by C. J. Lyons
“Me?” Lydia rocked forward on the balls of her feet, unconsciously assuming a fighting stance. “He blames me?”
“It’s just too scary for him, seeing Alice like this—not knowing …” Amanda gave the baby’s foot a quick squeeze as if trying to reassure the comatose infant that she wasn’t alone.
“Does Lucas think I made a mistake? Starting the cooling?” Lydia hated to ask; she felt sure she’d do the same again given the circumstances. But she also knew that she might have saved Alice’s life only to condemn her to a life in a persistent vegetative state.
“Lucas likes to think things through—guess that’s why he’s so good at his job. But he said that what you did was innovative. I think he wished he’d thought of it.”
“If it was going to work, I needed to move fast. Down in the ER we don’t always have the luxury of thinking things through.” Lydia wasn’t defending her actions, merely stating a fact of life—a fact that many of the floor attendings conveniently forgot when it was the ER docs down in the trenches fighting for their patients’ lives. Maybe she could explain that to Alice’s father, once he sobered up. “How’s my other mystery patient, Tracey Parker?”
Amanda scrubbed her hands with the antibacterial foam at the patient’s bedside. “I was just going to check on her.”
As they walked down the hall to the medical ICU, Amanda explained that Lucas still didn’t have a diagnosis for Tracey. “He’s planning to wake her for a Tensilon challenge in the morning. I hate the idea of what will happen if it doesn’t work—can you imagine being in a locked-box syndrome like that?”
“Lucas will just sedate her again. Even if the Tensilon doesn’t work, Tracey won’t be awake all that long, maybe an hour or so.”
“Even that’s too long.” Amanda shuddered, hugging herself. She seemed more than tired; she was dragging.
“Are you all right?” Lydia asked.
“I just haven’t had a chance to eat much today. I think it’s catching up with me.”
Lydia remembered the long days of living on caffeine, chocolate, and peanut butter crackers swiped from the nurses’ stations. Unlike residents, who were limited to an eighty-hour workweek, there were no regulations on how many hours a week medical students could work, so they were sometimes pushed beyond their limits—although usually a consultation service like neurology was a “cush” rotation with predictable hours.
“You know Tracey’s case better than anyone. Why don’t you come over to my place for dinner? Nora is bringing Tracey’s chart and those of a few other patients that she and Elise Avery discovered who had similar symptoms. Kind of like a book club, only instead we’re trying to solve a medical mystery.”
“Other patients?” Amanda stopped outside the doors to the medical ICU and looked both ways down the hall as if worried someone would hear. “Besides Becky Sanborn?”
Lydia shrugged; she didn’t know their names. “Nora said there were at least three. She was going to do a records search and pull copies of the charts.”
Amanda looked down at her feet, scuffing one of them against the floor.
“Amanda, is something going on?”
“No. I’m fine, everything is fine.” She brightened and stood up straight again. “Dinner sounds like a great idea. I’d love to help Tracey if we can find the answers before Lucas has to do the Tensilon challenge tomorrow.”
AMANDA FOLLOWED LYDIA DOWN THE STEPS leading outside, glad she’d run into the emergency medicine attending. Her conversation with Becky’s mother had been unenlightening except for one small item that just didn’t seem to fit. Either it was a coincidence or—no, it had to be just coincidence. The only way it wasn’t would be if Amanda was part of the pattern, had the same thing as Becky and Tracey.
And that just wasn’t so. But still, it had given her chills when Mrs. Sanborn mentioned that Becky had been staying in Pittsburgh for the summer because she was on CMU’s crew team.
Which meant Becky rowed out of the same boathouse as Amanda. The same boathouse where Jared worked. Too weird.
She’d stopped by to ask Jared about it, but he was gone—leaving Amanda puzzled but no closer to an answer.
Maybe Lydia would find one and she could relax, stop worrying. More important, if Lydia found an answer, they could still save Tracey before it was too late.
LYDIA OBVIOUSLY WASN’T HOME YET. NORA shifted the stack of printed patient records in her arms as she approached the small Craftsman-style bungalow that sat behind the Angels cemetery.
It was against the rules to take charts outside the hospital, but if Elise was right about Lucas, then the last thing Nora wanted was to be discussing the possibility inside Angels. Hospital walls had ears, and nothing was sacred or spared from becoming grist for the gossip mill—as Nora knew from personal experience. Careers and lives could be ruined with less … if Elise was right.
Which she wasn’t. Still, it wouldn’t do to be speculating about a doctor’s possible involvement in patients’ deaths, not where they might be overheard. So Nora had broken the rules—something she was certain Lydia hadn’t considered when she suggested they meet here tonight. Must be nice to never worry about little things like rules and regulations and JCAHO and HIPAA laws and the like.
She knew where Lydia kept the key, on a hook behind some paint cans in the carport, but it turned out she didn’t need it; the door leading from the carport to the kitchen was unlocked. She rolled her eyes—apparently Lydia didn’t worry about security either. Nora hoped she never learned how fragile that feeling of being secure was.
A sleek, oversized caramel-colored cat slinked past her into the garage. He curled between her legs, sat back, and looked her up and down, his head coming up past her knee. The gleam in his green eyes made Nora wonder if he was sizing her up as a would-be intruder or as dinner.
“No, I’m not Lydia,” she told the cat, whom Lydia called No Name. “You’ll just have to wait for her.”
The cat blinked slowly. It was larger than any cat Nora had ever seen, squared off in shape, resembling a small panther. It had been living here before Lydia moved in, some kind of stray from the cemetery that stood between the house and Angels.
No Name rolled back onto his feet, twining his way between the wheels of the vintage motorcycle parked in the carport, then disappeared into the overgrown hedge on the other side. Nora eyed the bike with distrust—Lydia had inherited it, but any ER doctor knew the dangers of motorcycles—“donorcycles,” as they were called in the hospital. Why hadn’t Lydia sold it or given it away? She wasn’t riding the damn thing, was she? That’s all they needed, one of their own attendings coming in DOA one night. Surely even Lydia wasn’t that reckless.
She shook her head and stepped into Lydia’s kitchen. It was spotless and spartan—the only things on the counter were a microwave and a motorcycle helmet. Good Lord, she was riding it.
There were two chairs and a round table, too small to spread out all the documents from the three patients, so Nora continued through to the dining room. It had beamed ceilings like the rest of the Craftsman-style house and was painted a soft apricot color that reflected the sunlight from the wide French doors that ran along the outside wall. But there was no furniture—unless you counted the tall surfboard propped up in the corner, a remnant of Lydia’s previous life in Los Angeles.
A large archway connected the dining room with the living room. Here there were at least a few pieces of furniture, which Nora recognized because she had helped move them in—a few photos arranged on the fireplace mantel; an overstuffed chair angled out from the front windows; a worn leather sofa; and a small TV/DVD combo perched on an end table wedged into the far corner.
Trey’s contribution, Nora guessed. The paramedic was a Pittsburgh native and wouldn’t risk missing any Steeler or Pirate games. Lydia didn’t seem like much of a TV person. Instead there was a proliferation of books that hadn’t been here the last time she’d visited—two crooked stacks, leaning ominously to one side beside the
couch. All from the library.
Despite its lack of furniture and personal items, somehow Lydia’s empty house felt more like a home than Nora’s own place, even though her apartment had rooms filled with possessions she’d moved from the town house she and Seth used to share.
Nora dumped the stack of files onto a coffee table. She was tempted to continue her exploration of Lydia’s house—had she bought any bedroom furniture yet? What did she and Trey do if she hadn’t?—when the sound of the carport door opening prevented her.
Nora turned, her heart pounding, experiencing a strange déjà vu, expecting to see Seth bounding through the door.
She placed one palm over her chest, hating that her body still insisted on reacting as if she and Seth were together. Of course it wasn’t Seth coming in—and why would she want to lay eyes on his lying, cheating face anyway? Was she becoming that desperate or lonely?
She told herself it was just that Lydia’s home reminded her of how much she missed living in the house she and Seth shared—how much she’d lost. She shook her head, banishing the thought, as Amanda followed Lydia through the door and into the kitchen.
“Roses and peonies along the side of the carport. Maybe some lavender too.” Amanda gestured with her hands to emphasize the garden she was planning for Lydia. “And camellias—not sure if they’ll grow this far north. I’ll check with Mama.”
“So how much is this going to cost me?” Lydia asked, nodding to Nora and absently bending to pet No Name, who had appeared again from out of nowhere. “I’ve never gardened, so I’d definitely need your help.”
“No charge, a garden is a labor of love,” Amanda protested, draping her lab coat over a kitchen chair.
As Lydia scrutinized Amanda, Nora had the feeling she could tell the balance in Amanda’s bank account down to the penny. Lydia had a gift for noticing things and adding them up into surprising insights.
“I’m going to give you a budget,” she told Amanda. “You spend as much as you want on the plants, keep the rest for your troubles.”
Nora hid a smile at the way Lydia ensured that Amanda would take her money without it seeming to be charity. Amanda’s stubborn streak when it came to asking for help—financial or otherwise—was one of her greatest weaknesses.
“I brought the patient charts; they’re in the living room,” Nora said, leaning against the back of a chair as Lydia opened the refrigerator and without asking handed her a Yuengling and Amanda a bottle of Dr Pepper.
“It’s so nice, maybe we could eat outside?” Amanda asked.
“Good idea,” Nora said, noting how pale Amanda looked. The girl definitely needed to get out more often.
“It might be a light supper,” Lydia said, emerging from the refrigerator with an armful of fresh vegetables. “Trey’s back on his health kick. Grilled veggies, salad, bread—oh, but I found some chorizo down at the Strip; that will spice things up a bit.”
The door opened again without any sound of a knock.
“How about steaks?” Gina asked, holding two bulging Whole Foods bags out to Lydia as if they were peace offerings. “You guys don’t mind if I crash this party, right?”
SIXTEEN
Thursday, 7:49 P.M.
LYDIA LOVED HER KITCHEN. IT WAS SMALL enough to be comfortable, large enough that she could spread out when she cooked, and with its maple cabinets and the bright blue paint that glistened like the Malibu surf at sunset, it felt warm and inviting.
Through the window above the kitchen sink she could see Amanda and Nora setting the picnic table. She turned and glanced over to where Gina sat at the table, slicing tomatoes, her nail polish matching the brilliant sheen of the beefsteaks. Painted nails? Not a good sign. You didn’t take care of patients in the back of an ambulance with a fresh manicure.
Gina finished with the tomatoes, and Lydia tossed her a towel. It was so typical of Gina to show up here instead of coming to the ER as Lydia had instructed. Gina always had to do things her way, on her terms. Which was one of the reasons she was this close to losing her residency slot.
As Gina wiped her hands clean, Lydia got a closer look at the other woman’s knuckles. She’d noticed the calluses over both middle fingers when she’d first met Gina, but now they were raw, freshly abraded.
“Give me your hands, Gina.” Lydia held her own out, palms up, as if she wanted to admire Gina’s impeccable manicure.
Gina lay her hands on top of Lydia’s. “You like? It’s a new shade by OPI.”
“When was the last time you purged?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Gina jerked back, but Lydia held her fast.
“Purge. As in stick your finger down your throat until you vomit.” Lydia squeezed Gina’s hands even harder, rubbing her thumbs over Gina’s knuckles. “When was the last time?”
Gina glared at her, but Lydia met her gaze effortlessly. After a few moments of a silent tug-of-war, Gina surrendered.
“This morning,” she whispered, head sunk as she stared at the floor.
“And before then?” Lydia persisted.
“A few weeks ago. I have it under control.” She jerked her chin up at Lydia, defiant.
“So instead of joining Med Seven on a ride-along and saving lives, you decided to stay home, make yourself vomit, and get a manicure. That seemed the best way to make use of your time?” Lydia kept her voice steady. There was no way she was going to let Gina off easy. The resident was only two years younger than Lydia, but she had a helluva lot of growing up to do.
Gina gave her a hard stare, eyes narrowed, head tilted to one side. “I don’t know what you want from me. But whatever it is, I just can’t give it to you, I can’t do it. I’m sorry that I’m not as perfect as you are, Lydia. Not a superhero. I’m doing the best I can.”
Lydia dropped Gina’s hands and stepped back, a short, derisive laugh escaping from her. Gina’s eyes bulged with anger. “Nicely done. When did you start giving mommy and daddy that speech? High school? Give me a break.”
“You have no right—” Gina’s neck muscles tightened into twin delicate ribbons.
“I’m your boss. I have every right,” Lydia interrupted her. “Sit down.”
Gina balked, glancing down at the chair, then twisted her mouth into a well-practiced pout.
“Sit. Now.”
Grudgingly, Gina slid into the chair.
“When did you start?” Lydia asked, taking the chair opposite from Gina. The sliced tomatoes and knife lay between them. “How old were you?”
“Twelve,” Gina said without meeting her gaze.
“And you’d give that little speech to your folks, who would then take their assigned roles of being disappointed and concerned, willing to do anything to get their perfect little daughter healthy again, right? Which put you in control, just the way you like it.”
Gina flicked a stray bit of tomato pulp along the table’s surface with the tip of her fingernail, frowning as if it took more concentration than putting a man on the moon.
“Well, guess what. That was then and this is now. This is your life, Gina—not your parents’. You get to decide how you want to live it. You’re in charge of what happens next.”
“I—I can’t,” Gina mumbled, her head still hung low. “I just can’t—”
“Sure you can. But first you have to promise me, no more of this bullshit.” Lydia reached across the table to take Gina’s hand once more. “If you feel like binging or purging or cutting or anything like that, you need to promise me that you’ll tell either Boyle or me. Right away. I mean it, Gina. That’s a deal breaker.”
Gina’s gaze crept up to almost meet Lydia’s. “Jerry knows?”
“He loves you, of course he knows.”
“You guys have been talking about me? Behind my back?” Gina bristled like a toddler ready to stamp off into a tantrum.
Lydia chose her words with care. What Gina did with them was up to her. “You have people worried about you, people who care. In my book that puts
you ahead of most folks. Now, do we have a deal?”
Gina looked away for a long moment, then nodded.
“Did counseling help you before?” Lydia asked. “I can set you up—”
“No. I just end up playing mind games with them; it makes it worse.” Gina sat up straight, clapping a hand over her smile. “Oh my God, I never told anyone that before. You must think me a real queen bitch.”
“Can you talk with Boyle?” Lord knew Lydia wasn’t counselor material, but if anyone was, it was Jerry Boyle.
“He’s swamped with a case right now. But I’ve got people.” Gina gave a little shake of her head. “Not Amanda, though. Don’t tell her—the kid’s got enough on her plate, I don’t want her worried about me.”
Lydia smiled and nodded. Empathy for someone else had to be a good sign. “You’re going to want to scrub that polish off tonight, because tomorrow you’re back out on the squad.”
“I’m not ready.”
“Trust me, Gina. You are. Trust yourself.”
Gina slanted a look of doubt Lydia’s way but finally shrugged noncommittally. Lydia decided it was time for a little tough love. “If you’re not on board Med Seven tomorrow morning, you’re out of the residency program.”
“You can’t. Lydia—”
“Sorry, kid. The real world doesn’t stop and wait while you get your shit together.”
AMANDA HELPED NORA CARRY OUT THE STEAKS and vegetables and set the picnic table on Lydia’s patio. The cat followed them out, eyeing the thick ribeyes Gina had brought. Amanda gave a small shake of her head. Gina should have known Lydia couldn’t be bribed. She was glad she couldn’t hear their conversation—there was sure to be plenty of yelling, at least coming from Gina.
“Think Lydia will actually fire her?” she asked Nora, who was trying to fish a dropped slice of red pepper from between the grill’s grates.
“No. But Gina might wish she had. I don’t get the feeling that Lydia gives up on anything or anyone very easily.” Nora cursed as the fork she was using fell between the grates as well.