Critical Condition

by Nicki Edwards

  Weak sunshine pushed its way past the heavy drapes and taunted her headache. Like a jilted lover left at the altar, her usual joie de vivre had vanished. She sank back under the covers. A part of her loved Adam, but since his last visit a bigger part of her was beginning to dislike him for making her become so dependent on him. And in the back of her mind, she couldn’t put aside her concerns about Juliet, whoever she was.

  She desperately longed to talk to someone about their relationship, but there was no one. She had few friends and no siblings. And she’d never talk to her mother about something like this. Not in a zillion years.

  Terri. Just thinking her name was enough to bring more tension to Poppy’s already tight shoulders.

  On the outside looking in, Poppy’s life was a fairy tale. At thirty, she had an enviable figure, was healthy, had a nursing career she was good at and loved, she lived in an amazing apartment overlooking Central Park and she had a gorgeous boyfriend.

  But no one knew it was all a mirage.

  Poppy Faith McDonald was supposedly a much-longed-for baby, born after six expensive cycles of IVF. Unfortunately, following Poppy’s birth, her mother suffered debilitating post-natal depression and never recovered. Depression and anxiety paved the way for deeper mental health issues, which deepened further when Poppy’s father left.

  Her childhood was crappy, her teenage years worse and early adulthood almost unbearable. The moment she’d managed to escape she had. That was five years ago. Yet now, here she was, stuck in neutral, no better off than she had been before she left.

  These days Poppy’s relationship with her mother consisted of brief obligatory phone calls on birthdays, Mother’s Day and at Christmas. Poppy hadn’t been back to Australia in five years and in that time she could count on one hand how many occasions her mother had made contact with her. Poppy was always the one to make the first move.

  That made her think about Adam again. When was the last time he’d called her? He usually only called to let her know when to expect him next. He never called her to chat, to ask how her day was, to see how she was. He never asked her about her hopes, her dreams, her plans for the future. He never asked about her past, what made her tick, what made her who she was. He knew nothing about her upbringing or her life back in Australia. It was all about him, only him, always.

  Why had that never troubled her before? Or had it and she’d pushed it aside, believing his constant promises that one day the two of them would be together?

  She picked up her phone and opened up the Google images search engine. She didn’t know Juliet’s last name but it probably wouldn’t be too difficult to find out, especially if she was an actress. She typed in “Adam Ford and Juliet” just to see what popped up and waited for the images to load. She scrolled through pages of pictures of Adam, the majority of them from red carpet events. She’d seen most of them before.

  When she’d found out he was an actor, she’d initially been star struck and searched for every online image of him she could find. Now, because she was so removed from his movie set world, she sometimes forgot he was famous.

  She scrolled through pages and pages of pictures. Other than the posed movie premiere photos of him smiling directly at the camera, there was the occasional grainy paparazzi shot of him on the streets of Hollywood grabbing a coffee, but that was it. He rarely had a woman on his arm on the red carpet or on the street, and when he did, it was either an older woman, presumably his mother, or one of his female co-stars.

  But one stunning woman appeared on his arm more frequently than others. Was this Juliet?

  Poppy tried to zoom in to get a closer look but it was too difficult on her phone. Jumping out of bed, she grabbed her laptop and turned it on. Seconds later she stared at the photo on the Hollywood Hookups and Breakups website, then read the bold heading.

  The seven-year itch. Adam Ford and Juliet Atkins. Is it over?

  Poppy read on, mesmerized.

  It may all be over for one of Hollywood’s most reclusive couples. Sources confirm top fashion model Juliet Atkins has her mind set on divorcing Adam Ford after seven years of marriage. “They’ve had issues for a while,” says an insider close to the pair. What sort of issues have plagued the model and her husband? “There was tension over where to live,” the source says. “Atkins yearns to move back to New York to be closer to her family, while Ford insists they stay in L.A. for his work.” A friend says Atkins’ ongoing infertility issues are the real reason for the couple’s breakup.

  Poppy slammed the laptop lid closed and sat bolt upright in bed as though struck by lightning. He was married?

  She opened the screen, stared again in disbelief, and then read the article from the beginning. She didn’t care that it was a trashy not-to-be-trusted website and she didn’t care that the “loved-up pair” were getting a divorce. He was married! And he’d cheated on his wife. With her! Poppy felt sick.

  She zoomed through photos of Juliet. Reed thin, beanpole tall, perfectly white capped teeth. Every bit a famous fashion model.

  Everything became clear. She climbed out of bed and dragged herself to the lounge room. Staring unseeing at the view, a tear formed. She brushed it away. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of crying. She began to pace around the apartment. How could she be so naïve? No wonder he went to great lengths to make sure they were never seen together in public! It wasn’t about protecting her, it was about protecting him! What a creep.

  She let out a frustrated sigh as the reality of the last five years came into focus. She’d allowed herself to become caught in the trappings that came from being with Adam Ford. The apartment, the gifts, the clothes. Bile forced itself up her throat. In truth she was little more than a princess trapped in a leaning tower of silver and glass, kept for his pleasure.

  Damn him.

  If only she could go back to the day they’d first met so she could turn him down. But it was too late. She’d lost her head and heart to him the day he took her long-held virginity. Worse still, she now realized somewhere along the way she’d lost part of herself too, but she refused to dwell on that right now. If she did, no bucket in the world would be big enough to collect her tears.

  For five years she’d been kidding herself. Adam Ford was a liar. He never intended to make their relationship permanent. Why would he? No way would he throw away everything for her. A nobody. He was never going to leave Juliet for her. Ever. Which meant one thing. He was using her. And that made her no different than a —

  Once more a wave of nausea washed over her. She needed a shower to rid herself of the muck that felt like it was clinging to her skin.

  She entered the oversized bathroom, stripped down and waited until the water was so hot she could hardly stand under it before stepping into the shower and allowing the water to scald her skin. Ten minutes later she shut off the taps and stood, staring at her reflection in the mirror. If her future wasn’t with Adam, did that mean her future wasn’t in America either?

  The idea slapped her in the face.

  Her movements as she dressed and ate breakfast were semi-automatic, but her mind raced a million miles an hour in circles. Even if Juliet left Adam, like the gossip said, there was no way Poppy wanted him now. So what was the point in staying in America? Sure, she had her job and she enjoyed it, but she could be a nurse anywhere. Should she go back to Australia? But if she did, where would she go? She didn’t have a home anymore. Should she go somewhere else instead?

  She sighed heavily and reached for the bottle of Tylenol. She downed two tablets and massaged her pulsating temples.

  How was she going to tell Adam she’d found out about his wife? He almost never answered her calls so that wouldn’t work. She didn’t even know his address in L.A. so she could hardly get on a plane, rock up on his doorstep and confront him. It meant only one thing. She had to wait until he came to New York again. And history said that could be days, or weeks, or even months.

  She switched on the television, hoping it would
take her mind off her swirling thoughts, but Oprah was interviewing someone on the steps of the Opera House and that was Poppy’s undoing. Sudden tears pricked her eyes and even though she brushed them away, fresh ones fell in their place.

  First, bumping into the Aussie bloke and his daughter the week before and now Oprah. Were they divine signs she was supposed to go home? She promised herself if there was a third one, she’d book her flights immediately and walk out on Adam without a word of explanation.

  Excitement sparked. It was only a tiny flicker, but for the first time in a long time Poppy felt renewed. Today was a new day, and new days always held the promise of new beginnings.

  Unfortunately, by the time she left for work, the sun was gone, hidden by rain-laden clouds. Within seconds of stepping out her front door her umbrella turned in on itself, forcing her to run to work, making the usual ten-minute walk in less than six. And as the heavy rain fell, it quickly dampened all thoughts of hopeful new beginnings.

  Once again, Poppy’s mood nosedived.

  *

  Despite the weather, Poppy ended up having a good shift. Sometimes wet weather brought more people to the emergency department. Today it was keeping them away.

  The morning had started slowly with an empty waiting room and near empty department, but before lunch a young woman came in with her toddler son, causing Poppy’s sixth sense to awaken.

  The beefy boy sat quietly on his mother’s lap, eyeing Poppy through the triage window with wide, serious eyes and no smile. Red flag number one.

  “Good morning. How can I help you?” Poppy asked.

  The teenage mother jiggled her son on her knee. “This is Noah. He’s two. He’s got some blood coming out of his ear.” With both hands the mother twisted Noah’s head so Poppy could get a better look. Sure enough, the toddler’s cheek and hair were matted with dried blood. Red flag number two.

  Poppy showed them into the small examination cubicle beside the triage desk. “Has he been unwell lately?” she asked as she lifted Noah’s T-shirt over his head and began examining the rest of his body.

  The girl shook her head.

  Poppy fitted her stethoscope into her ears and listened to Noah’s lungs while she watched the rise and fall of his chest. All lung fields sounded clear and he was displaying equal air entry. His respiratory rate was normal, his oxygen saturation levels appropriate for his age and he wasn’t struggling to breathe. But something in Poppy’s gut stirred.

  “Has anyone in the family been sick?” she asked as she took his temperature.

  Again, another shake of the head. “It’s only Noah and me.”

  The thermometer beeped. Afebrile. Normal. “Has Noah had any ear infections in the past?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Poppy shone a torch into his eyes. PEARL. Pupils Equal and Reactive to Light. He barely blinked at her. She peered down his throat. No redness or swelling. Finally she peeked into his ear to see if there was anything causing the bleeding. Expecting him to pull back in pain or fear, Poppy was surprised when he didn’t flinch. Red flag number three.

  Something didn’t sit right. Poppy excused herself and searched the department until she found one of the doctors.

  “Andi, can you come and check out this kid for me? He’s in the exam room next to triage.”

  Andrea didn’t look up from her notes. “I’m super busy right now, Poppy. I’ll get there when I can.”

  “I think it’s urgent.”

  Andrea let out a small sigh, pushed her papers aside and looked up. “Gut reaction?”

  Poppy’s intuition was well known and respected by the medical staff in the department.

  “Abuse,” she replied simply.

  Andrea crossed her legs in front of her and leaned back into the chair. “What makes you think that?”

  “His mother is weird and the kid is way too quiet.”

  Andrea’s eyebrows shot up higher. “Poppy, this is New York. By now you should have worked out there are plenty of weird people. And the mom is probably one of those lucky ones to have a quiet kid.”

  Poppy put her hands on her hips and stared at her friend. “He’s two, Andi. How many quiet two-year-olds do you know?”

  “Good point.” Andrea stood and followed Poppy back to triage. “What’s he presented with?”

  “Bleeding from the ear.”

  “His mother probably pushed a Q-tip in too far.”

  Poppy fixed the doctor with another I-don’t-think-so look. “He’s got faded bruising around his ribs.”

  “Could be anything.”

  “Could be someone squeezed him too tight.”

  Andrea stared at her and Poppy stared back.

  “The mother has a flat affect, like she doesn’t care what I say or do,” Poppy explained.

  “Plenty of parents are like that. Maybe her lack of emotional expression is due to depression or schizophrenia – plenty of people speak in a monotonous voice and have diminished facial expressions.” Poppy knew that was true – she’d experienced it with her own mother. She tucked a stray curl behind one ear and shifted her weight onto her other foot.

  “How old is the mom?” Andrea asked.

  Poppy shrugged. “Hard to say. Sixteen, seventeen maybe. Nineteen tops.”

  “I’ll examine the kid and if I think he needs it, I’ll order an x-ray of his ribs.”

  Half an hour later, when Noah returned from x-ray, Poppy helped Andrea go over every centimeter of his body but neither of them found evidence of injuries. There was nothing to indicate any form of abuse and nothing to explain the bleeding from his ear. The x-rays were inconclusive. Without anything to go on, and as much as it irked Poppy, they were going to have to send Noah home.

  “Shouldn’t you at least do a CT scan of his brain?” Poppy asked, out of the young mother’s earshot. She was clutching at straws.

  Andrea shook her head. “I can’t justify it. There’s no evidence to show he needs a CTB. But I tell you what – I’ll call the pediatric team. If they want to take it further, they can. For now, I’ve done all I can. The bleeding has stopped.”

  “I think you should call Protective Services,” Poppy said.

  “I think you’re overreacting.”

  Poppy sighed. Andrea was probably right. Because of Adam, she’d found it difficult to concentrate all morning, finding it hard to separate truth from lies.

  Andrea placed a hand on Poppy’s arm. “This job gets to you,” she said.

  Poppy didn’t correct her. It wasn’t the job getting to her today.

  “You’re wound up like a top. Maybe you need to take a break. Have a holiday. Go home for a visit. You’ll come back refreshed – if you come back.”

  Poppy’s mouth fell open. Had Andrea read her mind? Was this the third sign she needed?

  “I can’t for the life of me figure why you left Australia in the first place,” Andrea said.

  Poppy tried to smile. “It’s complicated.” The understatement of the decade. It was why she rarely told anyone about her home life.

  “And if you don’t mind me saying, you need to ditch that guy you’re seeing. What’s his name? Aaron? I can’t understand why he wants to keep your relationship long distance. Surely he could move here or you could move to Los Angeles.”

  Poppy’s smile froze in place. She wished she hadn’t told Andrea about Adam. One night a group of doctors and nurses had gone out to a bar after a particularly difficult shift. Poppy had downed a few too many beers, which was unlike her, then become overtly melancholic and talkative.

  She inhaled and let her breath out slowly. At least Andrea didn’t know the full details of her relationship with Adam. Or who he was. Then again, Andrea might have known he was married and warned her.

  “Adam and I have an understanding.”

  “Whatever works for you I suppose, but if any guy treated me the way he treats you, I’d tell him where to get off. Anyhow, you look exhausted. I’m going to stay on your back about this. You need to t
ake time off.”

  “Thanks, Andi. I’ll think about it.”

  Andrea gave her a pat on the arm. “Don’t think about it. Do it. And send me a postcard from the Great Barrier Reef or that big red rock.”

  “Uluru.”

  “I don’t know what it’s called, but I suggest you go there and have a blast. You deserve it.”

  Poppy thanked Andrea and called the next patient to the triage window, trying to push little Noah and her conversation with Andrea from her mind.

  A man rose from the row of plastic chairs in the waiting room and trudged toward her, chin to his chest. His suit jacket hung from his shoulders like an un-ironed shirt on a wire coat hanger.

  Poppy pasted on a smile and for the twentieth time that morning asked the same question. “How can I help you?”

  “I don’t want to live anymore.” His voice wavered.

  Poppy licked her dry lips. He was the third man that week to want to end his life. She indicated the chair on the other side of the triage window and offered a small smile. “It’s good you’ve come for help.”

  He shrugged as he sat. “I probably shouldn’t have bothered.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s not like anyone can help.”

  “That’s not true,” Poppy replied.

  He lifted one shoulder again in a defeated gesture.

  “Who’s your next of kin? Is there anyone I can call for you?”

  “I don’t have anyone anymore.”

  Poppy flashed him her warmest smile. “What’s your name?”

  “John. John Smith.”

  Poppy resisted an urge to push for the truth. It wasn’t unusual for people to withhold their real names. “I’ll call the mental health team for you, Mr. Smith. They can help you.”

  The man moved fast, knocking the plastic chair over as he stood. His eyes flashed as he pressed his face into the gap in the glass window. Poppy pushed herself away even though the glass was bulletproof, the gap too narrow for him to fit through. She swallowed nervously, her finger poised on the duress button that would summon security in an instant. God, how she hoped he didn’t have a weapon. No amount of security guards could help any of them if he had a gun.