by Radclyffe
“She’s fine, Am.”
Pearce’s father regarded Wynter across the table. “What’s your plan here, Dr. Thompson?”
Putting a resident on the spot by asking them to outline a procedure that in all likelihood they would not do was a tried-and-true technique that quickly identified lazy or inferior candidates. It was axiomatic that a resident never came to the operating room without understanding both the problem and the solution, even when they did not expect to be performing the surgery.
Surprised that the chairman even remembered her name, Wynter made a last swipe over the stomach with the prep solution. “We need to extend the incision and do a thorough intra-abdominal washout as well as a visual inspection of the gastric plication.” As she stripped off her prep gloves and extended her arms for the sterile gown which the scrub nurse held out to her, she continued, “We ought to culture the wound too.”
“What makes you suspect infection?”
The chairman’s tone was level, but his inflection suggested that he disagreed with her.
She shrugged, snapping on her sterile gloves. “I don’t. But we’re here, and it’s a simple test to do, and if we miss an early necrotizing fasciitis we’re going to look pretty stupid tomorrow.”
He laughed. “And we wouldn’t want that, would we.”
“I don’t know about you, sir,” Wynter’s eyes sparkled above her mask, “but I wouldn’t like it.”
“Very well, then. Just make sure you use something that’s not going to come apart this time.”
“I was planning on a nonabsorbable,” Wynter said, wisely refraining from pointing out that she had nothing to do with the previous complication. Culpability was not the issue. Correcting the problem was. “O-prolene should be sturdy enough to hold her together.”
“Make sure you interrupt the suture every few inches, because I don’t want her back here again.” As quickly as he had entered, he turned to leave. With his back to the room, he said, “Call me if you have any problems, Dr. Rifkin. I’ll be in eight doing the colon.”
“Yes sir,” Pearce said as the door swung closed behind him. She reached for the sterile sheet that the scrub nurse held out and passed it across the operating table to Wynter, who waited on the opposite side. “You like to live dangerously,” she said low enough that the others couldn’t hear.
“Why?”
“That remark about infection—you’d probably be safer with him sticking with protocol.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Wynter said, meaning it. In many ways, residents bonded and protected one another, very much like other closed societies such as the military or police. They covered for each other, and they very rarely laid blame, knowing next time they could be the one whose actions were being scrutinized. “He seemed to take it well enough.”
“That’s because you’re a bit of a cowboy, and he likes that. You wanna be careful, though, because that kind of confidence can backfire if you’re wrong.”
Wynter snapped the sterile drape down over the patient’s feet and picked up the next one that would cover her head. “Well, you should know. You’ve got hot dog written all over you, and I don’t mean with chili and mustard.”
“Maybe,” Pearce said lightly, “I’m just really good.”
“And maybe,” Wynter said, “so am I.”
“Let’s find out.”
When they’d finished draping off the sterile field, leaving only a square of abdomen around the open incision exposed, Wynter automatically circled the foot of the table to the left side, to the assistant surgeon’s position. When Pearce didn’t move out of her way, she stopped in puzzlement. “What?”
“Are you left-handed?” Pearce asked conversationally.
“No.”
“Then you ought to be operating from the other side of the table.”
Without a word, Wynter headed back to the right side of the table, hiding her surprise. She hadn’t expected to be given quite so much responsibility so quickly, but Pearce was letting her act as the primary surgeon. Granted, Pearce was with her and was technically responsible since she was the most senior surgeon in the room, but still, she was turning the case over to Wynter. It was a test, but it was also an honor.
Wynter looked over the raised sheet suspended between two stainless steel poles, which separated the nonsterile area from the sterile operating field, at the anesthesiologist who sat monitoring the patient’s vital signs. At one time, when anesthesia was delivered via ether dripped from a can onto a cloth over the patient’s face, the divider had been called the ether screen. It still was, although no modern surgeon actually remembered when ether was used. “We’re starting.”
“She’s all yours.”
Without looking at Pearce, her attention already focused on the surgical field, Wynter held out her right hand. “Scalpel.”
*
“Nice job,” Pearce said as she and Wynter stood side by side in the women’s locker room.
“Thanks.” Wynter unlocked her locker and opened it, in search of clean scrubs. The case had only taken an hour and a half, but the patient was large, and it had been hard work retracting the thick abdominal wall enough to be certain that their sutures were placed in healthy tissue that would not pull apart yet again. By the time they’d finished, they were both sweating, and when they’d removed their gowns, both their shirts were soaked with sweat. “The second time around is always tough.”
“Yeah. But now it’s done right.”
“For sure.” Wynter pulled off her scrub shirt, acutely aware of Pearce standing just a few feet away. Wynter wore a tank top beneath her scrubs because wearing a bra all day was too confining. She was used to changing clothes in front of other women; she had done it thousands of times in the last eight years. She had known that some of those women were gay and it never bothered her. When you lived and worked in such close physical proximity to others for hours on end, you learned to respect personal space. Still, Pearce being this close unsettled her, and she didn’t know why. “Thanks for letting me do the case.”
“No problem.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Wynter saw Pearce strip off her shirt and quickly looked away when she realized that Pearce wore nothing beneath it. The image of toned arms, small smooth breasts, and muscular torso lingered as she stared into her locker. Quickly, she extracted a clean shirt and slipped it over her head. With her face averted, she said, “That was a blast.”
“Yeah. It was.” Pearce slammed her locker and leaned her shoulder against it. She felt exhilarated, the way she always did after a difficult case went well. In many ways, this one had been routine, because technically it wasn’t all that challenging. On the other hand, she’d been under extra pressure because the patient had already sustained a complication, and she wanted to be sure there were no more problems. Plus, the attending had given her full responsibility for the procedure, and that added to both her anxiety and her pleasure.
Wynter leaned her back against her locker, her shoulder a few inches from Pearce’s, and pulled her damp hair off her neck, securing it with a simple gold clip. “How did he know exactly the right moment to come back?”
“Beats me.” Pearce shook her head. Her father had popped in unexpectedly at the precise moment when they were exploring the abdomen. She didn’t know how he did it, but he always seemed to show up for the critical portions of the case. He’d watched for four or five minutes and then left without a word. But his implied approval had been enough to satisfy her. She’d learned over the years that that was the most she would get from him. “No one can ever figure it out, but it always happens just like that. He just knows when it’s time for him to check up on us.”
Wynter wondered what it must be like, having one of the world’s premier surgeons for a father and a mentor. Somehow, hearing the controlled nonchalance in Pearce’s voice, she sensed it was a burden that Pearce tried to ignore. The shadows in Pearce’s eyes suggested a more personal pain that Wynter wanted to reach out and brush aw
ay. Unused to the intensity of her response, she forced a casual note into her voice. “What’s he like to operate with?”
“He doesn’t say much once a case starts. It’s all business. He’s fast, and he expects you to be.”
“Must run in the family,” Wynter jested. Pearce had been just as slick as she’d expected her to be. Fast and competent, certain. Almost cocky, but careful too. The perfect combination for a surgeon.
“Look who’s talking. They’ll start calling you Flash before long.”
Wynter grinned, pleased. “You know what they say—there are good fast surgeons and bad fast surgeons, but there are no”—they finished together—“good slow surgeons.”
They both laughed.
“From the looks of things, you’re not going to have to worry about that,” Pearce said. She’d been pleased to see how skilled Wynter was in the operating room. It was good to know she wouldn’t have to worry about Wynter when she wasn’t around, and it just added to Wynter’s attractiveness. She was smart and quick and clever. And she had good hands. Pearce’s heart started to race, and she swallowed around a sudden surge of desire. Jesus. This isn’t good. I can’t keep getting hot every time I’m around her or I’m going to be miserable for the next two years.
Wynter smiled. She couldn’t remember a day of residency that she’d enjoyed so much. Surgery was always a rush, but the pleasure had been heightened by knowing that Pearce thought she had done well. She liked pleasing her. “So, what now?”
Let’s go across the street and get a room. All I need is a quick thirty minutes so you can put me out of my misery. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d skipped out for a quickie in the middle of the afternoon. The desk clerks at the Penn Tower Hotel directly across the street were discreet and never raised an eyebrow at an early checkout, even when it was only an hour or so after arrival. As long as she had her beeper, she could be back in the hospital within minutes, which was no more than it took to get from one end of the hospital to the other had she been on-site. Oh yeah, thirty minutes ought to be plenty of time.
She fell into Wynter’s blue eyes and saw them together on the bed, their hands inside the other’s scrubs, too eager even to undress. Wynter’s skin was soft and firm, her body sleek and strong. They fit together physically the way they had in the operating room, effortlessly, without words. Each knew the other’s need, anticipating the next movement, the next touch. From somewhere deep in her unconscious, the memory of Wynter’s spicy scent rose to assault her, and her body quickened. “Oh, man,” she whispered, her vision wavering. “This is bad.”
“What?” Wynter repeated, confused. “Are you okay? You look…I don’t know—” She put her hand on Pearce’s forehead. “You’re warm. You must be dehydrated. It was really hot in there.”
Pearce flinched and pulled her head away. “I’m fine.” She cleared her throat and forced a smile. “Sorry, just thinking about what we need to do next. First, we’ll round up the troops and make sign-out rounds.” She was seized with sudden inspiration. Maybe the hotel wasn’t out of the question after all. “Then, I’ll take you across the street to din—”
“Sorry,” Wynter said as her cell phone rang. She looked at the caller ID. “I have to take this. Hang on.”
“Sure.”
“Hi. Everything okay?” Wynter caught Pearce’s arm in one hand as she started to move away, stopping her motion. Then she held up one finger to indicate she would only be a minute. “Listen, I’m going to be later tonight than I thought. I know, I’m sorry. I should’ve thought. I don’t know, probably at least midnight. I know…no, I’m fine.” She laughed softly. “You sure? Okay. Thanks.” She smiled, listening. “Hey, I owe you…whatever you want. Uh-huh, sure. I’ll call you later, then.”
As Wynter talked, Pearce tried to ignore the intimacy in her voice. All day, she’d managed to forget that Wynter was straight and married. They’d worked together so well, and being around her had been so easy, that she’d forgotten how much stood between them. She remained motionless, but inside, she drew away. She’d let her guard down, and that was foolish. She’d made it a point never to get seriously involved with anyone she worked with. Casual suited her just fine—she was too busy for anything else and wasn’t looking for complications. Sure, some of the women she’d had flings with had been straight, but that had never mattered—to either of them. With Wynter, it mattered. Not good. So not good.
“Sorry, sorry,” Wynter said as she terminated her call. “What were you just saying about sign-out rounds?”
Pearce stepped over the low bench that ran down the center of the aisle between the facing rows of lockers, suddenly needing to put distance between herself and Wynter. “Nothing. I’ll page the guys and we’ll meet in the cafeteria in half an hour.”
“How about I get you a Coke, then? We can hang out in the surgeons’ lounge until—”
“I’ll pass, thanks.”
“But I thought—” Wynter looked after her in surprise as Pearce walked out of the locker room without a backward glance. She seemed angry, but Wynter had no clue as to why. The day had seemed to be going so well, and they’d moved like clockwork together in the operating room, each anticipating the other with no need for words. “What the hell?”
Irritated now herself, feeling abandoned even when she knew it was irrational, she yanked her lab coat out of her locker and shoved her arms into the sleeves. She double-checked the breast pocket of her scrub shirt to be sure that she had her list and decided she’d take a quick walk through the wards before the end of the day. If Pearce is in a mood, fine. Let her be. I couldn’t care less.
Chapter Seven
“Yo, Phil. Can I borrow a smoke?” Pearce gave the gray-haired, stocky security guard a light punch in the arm.
He frowned. “You’re about hitting your limit this month, Sport. A couple more and you’re gonna owe me a pack.”
“I’ll see that you’re appropriately recompensed.” She grinned. “You know my credit’s good.”
“Don’t give me that,” he said good-naturedly, shaking a filtered Marlboro from the pack he kept out of sight in the desk at his station near the Spruce Street entrance to the hospital. A bank of video monitors lined up behind him on a counter showed real-time images of passersby on the street and visitors and staff making their way through the hallways leading from the auxiliary entrance into the main areas of the hospital. “I’ve been feeding you these things since you were fifteen, and you haven’t paid me back yet.”
“Sixteen,” Pearce corrected. “And I bet in all these years, it’s only added up to a few cartons.”
“Let me check my tally,” he said, making a show of moving some papers around on his desk.
Pearce laughed, rolling the firm white cylinder between her fingers. “Thanks. You want to key the freight elevator for me?”
“Is there anything else I can do for you, your highness?”
“Coffee?”
“Don’t push,” he said, wagging a finger at her. He preceded her down a short corridor to the elevator adjacent to the corrugated metal roll-up doors that opened onto a loading dock. He inserted a key from a ring he pulled off his wide leather belt into the control panel and the oversized doors slid open. “Been a while since you took this ride.”
“Just looking for a little air,” Pearce said, knowing that Phil had caught on years ago that she escaped to the roof when something was bugging her. Phil Matucci had befriended her when she was just a child, allowing her to sit beside him on a tall stool while she waited for her father on endless Saturday afternoons. She’d watched the World Series with him on his tiny portable television, they’d discussed politics when she’d gotten older, and on rare occasions when she’d been more lonely than usual, she’d told him about her dreams. Maybe it was because he had five children of his own that he never seemed to mind her company. He’d chastised her when she’d started to smoke and made a deal with her that if she didn’t buy her own, he’d give her one whenever she w
anted. She’d broken their agreement on a few occasions when she’d been a teenager, and then felt guilty about it, tossing the illicit packs into the trash so he wouldn’t see them.
“Let me know when you come down, so I know you didn’t freeze to death up there.”
“Thanks,” Pearce said quietly. “I will.”
The elevator stopped on the top floor, and she went down the hall and out the fire door to the roof. Before the Rhoads Pavilion had been erected with its state-of-the-art heliport, Penn Star—the medical helicopter—had landed here. She crossed to the concrete barricade surrounding the tarmac, hunched down against the wind, and lit the cigarette from a paper matchbook she kept in her back pocket along with other essentials. Taking a deep breath of cold air and smoke, she straightened and looked out over the city. There’d been a time when she’d been too short to see the Schuylkill River that separated West Philadelphia from the downtown area without jumping up and down, her hands pressed to the top of the wall for leverage. Now, she could lean her elbows on it, and she did, contemplating her strange day.
She couldn’t figure out why Wynter got under her skin so badly. It had to be more than that Wynter was hot. Instant attraction was nothing new—hell, she got turned on by good-looking women all the time. Sometimes they connected and sometimes they didn’t, and either way, it never mattered enough for her to lose sleep over. When she thought back to their encounter that afternoon in the quad on Match Day, she could easily chalk up her reaction to Wynter to the fact that she’d been high on the excitement of the day, knowing that med school was almost over and she was finally about to start the journey she’d been preparing for her entire life—or so it felt. Wynter had literally walked into her, and for a few brief moments, they’d shared a pivotal point in their lives. They’d been alone, and Wynter was beautiful, and so damn sexy, and she’d had the overwhelming desire to kiss her. It wouldn’t have been the first woman she hadn’t known whom she’d kissed.