by CJ Lyons
"What did you think?"
"I'm not entirely sure. I get good vibes from Mom. I think she's caring and really invested in Antwan, but the household sounds rather chaotic. She's worried about losing her job–said they already almost fired her because she mixed some chemicals while cleaning. She's doesn't want to go on welfare, that's something she was very clear about. But she has no idea how she's going to pay for this hospital bill or what she'll do if Antwan is permanently disabled. I think we have a long road ahead of us whatever we decide." She watched as Cassie frowned at her words.
"Can she read?" Cassie asked.
"She's a high school graduate, for what that's worth. But I didn't ask her about her reading skills." Patience, Adeena counseled herself. But she sensed another of Cassie's crusades coming on. Why couldn't she just learn to leave work at work like everyone else? Why did she always have to borrow trouble?
"Maybe she can't read. That would explain her mixing the wrong chemicals together at work, what if she thought the ibuprofen samples we gave her were the same as the Augmentin?"
Adeena shook her head. "I don't think so. I think you want to let her off the hook because you like her."
"I just think she's a caring, hard-working mother and I don't want to see her child taken away from her, that's all. I'm not saying she didn't make a mistake."
"I like her too, but I have to be an advocate for Antwan. I don't think removal is the best answer, but I do think that support services are necessary. And I think very close supervision will be needed, especially if Antwan requires any long term care."
"So you're going to call CYS."
"Yes. That's the best way to get the services that Antwan and his mother will need."
"Just because Sterling asks you to, you're going to ruin that woman's life."
Adeena watched as Cassie blew out her breath, got to her feet and began to pace the cramped office like a mother lion protecting her cubs. A lion itching for a fight. Right now, Adeena was happy to oblige.
"You know better than that," she snapped. "Stop pissing off everyone and start living in the real world. Either that or take more time off, get your head on straight again."
"Can't you ever cut anyone a break?" Cassie asked, her voice taking on an edge.
Adeena dropped her stack of charts the desk with a loud thud. "Now you're going to do my job, too? What the hell's gotten into you? When did you start to think that the M.D. after your name stands for Major Diety?"
"That's not true, and you know it. I just think–"
"No, that's the problem. You're not thinking. You're reacting. And you of all people should know that the ER is no place to rely on instincts."
"But–"
"But, what? I shouldn't do the job that I've trained for and been doing for eight years now? Karl Sterling shouldn't believe Virginia Ulrich because you don't like the way she looks? The police should give you a Junior Marshall Badge and you can do their job for them, too?"
Cassie flinched. Adeena gave her one of her best face-the-music stares. Cassie surprised her by looking down, then she sank into her chair and was silent.
Adeena sighed and lowered her voice. "Face it, you made a mistake. You've been traumatized. You're overreacting, imagining dangers that aren't there. You shouldn't have pushed yourself to come back so soon. You weren't ready. Maybe you should take more time off."
Adeena knew what she was asking of Cassie. But she was more worried about Cassie's future, about the damage she was doing to herself by pushing herself to the edge like this.
"Just think about it, all right? And remember, I'm always here for you."
<><><>
Virginia Ulrich ran her fingers through her son's curly hair and smiled at her husband. "He looks just like you when he's asleep," she told him.
The nurses had found her a glider rocker so she could hold Charlie without straining her back. Not that she had much of a lap left to hold him on, but he was tiny for his age. And if he died before Samantha was born, it might be Samantha's only chance to be near her big brother. "Certain you don't want to hold him?"
Paul flinched and shifted his weight away from them. "No. Remember last time?"
"That wasn't your fault," she assured him. "He had a choking spell, that's why he stopped breathing, you know that."
Her husband hunched, his hands in his pockets of his designer suit, safely tucked away where they could do no harm. His eyes widened as he took in the dizzying array of medical equipment.
Lights of every color blinked and swirled, mysterious numbers comprising an alien language flashed above them. Virginia prided herself on being able to interpret all the medical technicalities, it was important to know what was going on every second in a place like this. But she understood how overwhelming it could be for Paul.
"Better safe than sorry," he said. "I talked to Sterling about Hart. He said he'd make certain that she stayed far away from Charlie."
"Thank you. I know how busy you are."
"Alan King is going to talk to his brother, see if Richard might know anything useful about her as well."
"I might call Richard myself," Virginia said, although she dreaded the thought of seeing the once-vibrant man reduced to such a weakened state. "I want to see how he's recovering."
Paul glanced at his watch. "I've got to get going," he told her, leaning down to kiss her forehead. Gingerly, he patted Charlie's blonde curls, taking care not to disturb any of the medical apparatus. He bumped into the IV pole as he turned to leave, tripped, then swore as he righted it once more. He practically ran from their bedside.
"Good night," Virginia said, returning her attention to Charlie.
She didn't disturb the IV tubing as she rocked him. Charlie moved slightly, and the monitor alarm sounded. Damn thing was too sensitive, always going off at the slightest movement. Virginia reached up and turned it off.
Charlie needed his sleep after everything he'd been through; all the poking and prodding. More blood work, another chest X-ray, an orthopedic resident manhandling him, placing a splint on the leg where Cassandra Hart had drilled into his bone.
At least the nurses were nice. They let her give Charlie a sponge bath and showed her how to change the dressing on his leg so that no infection would creep into his bone.
Maybe later today they'd let Charlie eat. She had that much to look forward to. Little enough, but it would be a comfort for Charlie.
Of course they still had no answers. Even Dr. Sterling seemed disappointed. He'd scheduled more tests–a MRI of Charlie's head and another EEG. More doctors would be visiting also: neurology, pulmonary medicine and a new specialist in metabolic diseases.
She'd have to tell Charlie's and George's stories over and over again, each doctor asking the same questions. After everything that had happened with George, she doubted that they'd have any answers for her, but she was willing to try anything.
God, she was so tired. If she could just rest her eyes for a moment.
Charlie's jerking startled her. He was having a full-blown seizure this time, his lips and face a dreadful shade of blue.
"Someone help me!" Virginia called out. Immediately the curtain that gave them what little privacy they could get was pulled back and Gail, one of the day shift nurses, was there. Virginia thrust Charlie's tiny body at her. "He's having a seizure."
"It's okay, Virginia, we'll take care of him," Gail said as she slid Charlie onto the bed and grabbed the oxygen. "Page the resident, stat! And get me respiratory, he's gone apneic," she called over to one of her colleagues.
Virginia turned the monitor back on and hovered near the head of the bed. "Is there anything I can do?"
"How long ago did the seizure start?"
"I called you right away. I've never seen anything like this–please help him. Someone call Dr. Sterling, please!" Virginia pleaded, rubbing her belly. Samantha was kicking like crazy, agitated by what was happening to her brother, no doubt.
The resident arrived and took over. "I'll
call him right now, Mrs. Ulrich," she told Virginia. "You'll have to step outside for a moment."
The ward clerk ushered Virginia through the sliding doors that guarded the entrance to the PICU.
Virginia looked back through the glass doors, frustrated that she couldn't be with Charlie. She ought to be used to it by now. How many times had they kicked her out of the room when George was taking a turn for the worse? She just wished that the doctors and nurses realized how awful it was for family to be shunted aside at the very times when their children needed them most.
She sighed. She could only hope that Charlie was in good hands.
Virginia walked across to the family waiting area. For once the telephone was available so she called Paul on his cell phone.
"Yes?" he sounded annoyed and tired.
"It's me. Can you come back to the hospital?"
"What happened? How's Charlie?"
"Not so good. He had another seizure. They're putting him on the ventilator."
Silence. She could picture his jaw tightening. Paul was a man of few words, but strong emotions.
"I'll be right there, I just have to get Thayer to take over this depo." He hung up.
Virginia slumped down in the chair. The father of one of the other children in the PICU came in. He looked even worse than she felt, unshaven with that panic-stricken gaze of a parent about to see his child leave this earth before him. Virginia nodded to him but he ignored her, just stood by the window, looking out with unfocused eyes, his posture one of defeat.
She stood and left the room. She'd seen that look too many times before, parents too wrapped up in their own situations to interact with anyone else. But she needed to talk to someone, someone who could help her understand what was going on with Charlie. Ingoring the signs asking her not to use her cell phone, Virginia dialed Richard King's home number.
<><><>
"Zone Seven, Major Case Squad, Detective Wallace speaking. Hi, Mrs. Drake. Yes, he is. Oh yes, we're very pleased to have him back with us." Wallace waggled his fingers at Drake and propped his feet on Drake's desk as he spoke. "Oh no, Mrs. Drake, we're not overworking him. No ma'am, wouldn't dream of it."
Wallace held the phone away from Drake, swiveling out of reach. Drake lunged for the receiver, yanking it from the other detective's hand.
"Don't you have work to do?" he asked, sliding into his desk chair once Wallace leveraged his bulk out of it. "Mom, why are you calling me here?"
"Is that anyway to greet your mother?" Muriel Drake demanded.
"Sorry. Hi, Mom, how are you? How's the weather?"
"I'm fine except for worrying myself sick about you. You weren't at home when I called, three times. I knew you went back to work too soon, you're working yourself too hard–"
"Take a breath, Mom. I'm fine. I just came in to get caught up on paperwork, you know how that is."
"The doctors said you shouldn't push yourself too hard."
"Mom, the doctor cleared me for duty, said I was fine."
"Still." Muriel paused, and Drake hoped she'd run out of steam. "I think I should come up there, you need someone to look after you. There's a flight," she paused, "Thursday, gets in at four-twenty."
"How do you know that?" Drake had long ago accepted that his mother was omniscient in many things, but airline schedules?
"Just got that high speed Internet. And a new computer to go with it."
Great, just what the world needed, Muriel Drake had entered the information age. "Really Mom, there's no need–"
"It's no problem at all. Maybe this trip I'll be able to meet that doctor you've been talking about."
Drake rubbed a hand over his cheek, remembering the sting of Hart's slap. He looked down at the murder books scattered over his desktop and decided to change the subject. "Did Dad ever mention a case he was working, back before he was promoted?"
"Your dad never talked about his work, Remy, you know that," she said, using his childhood nickname. "Maybe if he had, he would have lived longer. You remember that when you get married."
"Yes, ma'am." Married? Rate he was going, he might never date again. The thought left him feeling empty. He shrugged it aside. He and Hart would work things out–they just needed time, that's all. Time and space.
And trust. A little communication wouldn't hurt. And the ability to be in the same room without arguing.
Damn, this was going to be a lot harder than he ever imagined. Was it worth it?
Muriel's voice pulled him back to the present. "Fine. I'll see you in two days. You'll pick me up, won't you?"
"Yes."
"Bye then."
Drake hung up and ran his fingers through his hair. What had he done to deserve this? First Hart was pissed at him–and she had no right to be, because he was right. Now his mother was coming for a visit. And he needed time to go through these case files in detail, see where the next step led in tracking a killer.
He gathered the papers together, then spotted the sketch of the Trevasians' dog. He'd promised the kids he'd take a look. Wouldn't hurt to swing by on his way home.
Drake lifted the hefty bundle of murder books and trudged downstairs to his car. He tried hard not to think about the fact that Hart wouldn't be waiting for him, but couldn't help wishing for a glimpse of her smile, the healing touch of her hands, anything to take away this foreboding that had overcome him. This feeling that somewhere out there a killer was getting ready to strike again.
<><><>
Cassie's ankle screamed at her with each step she climbed as she walked back up the three flights to the PICU. But her nerves were much too jangled to consider taking an elevator. She hated the tiny metal boxes of doom even in the best of circumstances.
She crept into the ICU through the back door, feeling like a spy crossing into enemy territory. She wanted to warn Tammy Washington about the CYS referral before someone less sympathetic, like Sterling, did. Once at the nurses' station, she looked over at Charlie's bedside and was surprised to see him on a ventilator. What happened?
Cassie approached the nurse taking care of Charlie. "When did he go on the vent?"
The nurse looked up, annoyed by the interruption. "He had another seizure, went apneic."
"Was the mother here?"
"Of course she was. Virginia almost never leaves his bedside." The nurse bent to chart a set of vitals.
"Did you see the seizure? What kind was it?" Cassie pressed.
"Generalized tonic clonic. Now really, Dr. Hart, I have work to do."
"Did you see the start of it? Was it focal in the beginning?"
"No, I didn't see it. Virginia was holding him and had the curtains closed. But she's an excellent observer, and she said that it was generalized." The nurse straightened and faced Cassie. "I understand your interest in Charlie, Dr. Hart. But we do know what we're doing up here–"
"I wasn't trying to imply that you didn't. I was curious because the seizure activity I saw in the ER was focal, that's all."
The nurse said nothing, merely turned her back and continued her work. Cassie wandered over to the nurses' station. Usually the PICU nurses were over-protective. Obviously they held no suspicions about Virginia Ulrich.
Cassie found Charlie's old charts stacked at the rack behind the desk. She didn't want to sit out in front, reading them where everyone could watch her, so she took them around the corner to the tiny break room. She poured herself a cup of coffee, sat and began to read.
Charlie's course was a little less rocky, but even more perplexing than his brother's had been. Because of George's history, he was placed on the monitor immediately after birth. He had apparently thrived until he was four months old. The day after his four month checkup, when he received his second set of immunizations, he had a cyanotic spell that required CPR.
Again the cycle of hospitalization, diagnostic testing and discharge home began. Again the long list of medications that kept on growing, the failure to gain weight and then weight loss, special formula mixtures and
no diagnosis found.
George's downhill decline had been very rapid over the two to three months before his death. Charlie's course seemed more of a roller coaster ride. Devastating setbacks followed by spectacular improvements.
Improvements which, according to the nursing and social work notes, seemed wholly the product of Virginia Ulrich's dedication and untiring devotion to Charlie, rather than to any miracle of modern medicine. No wonder the nurses were so protective of Virginia.
Sterling's notes seemed to indicate that he had reached the conclusion that the affliction both Charlie and his brother endured was genetic in origin. He counseled against further pregnancies and Cassie was surprised to see in one clinic note an undercurrent of anger as he wrote that Virginia was pregnant again.
Charlie was hospitalized afterwards for unrelenting vomiting and dehydration. Even in the hospital he continued to have problems and exploratory surgery was done to look for a malrotation of his intestines.
She read the nursing notes from after the surgery. The surgeon had found no abnormalities but had removed his appendix anyway. Charlie had an uneventful recovery. They were able to feed him once more and weaned him from his medications. But Cassie noted that the nurses commented that his mother was not present for the week after Charlie's surgery. A social work note explained why. Mrs. Ulrich had suffered a miscarriage.
Charlie continued to improve and was able to go home. At his next clinic visit, Sterling's tone was optimistic, and he commented that Mr. Ulrich was planning to undergo a vasectomy.
Obviously not soon enough, given Virginia Ulrich's current advanced state of pregnancy. And, if Cassie was right, until another child replaced him, Charlie remained valuable to his mother. Her hands tightened into fists and she rolled her shoulders to try to ease the tension there. Even for a cynic like her, it felt unnatural to be thinking these thoughts about a mother.
She closed the chart. Still nothing that gave her any proof, but now it was more critical than ever that she do something to protect Charlie. But what?