by C. J. Lyons
“Nice call,” Ken told her as he added the results of the wet prep to Tank’s medical record. “Can’t believe we all missed that yesterday.”
“Fever, a piss-poor history, and without any scratching they looked like petechiae. Besides, who ever heard of scabies that didn’t itch?” Gina said graciously, although she was rather proud of herself. Not even Lydia Fiore or Lucas Stone had thought of scabies. Poor kid probably caught them at school—oh boy, she wished she could see the look on Nurse Pritchard’s face when they told her.
She watched Ken type and thought about what her mother had told her about his family. She should say something. Or maybe she shouldn’t.
Before she could decide, Amanda and Lucas rushed a gurney down the hallway at a breakneck pace. “We need a room,” Lucas called out as Amanda bagged oxygen into their patient.
Gina glanced at the board. “Take Trauma Two.” She jogged over to join them. “What’s going on?”
“Intermittent asystole,” Lucas said as the nurses quickly reattached Narolie to the overhead monitor. “She keeps brady ing down and losing her pulse.”
“Let’s get some atropine on board,” Gina ordered, moving to assess Narolie. She watched the monitor. The heart rate was fluctuating from a rapid rate over one hundred to a much-too-slow rate of thirty . . . twenty . . . “Flatline. Is there a pulse?”
“No pulse,” Amanda said, her fingers on Narolie’s carotid. Then a blip appeared on the monitor, followed by another. “Wait. Now I’ve got one.”
“Must be some kind of autonomic dysfunction,” Lucas said.
Gina couldn’t care less—it wouldn’t do Narolie any good to have a diagnosis if they didn’t stabilize her breathing and heart rhythm first.
“Amanda, set up for intubation,” she ordered. “Get me a twelve-lead and a rhythm strip.”
“We should call her aunt,” Amanda said as she grabbed a laryngoscope and endotracheal tube.
“I already did,” Lucas said, “when I saw the MRI. I think they understood me—their English wasn’t very good.”
“Let’s focus here, people,” Gina snapped. Who cared about language skills when the patient was trying hard to die on them? “Amanda, can you do the intubation or should I?”
“I can.” Amanda double-checked her equipment, then stepped alongside the respiratory tech who was bagging oxygen into Narolie through a mask. “Stop bagging.”
Gina watched, nodding in approval as Amanda swiftly forced the endotracheal tube through Narolie’s vocal cords. A few months ago Amanda would have fumbled her way through the procedure, or worse, would have avoided it for fear of failure.
Before she could say anything, the door burst open and a fine-boned black woman in African tribal clothing accompanied by another woman in a business suit appeared. The first woman took one look at Narolie and began crying, pushing past the nurses to rush to her side. She began to speak in a rapid-fire language that was both melodic and harsh at the same time.
“Matokeo ya utafutaji kwa!”
“She’s saying, ‘Oh, my poor, dear girl,’ ” the other woman translated. “She wants to know what happened to Narolie.”
“And you are?” Gina asked.
“Tracy Steward with Catholic Relief Services. We facilitated Narolie and her brother’s arrival here on a P3 visa.”
The aunt began to speak again, this time clutching at Amanda’s arm.
“She wants to know what’s wrong, what she should tell Narolie’s family,” Tracy said.
“I thought she was Narolie’s family,” Amanda said. “Isn’t she her aunt?”
Tracy frowned. “That’s what I was told.” She exchanged words with the aunt, who was now crying, shaking her head. “No, not blood relation. It’s an honorary term. Their families are from the same small village; they treat each other as family even if they aren’t really.”
“If the aunt isn’t a blood relative, does she have legal custody? Can we treat Narolie?” Gina asked.
“It’s an emergency, so that’s not an issue,” Lucas said.
“Of course we’ll treat her,” Amanda put in.
“I’m more concerned with her immigration status,” the translator said. “P3 visas are granted only to blood relations. If her visa is voided, she’ll lose her benefits, could even be repatriated.”
“Repatriated?” Gina asked, not liking the idea of the government interfering with her patient. “Does that mean what I think it means?”
“It means she could be sent back. And not to the refugee camp in Kenya, but to Somalia, her country of birth.”
“How could they possibly send a sick girl back to a place like that?” Amanda asked.
“Don’t worry,” Lucas assured her. “No one’s going anywhere. Not while she’s my patient.”
“That might be a problem,” Gina said. “She’s not your patient. Technically, she’s Frantz’s patient.”
TWENTY-THREE
Friday, 2:02 P.M.
LYDIA FOUND HERSELF SITTING ON THE FLOOR, the cat pressed against her body, as she watched the storm outside, one side of her face numb from the cold as it pressed against the glass. The drops of moisture slipping down the glass were just condensation. At least that’s what she told herself.
She hated feeling like this: churning, empty, uncertain, anxious. She wanted to run, escape the confines of the house, of her memories, and head out into the wind, challenging it to a race. But Ginger Cat was asleep on her lap, weighing her down.
Poor excuse. She wondered if maybe the real reason was the fear that once she started to run, she might never stop.
A sharp rap on the front door broke through her thoughts. She slid Ginger Cat onto the floor, earning a glower, then stood and walked to the door. Tommy Z waited on the other side.
“What do you want?” she asked, stepping onto the porch, resisting the urge to hug herself against the cold.
Tommy was alone. He backed up, yielding to her, one hand fidgeting with the scarf knotted tight around his neck. “Mr. Tillman asked me to come speak with you. He’s concerned—er—about your well-being.”
Lydia stared at Tommy so hard that his rosacea, already blossoming in the cold, flared scarlet. “Mr. Tillman, the CEO of the hospital, told you to come here to my home?”
“Well, no, not exactly. I checked with Glen Bakker and he said you lived over here.” He unbuttoned, then rebuttoned the top button on his coat. “Can we talk?”
She nodded to the porch swing, although she knew he really wanted to get inside the house—both for the warmth as well as for the chance to snoop around. He smiled his thanks and settled into the swing. Lydia sat opposite him. Surrounding the porch, tall hemlocks swayed in the wind, their branches coated silver with the sleet. The rain had slowed and now seemed intent on changing into snow. She was freezing, but refused to let Tommy see.
“What exactly worried you so much that you felt you needed to come to my home on my day off, Mr. Zywchez?”
He winced at her butchering his name. “Zwyczaje. But please, call me Tommy. Everyone does.”
“So you’ve said before. Is that what brought you here? Clarifying your name?”
“Boy, you don’t cut a guy a break, do you? I knew you’d be a tough one, but I’ve counseled plenty of cops and firefighters—even did a stint working with prisoners once. I thought I could handle you, Dr. Fiore. Guess I was wrong.”
Lydia allowed his pause to lengthen. She knew he expected her to jump in and apologize, start talking, but to hell with that. She didn’t like anyone messing with her business—or her head.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all,” he finally said, climbing to his feet once more. “I promised Mr. Tillman I would personally evaluate everyone involved in yesterday’s resuscitation, so I guess we’ll consider you evaluated.”
“What will you tell Tillman?” she asked.
He met her gaze with a sigh. “Mr. Tillman may be my boss, but I don’t work for him,” he said. “I work for what’s best fo
r my clients.”
“Really? Is that why you told Tillman about Nora Halloran’s assault two years ago? Because that was in the best interest of helping Seth Cochran, your client?”
His mouth opened, then closed, like a fish out of water. The color on his cheeks flared to purple. “How dare you! I never—”
“Seth said you implied that you had, said Tillman was gunning for Nora after the rape kit went missing.”
He twisted his scarf so tightly she thought it might choke him. “I’m sorry Dr. Cochran had that impression. I assure you, I never divulged my knowledge of Nora’s past to anyone, including Mr. Tillman.”
She scrutinized him. He seemed truthful. Hard to tell what was hiding behind that snake-oil salesman exterior. “And what will you tell Tillman about our conversation?”
“All I can tell him is that we spoke and that I’m satisfied that no more intervention is necessary.”
“He’s not going to like that. Tillman wants to see me fired. Has ever since I got here.”
“None of my affair. Although given your involvement in recent events, I would suggest that you might consider counseling. It’s not a weakness. Everyone needs someone to talk to. To anchor them.”
“I have someone,” she said, aiming a glance through the windows at Ginger Cat, who watched from the windowsill. Cats counted, didn’t they? And Trey; she had Trey, of course.
Two anchors. More than she’d ever had before in her life.
Tommy’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, glancing at the display. He turned his back to her and spoke for a few minutes, then faced her again. “I need to get back to the hospital. There’s a Somali patient having problems and they need my assistance.”
“Narolie Maxeke?” she asked. “Thirteen-year-old girl? I admitted her yesterday.”
“Apparently she’s not doing so well.” He hesitated. “Thank you, Dr. Fiore. Take care. You know where to find me if you need me.” He cast a worried look up at the clouds hovering overhead and dashed down her porch steps dodging heavy, wet snowflakes.
Lydia watched him go, wondering at his intentions and his sincerity. He was hiding something, she was certain of it.
She paced the porch, then went inside, her cheeks burning as the warmer air hit them. There wasn’t time for them to thaw, though. Grabbing her parka, she headed back out into the cold, heading for Angels of Mercy.
THE DRIVE TO SETH’S BLOOMFIELD TOWN HOUSE—Seth and Nora’s old town house—was spent in silence. The rain had turned to snow that glazed the city streets silver. Seth pulled into the drive. Nora took a moment to look at the place she used to call home.
There were no holiday decorations, but the leaves were raked clean and the flowerbeds she’d planted looked freshly mulched, ready for winter. Usually Seth needed constant reminders to mow the lawn or to do any yard work. But somehow he’d managed to remember without her there.
Nora wondered how much of her nagging he’d ever needed. Or why she’d felt the need to be the “responsible” one in their relationship. Why she couldn’t trust that Seth would act like an adult without her playing mother hen.
So many things she had accepted without thought—reaching back long before the attack on her two years ago. Being the eldest of four with two working parents, she’d always taken on more than most other kids her age. Taking care of her brothers and sister, cooking, cleaning while her parents were at work, helping with homework, disciplining, keeping straight As herself, getting her first job when she was thirteen . . . now that she thought about it, she honestly couldn’t remember having a childhood. It was as if her adulthood had begun before adolescence and she’d never questioned why.
Seth led the way up the front porch, east facing and shrouded in shadows. He unlocked the door and reached inside to turn on the light before stepping aside for her to enter. One of their many rituals: Seth always preceded her into a room and turned on the lights for her.
This time he paused on the threshold, turning back to her. “You weren’t really afraid of the dark because your brother accidentally locked you in a closet when you were kids playing hide-and-seek?”
Nora shook her head. Looked like Seth was also beginning to question their life together. “No.”
His lips flattened. He glanced around the inside of the house before escorting her through the door, one palm pressed against the small of her back.
The place was fairly clean for a bachelor keeping the kind of hours Seth did. Photos of the two of them together greeted her from the mantel and walls of the living room. “Where’s DeBakey?”
“I finally finished fencing in the backyard,” he explained. She followed him into the kitchen.
Standing on his hind legs, his nose pressed against the window of the back door, was the Labrador retriever she and Seth had adopted. Their “baby,” Seth had kidded at the time.
Seth grabbed a large beach towel from a hook and opened the door. DeBakey launched himself inside, spraying mud and water over the floor, the cabinets, and both Seth and Nora. The dog ignored Seth, lunging for Nora, whining when Seth tried to hold him still long enough for a rudimentary drying-off.
Nora was bowled over by the dog’s weight and soon found herself covered in puppy kisses and drowning in dog breath. God, how she had missed this.
“Off! Down, boy, down!” Seth was futilely trying to haul DeBakey off her. The dog ignored him, his full attention concentrated on Nora, his long-lost human.
“It’s all right,” Nora said when she could take in a full breath. “DeBakey, sit!”
The dog immediately sat, his haunches and tail wiggling happily.
“Jeezit, he never listens to me like that.” Seth swiped at the larger puddles of mud with the towel.
“You don’t have the magic Mommy voice,” Nora said, patting DeBakey and scratching behind his ears. “Good boy, DeBakey, good boy.”
Seth joined her on the floor, the dog between them. A circle of family, love, and wet dog fur. Nora’s stomach clenched at the aching familiarity of the scene. Just one night, she reminded herself. She was only here for one night.
“So you lied about why you were afraid of the dark,” Seth said as he scrubbed DeBakey dry with the towel. “I lied, too.”
Nora jerked her head up. “You did?” She hated that her first thought was to wonder if he’d lied about being on call when Karen was attacked. No. It couldn’t be. She hugged DeBakey closer. “When?”
“The first time was right after you told me you were—assaulted. Remember when I told you I’d sprained my wrist playing basketball?”
Relief washed over her. “You moped around all weekend acting like a baby until the swelling went down and you knew you would be able to operate.”
“It wasn’t playing basketball. I was angry and upset and I didn’t want you to see it, so I went to a bar, had a few. Only made things worse.”
She rolled her eyes. Seth was a lightweight when it came to alcohol—something he hated to admit, coming from a family where beers were tossed back as fast as pretzels.
“There was this guy, he was kind of drunk, too, and he was trying to hook up with the waitress, only she wasn’t interested, but he kept pushing and pushing. So I pushed back. Actually I almost hit the guy.” He still wasn’t looking at her, his hands rubbing DeBakey so hard she was surprised the dog had any fur left. “I slammed the bar instead.”
“That was stupid. You could have broken your hand, ended your career.”
He shrugged, stood, and carefully hung the towel on the hook beside the door. DeBakey stayed on the floor with Nora, rolling onto his back so she could rub his belly.
Silence as Seth fiddled with the ends of the towel, making them perfectly even. They both knew it was her need for perfection that had instilled the habit—he couldn’t care less if a towel hung crooked or was wadded up in a corner on the floor.
“Guess we’re both liars,” Seth said, his voice low, his face still turned away from her. “When we made love, you weren’t cryi
ng because you were giddy with passion, were you?”
“No.” The single syllable fell leaden between them.
“Did I ever make you happy?” He spun around to face her, his hands stretched out at his sides.
“Yes.” She remembered the first time they had made love, how awkward and nervous she’d been, but he hadn’t rushed her, had worked with her, leaving the lights on, going slow—she couldn’t even do it the first time, had broken away halfway through, gone to the bathroom, and returned feeling embarrassed and ashamed, but Seth had held her, calmed her, until she relaxed enough to start again. Her throat tightened. “God, yes.”
“When? Please, Nora, I need to know that we weren’t living a lie the entire time we were together. Tell me I managed to do something right.”
The pleading in his voice tore at her heart. “Seth . . .” She trailed off, unable to put her feelings in words, not after so many words had betrayed them both. She settled for facts instead. “When you picked out DeBakey.”
The dog thumped his tail against the floor.
“He was a broken-down, mangy wreck, so skinny his ribs showed, that godawful eye infection that trailed pus everywhere, the way he wouldn’t make eye contact or even stand up. He lay there like he’d lost all hope, given up, but you took one look at him and said, ‘There’s a dog with the heart of a lion.’ You crawled into his cage and stroked him and sang to him until he found the willpower to get up and follow you out.” She choked at the memory, her eyes welling up. “You won both our hearts that day.”
Stray tears slid down her cheeks. Seth blinked as if he were about to cry as well. Then he fell to his knees and gathered her into his arms, holding her for a long moment.
“I might have picked him out,” he said, stroking DeBakey behind the ear as he intertwined his other arm in hers, “but you’re the one who got him to eat and gave him his medicine.” He shuddered at the memory of the eyedrops that had to be given four times a day.
“He was a good patient. Better than most of the humans I’ve dealt with.” She squeezed Seth’s arm. “Including you.”