Heartsick

by Tracey Richardson

  “First ambulance is here,” Olivia said, gliding past the computer station where Vic sat at the main desk. “Second one is a minute or two off.”

  Rising, Vic asked, “Where’s Jeff?”

  “Here,” he said, rounding a corner.

  The three of them trotted to the ambulance bay in time to see a paramedic—a tall, brawny woman with a grim set to her jaw—jump from the cargo hold. The thought that maybe the patient was worse off than she had been led to believe escalated Vic’s heart rate a little.

  “What’ve you got?” she said to the paramedic, flashing a look at her nametag. A. Cullen. Six months on the job meant Vic should have met all the paramedics and EMTs in the city by now. But not this one.

  Dark brown eyes that should have been calm but weren’t captured Vic’s. “Thirty-five-year-old woman. She’s hit her head in the crash. Laceration on her forehead. She’s…her vitals are stable.”

  Vic moved beside the stretcher as A. Cullen and her partner set it down and briskly wheeled it toward the bay doors. The patient was conscious, her eyes jumpy but alert. Her forehead was bloody around the bandage that had been roughly placed over it—a seeping laceration. There was a small cut on her lip too. Not enough to rattle what should be a seasoned paramedic, but Vic knew enough from fifteen years in medicine not to assume, never to underestimate.

  “I’ve got this,” she said to her resident, Jeff. “You get the next one.” She directed her attention to the two paramedics. “Did she lose consciousness at all?”

  “For a couple of minutes, yes,” responded Shattenkirk, whom Vic had met a number of times in the ER.

  “Anything else I should know?” Her gaze swung between the two paramedics. Brown eyes caught hers again. There was something pleading in them, something the rest of the paramedic’s face had dammed up. Her throat bobbed up and down as though she couldn’t stop swallowing.

  Great, Vic thought. One of my paramedics’s gone mute. She touched the sleeve of Shattenkirk as she kept pace with the stretcher down the hall. “Room Two. Jackson, is there anything else I should know about this patient?”

  Vic hadn’t had many conversations with Jackson Shattenkirk that didn’t involve an immediate patient. He was young, quiet, the type who seemed to mind his business. He shrugged one shoulder, like he didn’t want to say much. What the hell is going on with these two? Has there been a zombie invasion nobody told me about?

  Carefully, they moved the patient onto the treatment bed and Vic began asking her questions—easy questions. She kept her tone even, efficient. Where are you hurt? How did you hit your head? Are you dizzy? Nauseous? Any medication allergies? Her name, the patient said, was Brooke Bennett, and yes, she knew what day it was and where she was and what had happened. But her head hurt like a son of a bitch.

  “Let’s order a head CT, chest and neck x-ray,” Vic said to Olivia, who’d already taken a blood pressure reading. “And I’ll need a suture kit.”

  The paramedic Cullen stood off to the side, leaning against the wall for support, pale and looking like she might throw up. Vic caught Olivia’s eyes as if to say “Are we gonna have another patient on our hands?” Jackson was gone, had disappeared like he couldn’t get away fast enough, mumbling something about meeting the other ambulance.

  “Angie?” Olivia placed a hand on the paramedic’s considerable bicep. “You okay?”

  “Brooke.” Angie blinked once, twice. “That’s my Brooke. My…she…”

  Vic saw Olivia’s eyebrows jump before settling back down. “It’s okay. Why don’t you sit down? It’s going to be a little while for the tests, okay? You might even want to go get a cup of coffee if you don’t have another call.”

  Angie shook her head. She’d stay, she said.

  Vic motioned for Olivia to join her in the hall. “What the hell is going on?” she whispered.

  “They’re a couple. I know Angie, not so much Brooke. Angie’s a sweetie.” Olivia rolled her eyes. “Brooke doesn’t travel in my circles.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Do me a favor and keep an eye on your friend Angie. I don’t need her passing out or getting upset. She can stay if she behaves. Talk to her, all right? If there’s any problem, I want her out of there.” Vic turned to go as a question occurred to her. “Why haven’t I seen her around here before?”

  “She’s been on sabbatical the past year, teaching. Years ago she was a medic in the army, did a couple of tours in Iraq or something. You’ve been to her family’s winery I think. Sunset Bay Wines?”

  She had. The merlot, she remembered, was spectacular. As was the view over Lake Michigan’s Grand Traverse Bay from the second-floor terrace off the winery’s main building. She and Karen had visited it a couple of times over the spring and summer.

  The second stretcher from the crash was being wheeled toward the neighboring treatment room, Jeff directing traffic. He quirked his head at Vic to join them.

  “I’ll get those tests going. And I’ll talk to Angie,” Olivia said before peeling back toward the room.

  Vic followed the group guiding the second stretcher into Room One. “What’s up?”

  Without a word, Jeff’s eyes fell and Vic followed his gaze to the stretcher. It was Karen. Her wife! Moaning softly in pain, her eyes pinched shut. But it couldn’t be. Karen had left hours ago for the eight-hour drive to Chicago to visit her sister for a few days. She should be halfway there by now. What the hell was she doing here? In a crash? With this Brooke woman?

  Vic quickly gathered herself. Her questions would have to wait.

  “Karen. It’s me, Vic. Where are you hurt?”

  Karen’s eyes flew open, and it was then that Jeff intervened. “I’ve got this, Dr. Turner. I just wanted you to be aware.”

  Vic didn’t want to, but she stepped back. Doctors shouldn’t, unless absolutely necessary, treat loved ones. The situation was too emotional, too volatile, and while she understood the concept, right now it damn well sucked. She sagged against the wall outside the treatment room. Her head spun. Or at least, the questions in her head spun like a top, although one stood out. What the fuck is going on around here?

  Chapter Two

  The shock of finding her partner in a crash, in another woman’s car, had finally, mercifully, worn off. It its place came burning questions. And a dread so thick in Angie’s stomach that it felt like a rock had been placed there. She paced the small treatment room while she waited for Brooke to return from her CT scan and x-rays. She’d booked the rest of her shift off sick and sent Jackson on his way. Later she’d catch a cab back to the house she and Brooke shared on the north side of the city—a new three-bedroom house that Brooke had insisted be finished with granite counters and travertine floors. The walk-in closet that was the size of a bedroom on its own, the three massive bathrooms—none of it was to Angie’s tastes, but Brooke loved the place. Just as well, since Brooke’s earnings as a high-end real estate and corporate lawyer were paying for most of it.

  The red Hermes purse belonging to Brooke sat on the counter, and it occurred to Angie that she should call Brooke’s boss to let him know what had happened and that Brooke wouldn’t be arriving in Miami as planned. Rules didn’t allow Angie to carry her personal cell phone on the job, so she dug around inside the purse, feeling only the smallest bit of guilt. She never went near Brooke’s private belongings and vice versa. If either left their Facebook or Twitter accounts open on the house computer, they never snooped. Or at least, Angie never did. There wasn’t any reason to. She pulled Brooke’s phone out of the purse. Except it wasn’t the familiar iPhone with the glittery phone case that Angie found so distastefully girlie. It was a cheap phone with no security password, no frills. She touched it and its screen sprang to life. She hit Contacts, but the only name that came up was Karen Turner. The woman in the car with her. Next she clicked on the text icon. A list of texts, all between Brooke and this Karen Turner. Not good, a voice inside her head cried out. Not good at all. S
he clicked on the most recent one and her heart stopped. See u soon, lover. Can’t wait to be alone with you for almost a whole week! OMG I can’t even stand it! xoxo.

  A clatter announced Brooke being wheeled back into the treatment room, and Angie tossed the phone back into the bag. She swallowed. Hard. The sense of something catastrophic arising inside her gripped her, turning her insides to liquid. Some massive force seemed poised to crush her and she staggered a little, grabbing the back of a chair for support.

  The doctor looked up at her. “You all right?”

  Angie nodded, but of course she wasn’t all right. Her partner was fucking someone else, for Christ’s sake. How could she possibly be all right?

  Where she’d looked calm and detached earlier, efficient without being callous, the doctor looked distracted now. Confounded. Maybe even a little pissed off. Her nametag said Dr. Victoria Turner. Was she related to Karen Turner? Her sister perhaps? That could explain why she seemed a little frazzled.

  “Your partner’s tests are all negative,” the doctor said. “I expect she has a concussion.” She turned to Brooke with a blank expression. “I’ll stitch you up in a few minutes. Normally I’d suggest you stay here in the ER for a few hours so we can keep an eye on you, but since you live with a paramedic, I think—”

  “Doctor,” Angie said, finding her voice and hearing it sound like gravel under car tires. “Can Brooke and I have a few minutes alone please?”

  “Of course.”

  Alone with Brooke, Angie fought the urge to throw something. Hard. Instead she retrieved the burner phone from Brooke’s purse, with its incriminating evidence that made her want to puke. “What the fuck is this?”

  Brooke wouldn’t look at her, just slammed her eyes shut and pursed her lips as though by doing so, she could make Angie fuck off without her giving her the third degree. Screw that. Angie would pry those eyes and mouth open if she had to, because she wanted answers, dammit. She wasn’t stupid and she sure as hell wasn’t blind. Or at least, not anymore she wasn’t. What she needed to know was why. And how long. And how often. And what Brooke’s master plan had been. And where she herself fit into all this. Had Brooke planned to tell her? Was she planning to leave her? Was she the last fucking person in this fucking city to know what was going on?

  “Ange, my head hurts. Please don’t yell.”

  “Then tell me,” she said in a voice as tight as a cable about to snap. “Who is Karen Turner and why were you in her car? You were supposed to be taking a cab to the airport and flying to Miami tonight for that conference. Where were you really going, Brooke?” She thought of the text she’d snooped at, wondered what was said in the other dozen or so texts on the phone she hadn’t had a chance to examine. “And explain to me this fucking cell phone you have in your purse.”

  “Look, it’s…”

  Angie waited for Brooke to finish. And waited. Another minute later, her voice cracking, she said, “What, it’s not what I think? Because we damned well both know it is exactly what I think.”

  The nurse from earlier, Olivia Drake, stalked into the room, looking sternly from Angie to Brooke, then back to Angie. “Angie, I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the room. Brooke has a concussion and she needs to stay quiet.” She held the door open and motioned like a traffic cop. “Please, honey.”

  “What about what I need,” Angie said so quietly that Olivia asked her to repeat herself. “Nothing,” she mumbled and stalked out.

  Vic tried to snap out of her fog. Before suturing the cut on Brooke Bennett’s forehead, she stopped at the main desk to check on her wife’s progress and discovered that she had a broken left wrist, a few cuts and bruises but nothing more serious. An ortho had been called to come down and examine her wrist, but so far it looked like Karen would not need surgery.

  Jeff told Vic that she could go in and visit Karen. Though he was a second-year resident while she was the ER chief, Karen was his patient, and Vic had not been asked to consult or interfere in any way, nor did she have the right to in this case. She was the patient’s loved one first, a doctor second. She hadn’t, however, been able to resist scrolling through the computer and checking Karen’s chart.

  “Hi, sweetie,” she said, stepping up to the bed and gently placing a hand on Karen’s shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

  Karen looked at her with such sadness that Vic feared there was something Jeff hadn’t told her. Something that wasn’t in Karen’s chart, either.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Hey, it’s okay. Accidents happen. Everything’s going to be all right.” Vic reached for Karen’s good hand. Her own hand was sweating, tremulous.

  Tears, big and thick and slow, rolled down Karen’s face, and all Vic could think was that something was about to happen. Something momentous and quick, like a room being thrown into darkness when the power suddenly goes out. She commanded herself to breathe, to be calm. Told herself she could handle anything.

  “Your wrist should be good as new in a couple of months,” she said as a delaying tactic. “We’re very lucky.”

  “No.” The word came out muffled, like it had caught on something in Karen’s throat.

  “I had a look at your x-ray, and—”

  “Vic, don’t.”

  Don’t what, she wanted to scream, but she was afraid to say it. Maybe if she didn’t speak, this would all go away. They could go home together at the end of her shift in a few hours. She would take care of Karen, their life would return to its natural order in a few days, a few weeks at worst.

  “Brooke.” Karen disengaged her hand from Vic’s and carefully wiped the tears from her cheeks. “How is she?”

  “She’s…I didn’t know you were friends with this person. You must have been giving her a ride somewhere. That was good of you, honey.” Her breezy tone sounded ridiculous to her own ears. God, she was being pathetic! And a coward, because she did not want to hear what Karen was going to say next. But like a storm eating up the horizon, she was powerless to stop it.

  Karen’s voice shook with urgency. “Is she—Brooke—is she okay? Is she hurt badly? Nobody will tell me anything.”

  “No, just a nasty cut on her head that required some stitches. And she has a concussion.”

  Karen closed her eyes briefly, the muscles in her face relaxing. “Thank God.”

  “Is she…” Oh God. Reflexively, Vic clutched her stomach. She wanted to go hide in a supply closet. Or go back to her UTIs and dislocated shoulders and unexplained fevers like nothing had happened. But avoiding didn’t come naturally to her. She was actually terrible at avoiding unpleasantness; she couldn’t do her job if she were any other way.

  She pressed on. “Is she another real estate broker in your firm?”

  Karen shook her head. More tears were pooling in her eyes, like a faucet with a perpetual leak.

  “Sweetie, we don’t have to talk about the accident anymore, all right? You’re on pain medication and I know all of this must have been so scary for you. I’m sorry this happened, but you’re going to be okay. You’ll have to miss the visit with your sister and we’ll get another car, but otherwise, no harm done. You’ll get better, I—”

  “Victoria, stop it.”

  A simple, emotionless command, but it was like a slap. God, Karen was so beautiful, even lying in a hospital bed. And even with her face twisted in anguish. “Angelic” was the word Vic thought described Karen best, with her long, dark blond hair, fair freckled skin, and eyes the color of melting ice. She was Vic’s real estate broker when Vic was looking for a two-bedroom condo in Chicago almost a decade ago, and she hadn’t been able to stop looking at her, thinking about her. Too shy to ask her for a date, she waited for Karen to suggest a quiet dinner for two to celebrate the completion of the condo deal, and they’d not been apart since. Three years ago they legally tied the knot, and still when Vic looked at Karen, she could hardly believe she was hers.

  “I can’t…” Karen’s eyes grew wide and searching, as if
trying to locate her through a heavy mist. Her breath hitched at a sob. “I can’t do this anymore. With you. I can’t…I can’t…I don’t want to be married to you anymore, Vic.”

  The words took a moment to register, like they were coming at her from some distance, from a transistor radio or from underwater. It was someone else talking, not Karen; the words were meant for somebody else, not her.

  “I…” Vic had to clear her throat to be heard. “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?” She knew the literal meaning of the words, but not what they were supposed to mean to her.

  “You know,” Karen said quietly, “what I’m talking about. I want a divorce.”

  A divorce? Had Karen hit her head in the crash? Had someone else taken over her body? Taken over her life? Their life? No, it didn’t make any sense. Everything had been fine up until tonight. They’d finally settled here, had begun making friends, had explored and enjoyed the area’s hiking trails and wineries and parks and beaches. Not six weeks ago Karen said she liked Traverse City, that she was thrilled they’d moved here. Of course, they’d both been busy with their new jobs these last few months, but still… Why on earth would Karen say something like this to her now?

  She backed toward the door, needing space. But there was, for now, one question above all others that screamed for an answer. Her voice shook. “Is it…does Brooke Bennett have anything to do with you wanting a divorce?”

  Karen wouldn’t look at her. She turned her face into the pillow, but she nodded. Vic stumbled into the hallway, her vision blurry, her thoughts in disarray. She was the accident victim now, trying to assess the damage while still absorbing the blow.

  Oh, Karen, what have you done?

  Chapter Three

  By the time Angie reached her family’s winery, she had no recollection of how she’d got there. The fifteen-minute drive along the peninsula, past the other half dozen or so wineries, was a blur, but a familiar blur, at least, since it was her childhood home and she could pretty much navigate her way there blindfolded.