emily was about to suggest she help her get ready when common sense prevailed. The patient beside her didn’t know she was a nurse and would think it very strange if she started to try and undress her. She may even think she was being assaulted.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ The girl looked more anxious and edged to the side of the bed. Emily held up her hands in an attempt to show a calming manner. ‘It’s OK.’ She pointed at her hospital gown. ‘I’m going to theatre too.’ She indicated the clothes on the bedside locker. ‘Those are for you to put on.’ She touched her wrist and then pointed at the silver bracelet. ‘You’ll have to take that off.’ The girl immediately covered the bracelet with her other hand as if in fear of it being taken.

  Clearly not in any pain, the girl shot nimbly off the bed, took the clothes from the locker and scurried from the room. Hoping that she hadn’t chased her nervous neighbour away, Emily settled on her bed and waited.

  She was anxious about the procedure she was having – and embarrassed about having to take time off work after only just starting at the hospital. Four weeks ago she had found a lump in her left breast. But she had not expected to be seen in clinic so soon. The ultrasound scan and needle biopsy were taken at the fast-track ‘two-week wait clinic’. She was surprised to receive the results on the same day, making up for the agonising four hours she had hung around the breast care centre. The breast registrar, who was clearly in a hurry, had read the results without looking up: a ‘likely benign’ lesion, but due to ‘a small degree of uncertainty’ it was decided best to remove the lump. When she received a confirmation letter to have the surgery she was pleased to see that it was to happen here. It would at least prove she wasn’t skiving.

  A nurse came into the room pushing a trolley while steadying a white plastic tray on top of it. She was the ward sister, wearing navy trousers and a navy tunic instead of the lighter blue tunic worn by staff nurses. Emily had not met her formally yet. The woman had been on annual leave when Emily came for her interview and she’d only seen her in passing since starting her new post. ‘It’s Nina, isn’t it? We haven’t worked together yet, but I’ve seen you around.’ Emily felt her face become warm as Nina stared at her sternly. ‘Sorry, I meant Sister Barrows.’

  The ward sister went to the end of the bed and picked up the clipboard holding Emily’s medical chart. She frowned as she read and then asked, ‘Who put you in this room, Miss Jacobs?’

  Emily shrugged. ‘Shelly. The healthcare assistant who met me at reception.’

  Nina Barrows tutted. ‘Well, she shouldn’t have.’ Then, seeming to realise that her manner was abrupt, she adjusted her sharp tone. ‘Sorry. I didn’t realise it was you in this room. They should have given you room twenty-nine.’

  Room 29 was a single occupancy, and Emily felt grateful that they thought she deserved a room to herself. She hoped Shelly wasn’t in trouble for not putting her there. ‘It’s fine in here.’

  Nina Barrows held up a finger. ‘Just give me a minute. I want to make sure that our new staff member hasn’t put any other patien
ts in the wrong beds.’

  When she returned, Emily was pleased to see her looking less cross. Her manner was more caring as she quickly took a set of observations and helped Emily put on some very tight and unattractive white anti-embolism stockings.

  ‘How are you settling in?’

  ‘You mean now as a patient, or here as a nurse?’

  ‘As a nurse. Do you find the pace slower than you’re used to?’ The question suggested that the ward sister thought Emily had come straight from emergency medicine without a break in her career. She hoped that was the case and that all of her new colleagues were unaware that she’d had time off sick for a whole year. On her application she was able to truthfully write the date her last employment ended as six months ago. It had been her decision to leave after receiving six months full pay, and she hadn’t wished to eke out another six months at half-pay when she knew she would never return. At the interview they hadn’t asked about the gap in her employment history but she’d been prepared to say, if called on to explain, that she was looking after her unwell parents, which wasn’t a complete lie.

  ‘It’s a different kind of pace, but no less challenging.’

  The ward sister eyed her speculatively. ‘I only managed a year in A&E. To be honest, I really couldn’t stand seeing so much pain.’

  Nina moved over to the sink to wash her hands, patting them dry before wetting them again with an alcohol hand rub. ‘In the staff room, you may call me Nina, but out on the ward I prefer Sister Barrows. I think it makes for a better working relationship.’

  Emily frowned. Nina – or rather, Sister Barrows – was coming across as a bit priggish. She was glad the woman had her back to her. In her old hospital, everyone was on first-name terms, even when addressing a doctor, unless it was in front of the patient, and that made for a better working relationship. She suspected that Sister Barrows had trained during the days when nurses wore frilly hats and capes to hide their uniform when off the ward, and where doctors were only ever addressed as ‘doctor’. Her auburn hair, most definitely dyed, was up in a sleek bun and had probably been worn that way for the last forty years. It was impossible to imagine what her face was like when she was younger because of her stern features, and her whole bearing seemed tense. Emily couldn’t imagine her relaxing, eating junk food or sprawling out on a couch in front of the telly. She imagined high-backed, uncomfortable armchairs, with lacy armrests and a tea tray laid out precisely with a cup and saucer and tea strainer. Emily hoped she hadn’t got off to a bad start with her.