I told him about the noises and the young men running away. The whole episode was unnerving, and it was good to have Ray around. I took my time with the story.
"Any idea who they were?"
"I didn't see faces, just running backsides in baggy clothes." I put Sunshine back on the floor and pulled out the other stool. "But I'm wondering if it was Jamel."
"Who?"
"Jamel Hutchinson."
"Why would he come here?" He knitted his brow, looking puzzled.
Remembering I hadn't reported on the exchange in the office between Jamel and his mother, I described the scene.
"Sophia, you left me a message with all the minute details from your little real estate adventure, and you forget to tell me you heard the victim's son talking about finishing him off?" He sounded pissed.
"I thought Jamel was being mouthy, but now I think he has something to hide."
"I agree," Ray answered. "He's a viable suspect."
"He's not working, he dropped out of school again, and he hangs out with some pretty tough looking thugs. His mother is protective and can't seem to defend herself against him. Was it the same way with the father?"
"Don't know. I'll track him down tomorrow and have a chat."
"What if it wasn't him or his friends?"
"Then he'll deny it and tell me where he was at the time. But I'll have warned him. I don't like him." He stood. "Meanwhile, Sophi, I'm going to hang around for a bit."
"Gee, Ray, do you think they'll know you're here with your S2000 out front?" I sassed.
"I parked it in front of Joe's house in the next cul-de-sac."
"Can't wait to hear his innuendos over the fence in the morning." I stomped into the Florida room—the Florida version of a family room—and flopped onto the recliner loveseat. Within seconds, Sunshine pounced into my lap.
Ray sat next to me. "I'm glad you're seeing this my way."
There we were, like old times, separated by Sunshine and years of pain.
"I won't stay long, just until I know you're safe."
I glared at him. Why can't I get rid of the anger? Here he was, doing the honorable thing, and I was mad. "I'm sure I'll be fine. I have my trusty dog to protect me."
"Let's not fight. I told you on Thursday mornin' that I'm sorry for hurtin' you, but I can't change it." He was relaxed, off-duty. His soft drawl was more evident, his deep voice soothing to my frazzled nerves.
"Okay, Ray, okay." For the first time in years, we talked about everyday things—the department, the hospital, my family in North Dakota, his family in Virginia.
After a while, he picked up the remote and found a baseball game. I awoke alone on the loveseat a couple of hours later. I checked the doors and windows. He'd done a good job before he left, sealing me in as safe as possible under the circumstances.
16
The telephone blew me out of a deep sleep at six-thirty in the morning. My supervisor asked me to be charge nurse for the day shift. The overtime money would come in handy, and I didn't have anything else planned, so I agreed. Without benefit of makeup but otherwise clean and groomed, I strolled onto the unit thirty minutes later.
Due to my tardy arrival, the morning routine lagged. By the time I received report from the off-going shift, made assignments, and got organized, we were behind schedule, not unusual for a Sunday morning. I didn't get out on the unit to make rounds until ten. Connie Kuhn had the section with the sickest patients, Hutchinson's section. I saved her rooms for last. She'd have things under control.
When I entered Hutchinson's room, Amelia was entrenched in her chair with an open book on her lap. She stared into space. "Hi," I said. "How you doing?"
Connie had changed Hutchinson's dressings, bathed him, and even given him a shave. I didn't detect the odor of infection. Some of his problems were resolving. While I waited for Amelia to respond, I glanced at ventilator settings and intravenous lines. He lay on his side supported by pillows. I checked the skin on his back and buttocks. Intact. Good job.
It took a long time until Amelia looked my way. "Sorry, I was lost in thought." She placed her book on the bedside table, taking pains to position the bookmark just so. Then she smoothed her hunter green silk skirt over her legs and arranged the folds of her loose tunic over it. "Jamel said you were in the agency on Thursday. Why?"
"I was in the neighborhood, saw your car, and decided to stop in and say hello."
"Oh." She stared through me. Maybe she didn't believe my story. Maybe she didn't even care.
"What's wrong today? You seem more down than usual."
Tears rolled over her round cheeks and dropped on the wide collar of her silk blouse. The wet droplets disappeared into the pattern. She accepted the tissue I handed her. "Not only does he have a girlfriend, he was going to leave me without anything. We lost our nice big house, and now I live in a crowded, tiny townhouse. He was going to walk out. Detective Stone accused me of taking the last money out of the agency account to hire the people who shot my husband. I went to the bank and requested a copy of the withdrawal slip. It's not my signature, close, but not mine. Barry signed it. I recognized how he wrote my name right away."
"Have you told the detective?" I pulled a chair next to her and touched her hand, hoping to encourage her to open up.
"No. I thought about calling him, but what good would it do? He doesn't believe anything I say."
"He can get an expert opinion."
"Oh." Her expression was blank. She stared straight ahead.
"What else?" I might have stepped over the line, but I hoped she'd reveal something significant. She had plenty to be depressed about, but I hadn't known her to be distractible.
"Jamel wishes his father was already dead."
"That's not uncommon when a loved one's condition is grave. Family members often wish the pain and suffering were over." I wondered if she would tell me more about the conversation.
"Yes, he's being normal." She stared at me for a moment, then reached for her book.
I took the hint, checked his tubes and wires again just to be official and useful, and slipped into the hall. In the process, I collided with Vanessa Vanderbilt, who knocked me hard against the doorjamb. I grabbed the walking-rail and managed to stay on my feet. "I didn't know you were working today."
"Overtime."
"Me too. I figured, why not?"
"I volunteered." She seemed preoccupied.
"Still taking this assignment, I see."
"It is my normal unit, my job. Besides, Amelia and I are getting along fine."
"Good," I said, not believing her.
"I figured as long as I'm locked into the contract, I'd go with the flow, close on the place, and move in. I do like the house, and the price is fair. I can always refinance later, after I have a chance to improve my credit rating. I met with one of those credit specialists, and he's helping me plan my payments."
"Sounds good. Want to meet for lunch in a couple of hours?"
"Okay. I'll meet you downstairs, at what, twelve-fifteen? You'll tell Connie?"
"She can't come with us today." As the two nurses with the most seniority, Connie and I couldn't leave the floor at the same time. She assumed charge duties when I went to lunch, and I watched her patients while she ate.
"Fine." Vanessa hurried into the room.
I stood outside the door for a few moments. There wasn't much conversation between her and Amelia.
Connie waited for me at the nurses' station. "Do you have time for a little coffee?" Her hands shook. She looked more wired than usual.
I was going from one distracted, edgy individual to another. I glanced around the unit, nodded to the secretary, and followed Connie into the back to the staff lounge. "What's up?" I sat on a battered chair across the corner of the table from her.
"I don't know. I'm frustrated. I spent at least an hour in Hutchinson's room. For what? Why is he still alive? It's not fair to him." She fiddled with a scattering of crumbs on the table. First, she swept
them into a neat pile, then spread the pile out, tracing geometric designs in the mess. I knew she'd continue playing with the mess while we talked.
"It isn't his time yet."
"I don't believe that his time stuff. If it wasn't, why was he shot?" She swept up the pile again.
I didn't say anything. What was there to say?
"I've taken care of him for the last few days—while you were off. His wife never looks at him. No one else visits. A tall, blond lady came in, but she left right away."
"She was probably concerned Amelia would come while she was there. She say anything to you?"
"She asked if he was going to wake up. She touched him. Like she knew him well." Connie smoothed out the tiny hill of crumbs, then swept them off the table with a flourish. "I wish people would clean up after themselves," she said in a loud, harsh tone.
"I do, too." I glanced at the mess on the floor. "What did you tell her?"
"I said I didn't believe he would. Then I told her she needed to talk to Amelia."
"Connie, I suspect that was the girlfriend."
"I didn't know." She stood, her motion abrupt and jerky as if fueled by anger.
"You wouldn't have any way of knowing."
"Who told you?"
"Ray."
She gave me an oh-no-not-again look but didn't comment. She pulled open the door. "Thanks for the break. Back to work."
I slid past the closing door. Connie seemed more nervous than usual. I followed her out into the station where my duties consumed me—calling physicians, answering visitors' questions, and processing new orders.
The order entry system times-out when not in use. There were so many interruptions I had to reenter my password every couple of minutes. I caught a glimpse of Jamel and two of his friends entering Hutchinson's room. Good, he's visiting, I thought, though I suspected he wanted to badger his mother for more cash. Before I knew it, the unit secretary reminded me to go to lunch. I stuck my head into Hutchinson's room and told Connie she was in charge.
When I stepped onto the elevator, Michael Wiley exited. He wore knit slacks and a coral golf shirt. The color drew out the pink of his facial scar. The bright lighting illuminated the side of his face, confirming for me that he had recently undergone surgery. Given the placement of the incision, I suspected his problem was a tumor. He wasn't especially thin, had a little paunch even. I reasoned his doctors had removed all the cancer. Time would narrow and whiten the incision line.
"Hi, Mike," I said.
He stared, blinked, then stuck out his hand. "Hello, Sophia. I didn't expect to see you here."
"I work here."
"I see," he said as his eyes traveled from my head to my shoes. He was taking in the uniform, name badge, the works. "I'd forgotten."
"Maybe I didn't say."
"Maybe."
"You here to visit Barry Hutchinson?"
"I thought I'd look in on him. Do you happen to know if Amelia is here?" He stepped away from the elevator door.
"She was there a while ago with her son and his friends."
Wiley rolled his eyes. "Okay, catch you later." He strode down the corridor while I headed for the stairwell.
17
At twelve-fifteen, Vanessa was nowhere in sight. After I scanned the tables and the food line a second time, I joined the queue, took my time deciding between the meatloaf—which looked scrumptious—and the soup-salad-sandwich special, and picked an empty booth near the window, thinking she'd see me when she walked in. I finished my vegetable soup and was halfway through my salad when she walked in. I still had a tuna sandwich to eat as well. She waved, smiled, and joined the line leading to the salad bar.
Vanessa looked good. She had twisted her blond hair into a simple bun at her neck, then tied it with a black silk scarf. Unlike many of her co-workers in the respiratory therapy department, she shunned scrubs. Today, she wore a long lab coat to protect her clothes—she special ordered her white jackets to get the length she preferred—over black boot-legged slacks, black boots, and a stunning black and white print spandex sweater. Vanessa put her model's figure to good use, and now that she was free of her bastard husband, clothes were her main vice. With a practiced eye, she scavenged bargains at sales and discount stores.
As she headed in my direction, the overhead paging system blared, "Code Blue. Five Northeast. Code Blue. Five Northeast." The beeper in my pocket squealed. I scribbled SAVE THIS on a napkin and covered my food.
Vanessa hurried toward me and slid her tray onto the table, butting it against mine, sharing my napkin-sign.
Together we scooted across the cafeteria, dodging tables, pulled-out-chairs, and employees with filled trays. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an emergency nurse abandon her meal to her code team duties. In silence, we rode the elevator to Five.
As we trotted onto the unit, a patient care assistant pushed the crash cart containing the emergency supplies, cardiac defibrillator, and drugs through the doorway into Hutchinson's room. A couple of nursing students stood back from the door peering in, looks of astonishment on their faces.
Hurrying past the nurses' station, I glanced over my shoulder to be certain someone manned the desk. Our long-term secretary, Stella, sat at her place talking on the telephone. Based on her hand gestures and the few words I caught, she had Hutchinson's physician on the line. I went into the patient's room. As the charge nurse on the unit, I had responsibilities during a code.
I paused upon entering the room, getting an overview of the activity. Dr. Kravitz, the anesthesiologist who ran the code, stood next to Hutchinson's right shoulder. One of the staff nurses, Samantha Davis, used an Ambu, an inflatable bag that works something like a bellows, to inflate Hutchinson's chest. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Vanessa slip by me. She relieved Samantha and took over providing ventilations.
Connie performed chest compressions. She stood flatfooted on the left side of Hutchinson's bed and leaned over him, positioning her shoulders over his breastbone. The fingers on her right hand interlaced with the ones on the left. She checked her hand position. They were positioned to avoid unnecessary injury. Together, the ventilations and the chest compressions comprised CPR, cardiopulmonary resuscitation.
I slipped behind the crash cart and moved the patient care assistant out of the way by pushing gently on her back as I said, "Move, please." I twisted the red plastic lock securing the drawers. The only cardiac activity on the monitor was the motion from the CPR. Sliding the top-drawer open, I reached for the first drug on the protocol and held it high. "Doctor Kravitz?"
He smiled and nodded. "Epi. One milligram."
The epinephrine comes in a two-part syringe. The barrel contains the medication. The other half has the needle and a sleeve that fits over the barrel. I popped a couple of plastic caps with my thumbs and fit the two parts together. Abracadabra. No fuss, no muss, no bother. And no fumbling with syringes or vials and ampules. I handed the medication to another staff nurse who was standing close to Hutchinson's intravenous access.
The nurse pushed the epinephrine, and Connie continued chest compressions. We all stared at the monitor.
"Call ICU for the external pacer," Dr. Kravitz said.
"Yes, sir." I motioned at the nursing supervisor who stepped into the room. She left to make the phone call.
"Repeat the epi." Kravitz continued on task. He looked in my direction. "Does he have a DNR or a living will?"
"No sir, his wife is the healthcare surrogate and hasn't made those decisions." We continued to watch the monitor.
"Hold CPR," Kravitz said.
There was a flicker of activity on the scope, an occasional beat.
"Atropine, one milligram," Kravitz said.
I prepared the syringe—it worked like the epi—and handed it to the medication nurse, watching as she jabbed it into the injection port on Hutchinson's IV line.
Connie resumed chest compressions to pump the medication through Hutchinson's body and into the coronary arteries. Connie
seemed tired. Perspiration beaded on her brow, and her breathing was rapid. She's not an active, athletic person. "Relief, please," she said.
I pointed to a tall, young respiratory therapist who was watching the activity. "Can you relieve her on the chest?"
Without comment, he slipped around the side of the bed and held his hand in ready position next to Connie's. She moved aside, and he took over. They didn't miss a beat.
Kravitz allowed him to continue CPR for a couple of minutes more.
"Hold CPR." This time there was activity on the monitor. Kravitz's fingers probed Hutchinson's neck. "Good," he said. "We have a pulse."
Thirty minutes later, the external cardiac pacer in place, Hutchinson was on his way to the procedure room adjacent to ICU. He'd get a temporary pacemaker, one with a wire running through a large vein in his neck to his heart, and then go to ICU.
I wondered how long he was in cardiac arrest before a staff member discovered him, and I wondered why he arrested. The one sure thing about Hutchinson, and the only reason he was alive, was his strong heart.
I called Amelia, helped clean the mess from the code, then notified admitting of the vacant room. It took a couple of hours to attend to the needs of the other patients who felt neglected during Hutchinson's code. That's often the case during an emergency, but more so on a weekend. Then I set about the task of trying to discover the details of what happened.
Under the pretense of finishing the documentation, I asked Connie to take charge of the unit for a few minutes and went downstairs to ICU to track down Hutchinson's chart. He was in an ICU room in front of the nurses' desk. Amelia sat next to the bed with a scowl on her face. I'd expected to see her crying, given the major setback her husband experienced.
I saw Hutchinson's neurologist with the chart and sidled over to her. "Can I ask you a couple of questions?"
Dr. Jennifer Staiger had the reputation of being a brilliant neurologist. She was Boston born, Harvard trained, and married to medicine. To my knowledge, she had no husband, no kids, no pets, and no life. Now, in her early forties, she appeared matronly and overweight with shoulder-length, stringy blond hair.
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