“I already miss the sourdough we get in San Francisco,” she said.
“I’ll bet this brown-and-serve will be almost as good.”
They both tasted the bread and said in unison, “No way.”
“Harry?”
“Yes, beautiful?”
“I’ll really try harder tomorrow. Really, really try to make the next three months work for us.”
He reached across the table for her hand. “I know you will, babe. We’ll breeze through this together. And after that, we’ll be off to Italy for a whole month. Maybe we’ll turn it into a honeymoon.”
Gina smiled, then took in a large mouthful of pasta.
Why did he have to go and ruin a perfect evening by talking about marriage?
Chapter 7
Tuva Goldmich thought about her mother and brushed away her tears. She’d slept poorly for the past few weeks and she’d been useless at work; she’d even fallen asleep at her desk in the middle of reformatting a brochure whose deadline had a red-flag countdown.
Her art director had found her with her head down on the desk, out like a light. She was awakened with a not too gentle shove.
“You can snooze on your own time, Tuva. Here, you’re a graphic designer and you do the job.” The woman tapped her Versace watch and said, “You’ve got two hours to finish that layout or you’re out the door.” She pointed a burgundy tipped finger at Tuva. “And you know I mean it!”
“Hey, I’m sorry but—”
“No buts, Tuva. Everyone always has some excuse, although I’ve got to admit, sleeping at the desk is a first. Bottom line: you’ve got two hours. Either the brochure is done or you are.” The woman stomped away in her custom-made red power suit and four-inch Sami clogs without looking back.
Tuva was rattled but instead of diving in to make the final touches for the brochure, she studied the picture of her parents on the shelf above her desk—the one right next to the photo of her ex-boyfriend whom she couldn’t seem to emotionally separate from … even though he’d “moved on.”
She really liked the shot of her parents, probably because it also showed one of her own paintings, a purple-red flower hanging in the background.
Right now it was her mother’s penetrating eyes that reached out to her. Even in an inert photograph, she seemed to climb into Tuva’s soul.
Did I do the right thing for you, Mom?
Later, when her dad died, her mom had not only gone downhill physically, her mind had vanished. Every doctor Tuva took her to diagnosed Alzheimer’s, but Tuva wouldn’t accept that. Her own diagnosis: her mother was in a crushing depression with a broken heart—lost in a world of grief. Not very medical sounding, but it was real enough.
As her mother’s condition continued to worsen, and the doctors held onto their diagnosis of Alzheimer’s, Tuva had no choice but to accept what was happening. But where was her mother to live; who would take care of her? There was her mother’s Social Security and a small IRA, but those wouldn’t cover the cost of nursing home care. And Tuva had little to contribute from her meager salary as a graphic designer—rent, food, clothing, and an occasional movie consumed almost every penny. There seemed little choice but for her to move into her mother’s condominium and be her caretaker. Just after she’d given notice to her landlord, she read an ad from a pharmaceutical company seeking Alzheimer’s victims to take part in a long-term, in-patient drug testing program … at no cost.
The call was made, papers were signed, and Tuva’s mother was transferred to a Zelint Pharmaceuticals facility on Long Island. Not only was she relatively close by, but within a short time all the Alzheimer’s symptoms had disappeared and there was talk of sending her home with continued treatment as an outpatient. But before that could happen, there was an unexplained setback.
Now her mother was far off in some way-out hospital in Nevada.
And I’m stuck here in New York … can’t even see her.
She shoved her unfinished work aside and pulled out her cell phone, hit the button for the connection to her family physician.
* * * *
It was two hours to the minute when the art director returned. Tuva was calmly packing up her personal items into a box on her desk.
“What the hell are you doing, Tuva?” The director’s voice slid through a climbing crescendo.
“I’m leaving.” Tuva hated confrontations; she tried to ignore the woman instead of screaming back at her. She took a deep breath and silently placed her parents’ photo in the box with exaggerated care before picking up her ex-boyfriend’s picture. Even with the bitch standing on top of her, breath blowing hard on her neck, she slipped into a time-warp recollection—like falling from a twenty-story building with everything flashing through her head. She looked into her ex’s eyes, remembered his body wrapped around her, and she sighed heavily before tossing him into the trash. That was behind her.
So was her art director, standing with hands on hips, fire in her eyes.
“Where’s the layout?” Her voice was shrill and mean.
Tuva retained an air of dignity and remained silent. She lifted the box filled with her personal items and retrieved a blue folder tucked underneath. She hefted the file as though knowing what it weighed could have some special meaning. But like so many things in life, it was light and useless. In an envelope clipped to the folder was her letter of resignation.
“I think you’ll find everything you need here,” Tuva said in a calm voice. “And I e-mailed the file to the client, too.”
The woman looked at the envelope as though she already knew what it was and instead, opened the blue folder. She quickly fingered through the graphic work with her long painted claws. When she finished, she pointed a finger at Tuva.
“Don’t even think about coming back here again, Tuva Goldmich. And if I were you, I sure as hell wouldn’t use this company for a reference, even if you have worked here two years.” She pressed her lips together, turned away, and carefully flicked a speck of nonexistent lint off her sleeve.
Tuva, who always controlled demanding, high-maintenance personalities by remaining calm, later splattering them on canvas in wild, throbbing colors, felt her composure sink.
“Fuck you, you self-centered bitch.”
The art director kept moving without missing a step.
Tuva covered her mouth and looked around at the surprised office staff staring back at her.
* * * *
It was 8:00 PM before Dr. Markas finally responded to Tuva’s message. By then her imagination had gone into overdrive.
“There’s something wrong! I know it!” She paced back and forth in her small living room, clutching the phone to her ear.
“I’m sure Emma’s fine.”
“Don’t patronize me, Dr. Markas. She’s not a child and she’s not fine or I wouldn’t have had to sign a proxy so she could be in that clinical trial.”
“Tuva, you know it was only a technicality. Her decline―”
“―her decline grew worse when you talked me into placing her into that damn neurological evaluation and treatment center.”
“Let’s be realistic. You couldn’t afford to take care of her anymore. It’s a wonderful opportunity to help her, and everything is paid for.”
“I would have been a great caretaker.” Tuva’s face was covered in tears as she collapsed into her leather sofa and tried to compose herself.
He’s right. In a few months I would have been flat broke.
If only her mother would stop showing up in her dreams, screaming for help. Two to three hours sleep each night for the last few weeks had thrown Tuva into a state of exhaustion.
“This is an important opportunity,” Dr. Markas said. “Your mom is 70 years old. There’s still time for her to have some kind of life. Being part of this Phase III national trial may give her a real chance to be cured.”
Tuva could hear the exasperation in his voice, but she didn’t care. It was her mother—she couldn’t let it go.
&nbs
p; “Real chance? You don’t even know if she’s getting the drug. She could be on a placebo for all we know.”
“Even so, the drug could be available very soon if the study shows that it works. You’ve got to realize, the entire scientific and medical community from around the world is sitting on the edge of its seat, holding its collective breath in anticipation. Tuva, this is big. Really big! And your mother’s a part of it.”
“But they took her out of the treatment center and sent her to Nevada.” Tuva started crying again and could barely get the words out. “I can’t even see her … she’s so far away.”
“I want you to think carefully about this, Tuva. You’re thirty-five years old and you sound exhausted. You need to take care of your own life.”
She leaned back into the sofa; put her feet up on the coffee table.
He doesn’t know the half of it.
Chapter 8
At 5:45 AM, Gina awoke with a start. The radio alarm blasted their apartment with down-and-dirty Rock—no going back to sleep with that roaring in her ears. She slammed a hand down on the off button.
The sudden silence was a relief; it allowed her to take a few deep breaths and get her thoughts around the fact that today was the beginning of a new chapter in her nursing career. She’d been in the profession since she was twenty-two and she’d always given bedside care, except for her last job as an advice nurse at Ridgewood General. But she’d never had any travel nurse assignments, like Harry. And she’d never thought she would.
Her mind continued to drift. It was hard to believe she’d almost been murdered only a month ago. Who would ever think sitting at a telephone dishing out medical advice could be life-threatening? Somehow her violent upbringing had hitched a ride on her back to San Francisco. That thought gave her the shivers.
Get thee to a nunnery—or at the very least, move into a cave.
As usual, Harry didn’t budge when the alarm went off; he continued to snore softly. She stretched out her arms, reached for the ceiling, then rolled over and gently blew into his ear until he opened one eye.
“How do you ever manage without me when you’re on the road?”
“I never have anyone interesting to snuggle, so I might as well get to work.” He opened his arms; she slid up against him. “Did you sleep well?” he asked.
“Totally.” He was so warm and cuddly she wanted to throw the covers over her head and cancel the day; just relax and fall back to sleep with her head buried in his chest. But she forced herself to roll away and sit on the edge of the bed. And as she had so many times in the last few days, she ignored that inner voice that told her to pack her bags and go back to California. Instead, she set one foot on the floor, then the other, and pushed off.
She started singing, Oh, What a Beautiful Morning, in a high, broken falsetto, while she danced around the room, her voice getting louder and louder.
“Okay, I give up.” Harry leaped out of the covers and raced to the coffee machine, getting everything together for breakfast. His movements were so fast it made her head swim. In a flash he took off for the bathroom.
“You rat, how do you always manage to beat me to the BR when I’m the first one out of bed?”
He poked his head out the door. “Talent, my dear Watson.”
Gina rummaged through her drawer of scrubs and picked out a burgundy set that had seen enough washing to be soft and comfortable. She quickly got dressed.
Harry finally ambled out of the bathroom stark naked. He wasn’t tall, but years of working out gave him the hint of a six-pack and nonstop muscular shoulders. When you threw in his baby blue eyes and curly mop of hair, Gina thought he was really something hot to look at.
“Too late to tempt me now, Mr. Lucke. I only have enough time to use the potty, eat, and get to work on time. And that’s because we’re only a floor away from the action.”
He laughed, reached out, wrapped himself around her and pressed everything he had against her. “There’s always later, beautiful.”
* * * *
They stepped out onto the second floor and the elevator slammed shut behind them, Harry immediately tuned in to a distinct clatter coming from what had to be a climbing dumbwaiter. The sound emanated from the opposite wall. It took him a moment to zero in on it—the access door was well camouflaged, with only a small, protruding aluminum knob to indicate it existed at all.
He pointed. “See that? That’s what I call a logical food delivery system for this small facility. I barely noticed it before.”
Gina nodded.
The second floor landing’s walls were painted a soft gray-blue. Opposite the elevator was a tall artificial palm whose fronds spread up and across the ceiling as though it was searching for a way out. The phony plant was housed inside a huge Asian celadon-glazed pot; it sat on a thick gray carpet that effectively muffled most sounds on the floor—footsteps, voices, and even the noise of the dumbwaiter.
Harry’s imagination turned the corridor, where he would tread onto a narrow bridge between two exciting worlds. That was why he’d become a travel nurse—he’d wanted to see the world, see strange and exotic places. Almost instantly reality kicked in and he knew he was merely poised between the two patient wings of a Nevada medical facility in the good old U.S. of A.
Gina looked nervous; she was running a hand through her black curly hair, and her dark eyes were wide open, blinking rapidly.
He squeezed her hand. “You’ll be great.”
She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and walked toward Wing A, while he turned and went into Wing B.
He caught sight of the nurses’ station and the orderly he would work with.
Looks like I’m about to meet the other muscleman from the elevator ride yesterday.
“Hi, I’m Harry, Harry Lucke, one of the new nurses.” He extended a hand; the man gave him a lopsided grin.
“Are you really lucky, Harry?”
“Lucky enough,” Harry said, refusing to let his hand drop.
“I’m Peter,” the orderly said, barely returning the handshake. “You’ll never guess why they call me Peter the Great.”
If you’re anything like Rocky, it’s because you’re a great big pain in the ass.
“No, I can’t imagine why.”
“It’s because I’m a great cocksman … big with the women … if you know what I mean.” Peter gave him another one of his half-assed grins. You couldn’t ignore the idiot, because like Rocky, the man had muscles popping out of his eyebrows.
Enough of this bullshit.
“Where’s the charge nurse, Pete?”
“Allison had to leave early. I’m with you on this shift.” He tossed Harry a ring of keys.
An orderly passing me narcotics keys? Hmmm. Pretty loose operation.
Harry moved behind the desk, pulled out a tattered Procedure Manual and did a quick thumb-through. He looked around—nothing unusual about the area. Well, nothing except that it was an undersized nurses’ station with a narcotic cabinet twice the size found in a standard hospital unit.
“And the census?”
“Fifteen patients, as usual.” Pete’s eyes bored into his. “Fifteen on A and fifteen on B. Although I hear we’re gonna be cuttin’ back real soon.”
“You have a constant turnover?”
“You could say that. They just keep movin’ them in and movin’ them out.”
Harry was losing patience. The guy not only had attitude, he had a huge black mole in the middle of his chin—it kept yanking at Harry’s attention.
“As I mentioned to Ethan, the facility seems understaffed. This wing holds a lot of patients for just the two of us to handle safely.”
Yes. I do see why they’re paying us so much money.
“We used to have another pair of hands until a month ago,” Pete said, “but they just keep droppin’ off like flies.” He gave Harry a knowing smile, which made the mole on his face look like it was a fly about to jump off. “One day they’re here, the next day, they … ain’
t.”
A sudden scream pierced their conversation. Harry’s inner alarm went off., making his scalp tingle.
“What the hell is that?”
Pete was unperturbed. He stood. “They’ll all be doin’ that if you don’t move your ass and get them their dope.”
* * * *
Delores Scott was waiting at the Nurses’ station for Gina; she had that blood-drained face people have after they leave a rollercoaster ride that was supposed to be fun.
“Rough night?” Gina said.
“No more than usual.”
They both turned to look at Rocky as he arrived at the desk whistling. His movements were a study of contradictions—heavily muscled, yet light on his feet, like a dancer. He looked at Gina with testosterone-filled eyes. The man was really creepy.
“This is Rocky Salvo.” Delores’s voice climbed enough for Gina to know something was out of kilter. “He’ll be assisting you with the patients."
Gina looked at the orderly. “We met right here yesterday, remember?”
Gina couldn’t believe it. Rocky had not only ignored her question; he’d already turned his back on both of them.
Delores kept right on with her orientation. “You’ll find a complete computer profile on every patient on the floor. An oral report won’t be necessary,” she said in a snippy voice. “So there won’t be one.”
“Maybe you could give tell me something about the patients,” Gina said. “I’d like to know—”
Rocky interrupted, whistling again as he walked away from the station toward the patient rooms.
“Is he always this rude?”
Delores’s pale complexion turned a shade whiter. “I think you’ll find that both Rocky and Pete, the other orderly on the Wing B, pretty much do their own thing.”
“Their own thing?”
Delores started gathering her stuff together. She rummaged around in her purse. “When I first started here I was feisty and curious like you. My advice to you, Gina: mind your own business and just do the job, which is mostly checking custodial needs and handing out pain meds.”
Bone Pit: A Chilling Medical Suspense Thriller (The Gina Mazzio Series Book 3) Page 5