Trauma

by CJ Lyons

  Ruby arched an eyebrow at Lydia. “I’m sure that’s not what Lydia meant. Is it, Lydia?”

  Lydia swallowed. Her cheeks flushed with a warmth that spread down her neck and chest. She met Ruby’s gaze and realized she’d been less nervous about walking past Angels’ dark cemetery with a killer on the loose than she was facing Trey’s mother.

  Family. Maybe she was better off without one.

  There were muddy footprints all over Nora’s floor. In her sleep, she flailed about, trying to wipe them clean. But they turned to a sticky, smelly goo, flashing bright neon colors. The scent made her throat close tight. Sweet and sharp.

  “Do you know me?” A man’s voice, soft and insidious, kept time with her movements as she knelt on the floor, trying to clean. She couldn’t see the man, couldn’t tell where he was; his voice sounded all around her, crept inside her head. “You know me, don’t you?”

  “No, no, I don’t. I don’t know you. I don’t know you!” She repeated the words, whispering, crying, shouting them.

  The sticky mess covered the floor, covered her hands; she couldn’t scrub it off her naked body. Now a new color was added: red, blood red, it flowed over her hands. With it came a new smell, not sweet at all. Salty, coppery.

  Death was in that smell, was inside her as she breathed it in. She began to choke and gag, tearing at her flesh.

  “Get it off! Get it off!” she cried out, her voice startling her awake.

  Her eyes were open; she was in her room, in her bed. Clawing at the sheets, tears streaming down her face, mingling with the sweat that poured from her as terror stampeded her pulse. Then a man’s form appeared in the doorway.

  Instead of fueling her fear, she felt calmed. Seth rushed to her side, pulling her tight into his arms, rocking her, cooing soft nonsense words until she could breathe again.

  “I’m okay,” she whispered, her voice still hoarse from her panic.

  “You’re okay.” Seth soothed her hair with his fingers. “You’re okay.”

  Her lips and fingers tingled from hyperventilating. Her head pounded as adrenaline and fear subsided. She held a hand out before her. No paint, no blood.

  “I’m okay.” This time it was a statement of fact. She slid free of Seth’s embrace and threw back the covers. Her nightgown was soaked through with sweat, reeking of fear.

  She went into the bathroom, stripped naked, and showered the stench away. By the time she emerged, dressed in clean pajamas, wrapped in a comforting flannel robe, Seth was waiting for her in the kitchen, a pot of milk heating on the stove.

  “Half cocoa, half cinnamon tea, just the way you like it,” he said, mixing the concoction he had created for her night terrors when they’d lived together.

  She took the mug from him and withdrew to the living room to avoid the mess he’d left behind in her kitchen. She’d deal with it in the morning.

  Curling up on the chair, she sipped the soothing drink. “I wish DeBakey were here.”

  Seth walked in, carrying his own mug, and sat on the side of the couch nearest to her. “You can come home. Anytime. Or he can come here. Anytime. You know that.”

  She shrugged one shoulder. She did know that. But she didn’t have the heart to confuse the dog. Not to mention breaking her heart fresh every time she’d have to see Seth to exchange custody. Hard enough to see him at work where she could divorce her feelings from her job.

  “Who’s taking care of him tonight?”

  “Bradley.” The kid who lived next door and whose mother was deathly allergic to dogs. Or so she said. She didn’t seem to have any problem with Bradley watching DeBakey before and after school and on nights when Seth was on call. “He’s having a hard time with his dad again, so I think he sees our place as a refuge. Kid’s practically been living there since I came back on the trauma service.”

  Nora nodded. Bradley’s dad traveled for work and was a strict disciplinarian when he was home, which wasn’t often.

  A comfortable silence settled between them. She finished her drink but pretended to keep sipping, not wanting to leave Seth’s company. Things had been so good—she and Seth, what they had had was good. Until she made the mistake of telling him about her rape.

  Then things had changed. Seth had changed. Watching her constantly—she’d seen the questions in his eyes, but he never asked them aloud. He was solicitous, but after that night when she’d told him, he hadn’t tried to make love to her again. Barely touched her. Like she would break—or was already broken.

  Not that their love life had ever been stellar. She’d always wondered why a guy as handsome as Seth, a guy who could have any woman he wanted, had put up with her. She tried her best to act normal during sex, but it was always an act, he had to know that. And then there were her night terrors, her fear of the dark, her panic attacks.

  No wonder it had been so easy to believe that he’d turned to a woman like Karen. Karen could meet his needs—all of them. Fun, sexy, beautiful Karen. Perfect for Seth, the answers to his prayers.

  Anger burned through her. That she’d been so stupid—that he had let her go. Even if she believed his sleepwalking excuse, that didn’t explain everything. He must have wanted to let her go, and his subconscious had sent him into Karen’s arms. Made it possible for them to break up without him telling her the real reason: she was damaged goods.

  She stood up and set the mug on the table, resisting the urge to take it to the kitchen and wash it. “I’m going back to bed.”

  He sat on the couch, elbows on his thighs, looking up at her, holding his mug with two hands. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He gave her a sharp look. “Right.”

  “Okay, maybe I’m not. But I’m alive. That’s got to count for something.” Her anger spilled over into her words, giving them an edge. It felt good.

  “Of course it does.” He got up, leaving his mug beside hers on the coffee table. He stepped around the table to her side. “Nora—”

  “No, Seth. Don’t.” She grabbed the mugs and fled to the kitchen. He followed, watching from a safe distance as she gave in to the urge to clean up, finding solace in the repetitive movements.

  “Don’t what?” he finally asked as her movements grew less frenzied. “Try to help?”

  “Just don’t. It’s hard enough taking care of myself right now. I just don’t—” She turned to him, a damp sponge in her hand, her voice cracking. “I don’t have energy to worry about you, too.”

  His face creased, and she thought he might cry. Instead, he stepped to her. He took the sponge from her, threw it in the sink, and took her hand, leading her to her bedroom. “Why don’t you try letting me do the worrying for a change?”

  He tucked her in as if she were a child—and it felt good to let someone else take charge, even if it was only for a few moments. She didn’t feel like she was surrendering or giving anything up, more that she was being taken care of. Cherished.

  She’d forgotten how good that felt. Decadent. So much better than any spa day indulgence. Just a man caring for a woman.

  Her anger and churned-up emotions calmed as she watched him double-check her window locks and turn all the lights on—he knew she couldn’t sleep in the dark. But then he surprised her, crawling in on the other side of the bed.

  “Seth—”

  “Shhh . . . ,” he murmured, spooning her, fitting just right. “I’m only going to hold you, be here for you. That’s all. It’s okay to need something every once in a while. And right now you need sleep.”

  His words whispered against the back of her head as she finally nodded her assent and relaxed in his embrace. Then, before she realized it, she fell asleep.

  17

  Amanda woke with a groan. She’d promised the Millers she’d stay with Zachary to give them time to go home, sleep in their own bed, see their other children, shower, and feel normal for a few hours at least. That had meant catching a short nap curled up in the vinyl bed-chair at Zachary’s bedsid
e.

  “Morning,” Lucas’s voice greeted her. No surprise; the man put early birds to shame, barely needed sleep at all. One of the few things she hated about him. “Let’s get you some breakfast.”

  She glanced at Zachary—the monitor readings were stable—then stood and stretched. “I don’t know how parents sleep in those things,” she said indicating the combo chair-recliner-bed. “There are lumps and pokes where I didn’t even know I had places to poke.”

  “It’s this rotation. You’re losing weight. Breakfast?”

  “Can’t. I have to get my numbers for rounds.” She did manage to surreptitiously grasp his hand as she moved past him to look over the ECMO tech’s shoulder. To her surprise, he actually held on for a long moment.

  “Got ’em.” Lucas handed her a sheaf of papers.

  “That’s cheating. I have to do my own work.” Usually the junior member of the team—in this case, Amanda—prerounded on every patient in the ICU, collecting the lab values and vital signs from overnight. It was tedious work, deciphering nurses’ notes scrawled on patient bedside charts, but important to facilitate the changeover from the on-call team to the new team.

  “It’s two minutes on the computer—and you said nothing good would ever come from electronic medical records. C’mon.”

  The ECMO tech chuckled. “Listen to the man, Amanda. Zachary’s cool. You need to learn to grab food when you can if you’re going to survive this place.”

  Amanda glanced at Zachary’s peaceful face, then brushed her hand over his forehead. “Okay, let’s go.”

  They walked down the stairs from the fourth floor to the cafeteria, unabashedly holding hands now that they had privacy. Amanda loved the way Lucas treated her like she was Scarlett O’Hara—a lady to be wooed, courted. Sometimes his old-fashioned values and propriety unleashed her impatience, but they never failed to charm her.

  “So, you remember Dr. Frantz’s patient?” Amanda asked Lucas.

  “Which one? The kid I did the LP on, or the kid you’re trying to find a diagnosis for?”

  “Both. They met last night—really hit it off. It was kind of fun to see, opposites attract and all that. I mean, he’s a rich kid, obnoxious, annoying as hell—but with her, he was really sweet, caring. And she’s come all the way from Africa to this foreign land, dirt poor, trying to make a new life only to get sick. Of all things, it was spending time with Tank, not any of our medicine, that made Narolie feel better.”

  “Romeo and Juliet,” he said, a sly smile crossing his face. “Be careful. You know how that turned out.”

  She skipped a few steps ahead, pulling him along with her. She’d hit her postcall, sleep-deprived euphoria, the second wind that would soon die and leave her crashing.

  “I know. But you should have seen them.” She sighed. “I just hope I can figure out what’s wrong with Narolie.”

  “She still vomiting?”

  “Stopped finally, last night. Said she had a headache, but that was better as well. I did a complete history and physical—no aura of migraines and no pattern I can find.”

  “Hmmm. Are the symptoms worse in the morning? Could be an intracranial process. Mass effect from a tumor or abscess. Sometimes they don’t show up on a regular CT, especially if they’re in the posterior fossa.”

  “I know. I wish I could figure out a way to consult you without Frantz knowing about it.”

  “No can do. I’d love to help out, but I need to be able to document it.”

  “And you can’t do that without an official consult.” They pushed open the door to the cafeteria and dropped hands. Amanda missed his touch immediately. Somehow Lucas always made her feel better, smarter, stronger than she really was. “I need to find something this morning before Dr. Frantz kicks her out of the hospital.”

  Lucas considered. “Maybe that’s the answer. Let him discharge her and I’ll re-admit her to my service.”

  Wow. Amanda turned to him, stunned. It was the perfect solution—except she couldn’t let him do it. “You don’t even know if it is a neuro problem, Lucas. Besides, I can’t let you fight my battles. I’ll figure something out.”

  “If that’s what you want.” Lucas rarely argued with her—he seemed to think she was smart enough to make her own decisions.

  Although she enjoyed that he respected her that much, sometimes she wished he’d pull rank as an attending and step in. Even if she couldn’t ask him to.

  Damn, had she just let her sense of pride doom Narolie’s only chance at being cured?

  Nora woke certain of one thing: that she had to tell Jerry Boyle everything. Then she could find the strength to deal with Seth and, maybe, rebuild their relationship.

  But she couldn’t face Jerry alone, so after Seth left, she drove over to Lydia’s. Nestled at the end of a cul-de-sac, Lydia’s house was the old cemetery caretaker’s cottage. The mature hemlocks, spruce, and arborvitae surrounding it gave it a Thomas Kincaid feeling, as if it sat alone in the countryside rather than the center of a busy Pittsburgh neighborhood.

  Nora walked up the path leading to Lydia’s front door. Amanda had planted flowerbeds on either side—partly as a housewarming gift to Lydia and partly to assuage her homesickness for her family’s gardens in South Carolina. Nora recognized chrysanthemum, lavender, the spiky twigs of rosebushes, and a lovely winter surprise: velvet-soft pansies in purple and gold. The only Christmas decoration was an evergreen wreath with a large black-and-gold Steelers ribbon that hung on the front door. Trey’s contribution, she was sure. Lydia didn’t seem the holiday-decorating type.

  She hesitated. It was early, but Lydia kept strange hours—Nora had even spied her going for runs alone in the dark after midnight shifts ended. Trey’s red pickup truck was parked in the driveway, but it was almost seven, and he’d surely be leaving for his shift soon. As she rang the doorbell she heard voices inside.

  They didn’t sound so happy. The chimes punctuated the sharp sounds. Were Lydia and Trey fighting? It seemed so unlike them. Lydia always seemed to find something to rile her passions—but Trey? In all the years Nora had known him, she’d never once heard him raise his voice, not even when in the midst of traumas that had descended into chaos.

  She wished she could take back ringing the doorbell, leave and come again, but it was too late. Trey yanked open the door, then blinked in surprise. “Nora. What are you doing here?”

  “Is Lydia in?”

  He scowled and turned to shout over his shoulder, “Lydia! It’s Nora.” His expression softened as he faced Nora again, ushering her into the living room. “Are you okay? I heard what happened yesterday, that you were the one to find Karen.”

  “I’m fine. Thanks.” Felt weird to offer thanks for anything that happened yesterday.

  He shifted his weight, then picked up his gear bag. “Well, I’d best be going or I’ll be late. Lydia’s in the kitchen.” Again the frown. “Maybe you can talk some sense into her.”

  Before she could ask, he left, slamming the door behind him. A few moments later, the engine of his pickup revved and he squealed out of the driveway.

  “Nora, what are you doing here?” Lydia appeared in the archway between the living room and dining room. “Is everything okay?”

  No. Everything was not okay. Everything was very wrong. Because in her hand, Lydia held a gun.

  Nora froze, not able to take her eyes off the handgun. “Lydia, you have a gun? I don’t believe it. You’re a doctor, for God’s sake—”

  “Lots of doctors have guns,” Lydia said, looking down at the pistol as if she hadn’t even realized she held it. She led Nora into the kitchen, where a gray plastic carrying case and boxes of ammunition lay on the table. “Besides, this is Pennsylvania. Everyone here has a gun. You all have like a state holiday on the first day of deer season.”

  “That’s different. That’s hunting. Putting food on the table. This”—Nora gestured at the gun—“this is to kill a person.”

  “Not kill.” Lydia placed the gun into the
foam cutouts that lined the case. It wasn’t very large; it was black with etched crisscrosses and a silver bull’s-eye on the grip, and it definitely looked like it could kill. Nora was glad when Lydia shut the lid on it. “Not necessarily. But definitely stop them.”

  “Lydia! You’re talking about shooting someone. A human being.”

  “I’m talking about self-defense.” Lydia grabbed her gun case. “Anyway, I’m late. Boyle’s waiting.”

  “This is why you’re meeting Jerry?” Nora gestured to the case. She’d thought they were meeting to discuss Karen.

  “We meet to shoot a few times a month. He helped me get my carry permit.”

  “What does Trey think about all this?”

  Lydia grimaced. “He hates it. Trey thinks the world’s problems would be solved by buying a Christmas tree and singing carols.”

  Gina rubbed her eyes. She hadn’t even bothered with makeup; she’d rolled out of bed and into the shower, thrown some clothes on, and rushed to start her shift in the ER. No sleep last night—she couldn’t get Ken Rosen’s words out of her mind. That she shouldn’t marry Jerry.

  The idea wouldn’t leave her any peace. Not because she thought Ken was right about Jerry being wrong for her. Rather because she began to think about Jerry—what if she was wrong for him? What if she made his life miserable?

  Why hadn’t she told Ken that she loved Jerry?

  And when she had drifted off, it was only to be awakened by nightmares of her running alone down a Homewood street, a car filled with gunmen behind her, no idea where to go. Or worse, the ultimate nightmare: Gina living with her parents again, bowing to their will, trying to appease and please them.

  Jerry wasn’t like that, she thought as she arrived at the ER’s locker room and changed into scrubs for her shift in the ER. He would never ask her to change just to suit him. But did he really know and understand her? Or had she just put on another act, a different act, for him like she had all her life with her parents? What would happen when Jerry discovered the real her?