Lifeblood

by Penny Rudolph

  “No,” Rachel breathed. “Thanks, but this made me dizzy enough.”

  Emma peered at her. “You feel ill?”

  “No. Not at all. It’s just a lot to comprehend.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Emma set about scrubbing her hands, which could hardly need it since they had been covered by the gloves. “That patient will be good as new—well, almost—in a few weeks. And his brother will have a new lease on life.”

  “He was donating a kidney to his brother?”

  Emma nodded. “An excellent match. They both will be fine. Thank God for live donors. It’s rare for anyone to actually need two kidneys. One has to wonder why our Maker bothered to give us a pair. But I’m glad He—or She—did. Some fifty thousand people on the kidney waiting list and fewer than ten thousand suitable cadaver donors available each year.”

  The doctor made a sad frown. “And the waiting list gets longer every year. But laparoscopy with less risk and almost invisible scars makes it easier for a living donor to part with a kidney. And a kidney from a well-matched living donor is by far the best candidate for a successful graft.”

  “Why is that?” Rachel asked. The area was bustling with even more activity than earlier. No one ran, but no one moved slowly either. Few bothered to glance at the two women in front of the sinks.

  “No big rush, for one thing,” Emma said. “Time to do the tests and be certain we get everything right. Then, too, a living donor is generally younger, healthier.” She was still holding her fingers at shoulder height—fluttering white doves without a place to land.

  “And no one needs two kidneys?”

  “That’s not a hundred percent, obviously, but percentage-wise it’s not often. We manage with one heart, one liver, one pancreas, one spleen…and you have no idea how much it means to the recipient.” Emma glanced down the hall they had emerged from. “The next one should be about ready. I’d better go.”

  “Thanks for the chance to do this,” Rachel said and watched until Emma disappeared into an operating room at the end of the hall.

  Matching her motions to those of the people crisscrossing the area, Rachel followed a tall slender man with brown hairy arms through the main door and into the hallway. He made the turn toward the elevators. She found the stairway exit.

  Glimpsing her reflection in the door’s window, she realized she still had the cap on. The man she had followed was bareheaded. She snatched off the cap, then bent over and removed the shoe coverings, rolled up all three and shoved them into her pocket. They made a large a lump. She rolled them up again but once back in the pocket, they unrolled.

  She was almost breathless by the time she had trotted all the way upstairs, past the lobby and to the east wing. This time the long corridor was almost eerily empty, like an airport before the flights begin.

  Not sure what she would do if she got lost again, she climbed more stairs to what she thought was the fourth floor, opened the door and stepped into the hall. The T-shaped hall looked like the place where she’d lost her way a few days before.

  A nurse with very short hair and fleshy bulges above and below the waist of her uniform turned the corner but barely glanced at her before pressing the down button for the elevator. The scrubs did seem to make one all but invisible.

  Imitating the purposeful stride of the O-R people, Rachel turned the same corner and, ignoring the Closed sign now in place on the left door, pushed open the right one.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The area seemed even smaller than it had the first time, dwarfed by the rest of the corridors Rachel had now seen. Obviously this was a much older part of the hospital.

  Light was spilling from as many as a dozen doors that opened onto the hall, which hummed with a flurry of activity. The place smelled of sausage and maple syrup, and a trolley laden with trays stood next to the wall. Celebrities or no, these patients apparently ate well.

  A buzz of conversations emanated from the rooms, but Rachel couldn’t quite make out the words.

  She walked down the hall, trying to look as if she knew exactly where she was going. People wearing scrubs would be seen as normal here, wouldn’t they?

  What little she could see of the rooms she glanced into seemed somewhat Spartan. Most doorways revealed the metal foot-boards of three beds.

  At the foot of each bed was a holder for what must be each patient’s medical records.

  Two people in head-to-foot white passed with hardly a glance in her direction. Rachel’s shoes were black Reebok high-tops. Would that give her away?

  She passed a women’s restroom, backtracked and turned in. A toilet flushed. Rachel stepped quickly into a booth and slid the latch on the door. Sitting on the toilet, she took the elastic covers from her pocket and placed them back on her shoes. Would that be less noticeable than black?

  Through a crack between the booth door and wall she could see a woman in white at the sink. Had there only been one door closed in the row of booths?

  The woman finished washing her hands and left.

  Rachel left the booth and looked quickly right and left. All doors stood open. She went to the sink and washed her hands for the third or fourth time that morning. She was drying her palms under the hot-air machine when the hall door opened to admit an attractive woman with dark skin, high cheekbones and caramel-colored braids. Rachel returned her businesslike nod and left the john.

  A pair of women in white pants and jackets exited one room, crossed the hall and entered another.

  Rachel walked briskly down the corridor. All the rooms seemed alike. Stark, brightly lit, three beds, all with medical records in holders at the foot.

  So why the closed sign on the entry door? Gathering what further boldness she possessed, she made a random left turn into a room.

  The talk there ceased. Two pairs of eyes looked into hers from faces the color of maple syrup. The eyes belonged to patients in beds that were rolled to sitting position.

  A third bed was surrounded by a grey, rubberized curtain. Rachel could see a pair of white lace-up shoes beneath the curtain. She backed out of the room and hurried down the hall. Wearing scrubs, she might look like one of the staff, but best not to have to talk to anyone.

  The last room in the corridor was empty of patients but it was clearly in use. Two beds had rumpled sheets and various items on the steel cabinets next to them. The third bed, the closest to the door, was made up with fresh white linens. At the foot of each been hung papers on a clipboard.

  She stepped inside, away from the door, where she couldn’t be seen from the hall.

  Her eyes fell on the papers at the foot of the nearest bed. Someone had scrawled Deceased across the top. Lifting the clipboard from its place, Rachel scanned the pages. Reading them word-for-word would take more time than she had. Knowing it was the last thing in the world she should do, she removed the papers and put the clipboard back.

  The patient was dead. How much could it matter? And weren’t medical records typed up every day? Whatever, she could always come back to the hospital and drop these notes in a hall where someone would find them.

  Folding the papers, she left the room just as a woman in white was exiting the room across the hall. The woman stopped.

  “Wrong room,” Rachel muttered, spun on her heel and walked quickly down the corridor.

  The woman was following, calling, “Excuse me…,” softly at first, then louder.

  Rachel tried not to run. Glancing over her shoulder, she stuck the folded papers in the waistband of the scrub pants. The woman had disappeared. Rachel darted into another room. It was much the same as the last, except this time all three patients were in their beds. All three still had breakfast remains on trays on metal-arm tables.

  The eyes of the patient in the middle bed went so wide that white showed all the way around the dark pupil. He shook his head sharply. “No. No hoy.”

  Rachel held out both hands, palms out. She couldn’t understand the words, but she could read the panic in his eyes.
“Sorry. I’m sorry. You’re right.”

  What was he afraid of? Everyone she had seen so far seemed comfortable and healthy. Come to think of it, if that was the case, why were they in the hospital?

  She stepped back into the corridor. The same woman was there again, moving toward her, a cell phone held to her ear.

  Trying to smile, Rachel said, “I’m afraid I’m lost.” She turned and moved quickly down the corridor toward the exit, the covers on her shoes rustling over the linoleum.

  “Wait!”

  Was the woman breaking into a run? Now there were more footsteps. Were more people coming after her?

  Rachel didn’t turn. Almost in a run herself, she reached the ward’s exit doors, pushed through, raced out and around the corner. The middle elevator stood empty, doors open.

  As she rushed toward them, the doors started to close. She grabbed at the narrowing space between them. Too late.

  Slamming a thumb against the down button, she realized she shouldn’t have run. She might explain her presence, but how explain running away? She shouldn’t have panicked.

  The elevator door began sliding open again.

  A sound reached her, other doors, heavy doors, opening nearby.

  Hurrying into the elevator, Rachel jabbed a finger on the close button. The equipment seemed to hesitate.

  She shouldn’t have gotten into the elevator. Anyone following her would expect that. She should have taken the stairs.

  The elevator jerked, came to a decision, and whisked its doors closed.

  But they began to open again. Someone must have pushed a call button.

  She slammed her hand against the close button in the car and held it there.

  Someone rapped on the door.

  The open crack between the doors disappeared, the car shuddered. Rachel had a sudden image of the car plunging at breakneck speed, but it began its descent slowly. She let out breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, and touched the button for the lobby floor.

  Okay, so she didn’t totally get away with it, but no one recognized her. She patted the papers through the fabric of her pocket. Maybe this was something that would shed some light on what was going on in that ward.

  She left the elevator at the lobby floor, and followed the long corridor, grateful that it was now filling with people, to the west wing. In the stairwell there, she stopped a moment to clear her head enough to stop her hands trembling, then went on down the steps to the O-R, grabbed her clothes from the locker, stepped into a dressing room, closed the door, flipped the lock and sank down on the orange wood bench built into the wall across from the mirror.

  Her eyes looked like dark hollows. What if the staff up there put out some sort of alert?

  But she hadn’t done anything.

  Well, they won’t look for me here.

  This is exactly where they’ll look for you. You are wearing scrubs, in case you hadn’t noticed.

  Okay, let’s just calm down and get the hell out of here.

  Rachel removed the scrubs, put the folded papers flat against her body, pulled on her jeans, chambray shirt, and denim jacket.

  No one was pounding on the door looking for her. She opened the dressing room door. No one was paying any attention to her at all.

  Tossing the green shirt and pants into a laundry bag that was stretched open across a framework of metal bars, she saw shoe covers and caps piled in a big white plastic bag and added hers. Stopping at the mirror over the sinks, she ran fingers through her hair, and backed through the doors to the hall.

  By the time she had climbed the two flights and found her way to the lobby, she felt much better.

  She was thinking it was stupid and silly to have let herself get so spooked when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

  Dan Morris. She smiled and opened her mouth to just ask him straight out if he was married. If he wasn’t, she’d ask him if he’d like to meet Goldie.

  Morris’ big dark eyes looked like they were going to melt and run down his cheeks. He grasped her elbow. “Sorry, ma’am. Would you please come with me?”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Rachel froze, instantly certain that Morris’ request was related to her escapade on the fourth floor.

  “Why?” she asked, trying to keep her voice normal while her anxiety rose at mach speed. “What’s going on?”

  He was wearing a navy blue chino jacket with gold buttons. He tipped his head toward her, looking genuinely concerned. “Do you want to talk here, or somewhere a little more private?”

  “Talk about what?” Her voice grew tight, almost broke. Was he going to accuse her of trespassing? How bad could that be? Surely not the end of the world. Please don’t let them cancel the lease. Why the hell did she have to be so nosey?

  Morris drew out a cell phone, pushed a button, took a few steps, turned his head away and spoke into it. Rachel couldn’t hear the words. He folded the phone and slipped it back into his jacket pocket.

  Gently, he nudged her forward in front of him. She felt like a rubber doll, with no control of her own as they moved through the vast expanse of lobby, past sofas where twenty or so people sprawled. Her captor steered her to the right and down a long, carpeted hall with a dozen or more doors open to offices.

  At the end of the hall he guided her into an office that looked much like the ones they had passed. Rachel stopped in front of a gray metal desk. There was a large pad of paper and a phone, but no other sign that anyone actually worked there. Morris didn’t enter the office, remaining instead half in, half out the doorway.

  Rachel finally found what she had been desperately searching for. Her nerve. How bad could it be? Okay, she might lose a client, but they had signed a contract, so maybe not even that. She drew herself up. “Just what is this all about, Mr. Morris?”

  “We will need to have you searched.”

  She was sure she hadn’t heard right. “Excuse me?”

  Morris turned his head to glance down the hall. “Please, Miss Chavez, I’m sure you don’t want to make a scene.”

  An aghast look spread from Rachel’s eyes across her face. “What do you think I’ve done?”

  “We need a search. I can call the police and have them send a woman, or you can agree to have a woman here look through your…uh…things.”

  “You’re going to strip search me?”

  Morris was watching her, his look more apologetic than arrogant. He said nothing.

  “This is totally ridiculous,” Rachel sputtered. “What do you think I have? My purse was just snatched right here in this very hospital a couple days ago. So I don’t have much in this one.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  A rustling sound came from the hall. Morris stepped aside. A small woman strode in. She wore white. A lot of white. White shoes, white nylons, white uniform. No doubt her underwear, too, had not one thread of color. She moved past Rachel and stopped with her back to the window, making room for a second woman, this one in a dark blue dress with a scarf of lighter blue covering her hair, rimless glasses, and no makeup.

  There was barely room for all of them in the small office.

  The woman in blue looked at Rachel the way one looks at stray dogs at the pound, eyes emanating a sadness about life and death and the inability to escape either. The woman in white was eyeing Rachel as if she were an IRS examiner and Rachel was a highly suspect tax return.

  Morris gestured to the woman in white. “This is Molly Kirkpatrick. One of our nursing supervisors.” The woman nodded brusquely. “And Sister Mary Frances.”

  “You’re a nun?”

  The woman in blue dipped her chin. “Pastoral services.”

  “Sister agreed to give us a hand here,” Morris said. “It’s best to have two…witnesses.”

  “I see.” Rachel looked at him. “It’s either this or the cops?”

  Morris’ mournful eyes held hers for a moment before he nodded.

  Rachel threw up her hands. “Okay, fine. What the hell. Excus
e me, Sister. What in the name of heaven do you think I have?”

  For a few seconds, the two women looked at Morris, who looked at the floor. No one spoke.

  “Let’s just get it over with,” Rachel said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I’ll leave you ladies alone,” Morris said. “I’ll be right out here in the hall.” He closed the door behind him.

  Clearly used to being in charge, Molly, the woman in white, went behind the desk, pulled the chair out but stood in front of it rather than sit. She tapped the barren top of the desk. “Why don’t you just set your handbag down here?”

  “What are you looking for? Cocaine? An assassin’s rifle? What?”

  “I’m afraid it’s necessary, dear,” the nun said. “Just do as she asks. It won’t take long.”

  Rachel sighed and set down her purse where the woman had pointed.

  Molly Kirkpatrick opened it and tipped it so that lipstick, comb, nail file, wallet, and coin purse tumbled out onto the desk. With the thoroughness of someone preparing a patient for surgery, she examined everything, but found nothing that interested her. She shook the purse, peered inside, ran her hand over the lining. Then, moving it and what had been its contents to the side of the desk, she said, “Now your jacket, if you please.”

  Rachel slipped the faded denim jacket from her shoulders and tried to shrug her arms out of it.

  The nun reached over to help, then folded the jacket more neatly than Rachel had ever folded anything and handed it to Kirkpatrick, who laid it flat on the desk, reached into the right pocket, and withdrew three pieces of tissue, a key and a black marble.

  The woman turned the jacket to the other side and put her hand into the left pocket. “Ah!” The sound seemed to escape without intent. She looked up. Pale blue eyes looked straight into Rachel’s. She drew her hand out of the pocket, fingers clasping a squat, white plastic bottle.

  Rachel gaped at it, stunned.

  The woman shook the bottle. It rattled. She turned it over and read the label.

  “OxyContin. I assume you have a prescription for this? Who is the prescribing doctor?”

  Chapter Twenty-six