by Harry Kraus
She approached the doorway and cleared her throat.
Dr. Rogers looked up. In a chair opposite the chairman’s desk, a plump woman in a gray suit sat with her legs crossed. Next to her, a gentleman in a three-piece suit looked up without smiling. Next to him, Dan Overby sat with a large cup of coffee in hand. “Claire, come in. You’ve met Wanda Miller from risk management, and Peter Ondrachek.”
That’s where I’ve seen them before! “Of course.” Claire held out her hand. The attorney shook her hand limply.
“Thanks for coming by.” The chairman got up and closed the heavy oak door behind her. “First let me make something very clear. I think you’re doing a wonderful job as a surgical intern.”
Claire tried not to show her negative reaction. The only thing she could think of was Pepper’s advice.
Rogers continued. “We’re being sued, Claire. A Mr. Roger Jones has sued on behalf of his daughter, Sierra, who died in our hospital on the last day of July.”
“I remember the case well.”
“In Massachusetts, a potential malpractice case has to go through a tribunal before it is allowed to go forward,” the hospital attorney interjected. “We had hoped the case would never get this far.”
“We never really thought it would get this far,” Wanda echoed. “Ramsey Plank requested hospital records a few weeks after the incident.”
Claire leaned forward. “Why wasn’t I told?”
“There was no need to worry you. We had reviewed the record, and there did not seem to be a real case,” Wanda responded. She nodded toward the O-man. “Dan had done a super job on the records, and it really looked like they had no case at all. As far as the official record reads, Sierra Jones died from massive internal bleeding.”
“Basically that’s true,” Claire responded.
“We know that, Claire.” Rogers’ eyes shifted from one person in the room to the next before coming to rest on Claire’s. “But we think that the prosecution must have had some help outside the official record.” His eyes bore in on Claire. “Have you been talking about this case to anyone?”
“No.”
Wanda uncrossed her generous thighs. “But our conversations with the judge from the tribunal indicate information has passed that was not in the official record. Mr. Jones’s claims that you did not properly monitor the central IV line has been verified by a direct witness.”
Wanda uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. “I specifically remember requesting that you not talk to anyone about this case.”
Claire locked eyes with the administrative assistant. “I told only my family and my fiance, back in Virginia.”
Rogers shifted in his leather chair. “Claire, we understand if you thought you were talking off the record, but—”
“I haven’t talked to anyone involved in the case, Dr. Rogers,” Claire interrupted. “Is that what this is about? You thought I’d incriminated the university?”
The O-man spoke up. “Somebody did, Claire. If it wasn’t you, where did the information come from? I know you felt bad about that night. Did you apologize or something?”
“No.” Silence hung in the room for a tense moment. “You think I’m lying?”
Wanda shook her head. “Of course not. We only want to remind you that as this process starts, you mustn’t talk to anyone.”
Claire clenched her teeth. “Of course, I was asked to present the case at the M and M conference. Did you ever think that someone else might be talking to the prosecution?”
Claire watched the O-man and the chairman exchange glances.
Dr. Rogers rubbed his chin. “The residents should understand that the contents of that conference are confidential. But still …” His voice drifted into silence.
Claire dropped her face to the floor. “Of course.”
Dr. Rogers snapped back to attention. “We will need you to dictate a full recollection of the events of that day. We will forward your report to your malpractice carrier. They will assign an attorney to the case who will defend you.”
“Am I the only physician named in the case?”
“No. The university is named. They’re the ones with deep pockets. You are named because you were the physician in charge at the time the patient deteriorated.”
Claire looked up at the O-man. She had loved working for him. He taught her so much. And now she felt she had let him down. She caught his eye. “I’m so sorry.”
He nodded and sighed.
Claire looked back at Dr. Rogers. “What are they seeking?”
“Twenty million dollars.”
Claire gasped.
Wanda pointed at the medical record on the desk. “Review the chart and dictate a full summary.”
Dr. Rogers stood up. “I want to see it by noon today. I’ve instructed Drew to relieve you of your duties until the report is done.”
She nodded and looked at Peter Ondrachek. “Does this happen often?”
“Unfortunately, in a university this size, once or twice a year.”
“Does the university ever lose?”
“They’ve settled a few times. But only once before did a resident go to trial.”
“Dare I ask the outcome?”
“We lost,” he admitted soberly. “To Ramsey Plank.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
For the next four hours, Claire sat in an empty conference room beside Dr. Rogers’ office and pored over Sierra Jones’s record, hoping to clarify the events in her own mind, trying desperately to uncover something that would offer her an inkling of hope. Instead, the experience was like debriding a scab, leaving the wound fresh, oozing, and painful.
She made notes to herself, jotting down times and lab values, and chronicling the last moments of the life of Sierra Jones. Somewhere there had to be a fact that could be gleaned from the record, something that could be useful in her defense. She wrote down everything, trying to recall exact words or phrases from the moment Sierra hit the ER door until the time she died. It was the medical student who positioned the IV pole at the head of the bed. Not me. She frowned. Oh, like that’s going to help me. “It wasn’t my fault, it was the medical student’s,” isn’t going to cut it as a defense. I was still supposed to be watching.
Claire sighed and dropped her head in her hands. How could her life get any more complicated? She wasn’t sure how much more she could take. She felt so alone.
She started taking inventory. Her status as an intern was on shaky ground. Her social life was in the pits. She was wearing an engagement ring to a man she rarely saw.
Worst of all, God seemed to have betrayed her. She thought he’d called her into surgery. But that all seemed like wishful fantasy now. Why would he call her and then make the way so rough? She felt spiritually dead. The last time she prayed was … well, this morning. She tried to capture the memory of her early morning shower. What did she pray? That God would help her concentrate on her work and trust in him? She looked at the stack of notes in front of her. If this is your answer to helping me focus on my work, God, you’ve got quite a sense of humor. She brushed back a tear and rearranged the papers in front of her.
Carefully, haltingly, with Dictaphone in hand, Claire spoke through the events of Sierra’s last hour. Back up. Retape. Back up again. Shuffle through the notes to get every fact, every word, correct. Thirty minutes into her effort, a gentle tapping interrupted her train of thought.
She watched as the door pushed open. Brett’s face appeared. “Hey. I had a hunch I’d find you here.”
“A hunch?”
He shrugged, came in, and shut the door behind him. “I asked Dr. Rogers’ secretary.”
“Why?”
He held up a white bag from behind his back. “I thought you could use a break. I brought some lunch.”
“But how did you know about—”
“I overheard Dr. Rogers talking in the lab this morning. I knew something was up, the way he was moping around. I just kept my ears open, that’s all.”
“You’re a busybody,” she said, trying to suppress a smile.
“If you’d rather I’d leave, I could—”
“Hold on, there. You haven’t shown me what’s in the bag.”
He smiled. “I’ve got Mr. J’s bagel sandwiches.”
She reached for the bag. “You can stay.”
He handed her the bag and sat down at the conference table opposite her. “You’re just using me for my lunch.”
She laughed. “Yep.” She held up a bagel sandwich, wrapped in white paper. “What’d you get?”
“One tuna fish salad, and one turkey and Swiss.”
She sniffed the wrapper and handed it to Brett. “You like tuna salad?”
“Sure, I love seafood.”
“Tuna salad is not seafood.”
“It is if you’re a resident. I can’t afford anything else.”
Claire paused, grateful for the break. She looked up at Brett, who was already devouring his sandwich. “Thanks, Brett.”
They made small talk while they ate. After she finished her bagel, Claire hoisted the medical record in front of her into the air, up and down, weighing it in her hand. “What do you think, Brett? Is this going to be my ticket off the pyramid?”
“I don’t think so. The way I see it, it’s probably neutral.”
“Neutral? Certainly they won’t want to keep me around if I cost the university twenty million dollars.”
Brett shook his head. “Look at it from a defense viewpoint. It would look bad for you to lose your job now. It’s like an admission that you’re a bad doctor. If they hold on to you, it shows they are confident in your skills.”
“Oh, great. So they keep me, not because they want me, but because they have to.”
Brett wrinkled his forehead. “I don’t think Dr. Rogers will let this influence him. He has a ranking system based on clinical performance on the wards, and your in-service training exam.” He held up his hands. “But, if in the discovery process, it looks inevitable that the university is going to lose the suit, they may cut you to save face, and appear that they do have the patient’s best interest at heart.”
Claire pouted. “You’re encouraging.”
“Hey, I’m just telling you the way I see it. But for now, I think you’re safe. They can’t cut you if they want the jury to think you’re competent.”
“But this can’t help me. It can’t be beneficial to be the center of what will undoubtedly become a media frenzy. I can see it coming. They’re going to be all over the hospital criticizing residents’ training hours, the danger of medical care by sleep-deprived resident staff.” Claire felt her voice thicken. She didn’t want to cry.
Brett’s voice was steady, quiet. “Hey, now, try not to let this get to you. You’ve fought bigger battles in the past. You’ll get through this.”
He walked around the table and sat next to her, placing his hand on hers. “What else is going on, Claire?”
She gazed into his blue eyes for a moment before looking away. “Am I that transparent?”
He stayed quiet.
She answered her own question. “I guess so, huh?”
“Trouble at home? Trouble with your fiance?” He paused. “As if residency pressure isn’t enough to steal your pretty smile.”
Her eyes met his again.
“Hey,” he responded. “I’m just offering a shoulder to cry on, that’s all.”
She pushed her fists into her eyes in one last attempt to keep from crying, but she’d let her guard down. She wasn’t playing the steel-nerved surgeon role now. She was just plain scared and lonely. She began with the story of her suspicions about her father and the Stoney Creek curse, the surprise about her real grandfather’s identity, and how she made the diagnosis of Huntington’s disease in her own father. She unloaded her fears about being at risk and how the risk was destroying her family, her sister’s marriage, and her brother’s outrageous risk-taking. Lastly, she cried about her separation from John and her fears about how being at risk for HD might affect his feelings for her and of his seeming intolerance to her doubts about God’s care.
“Now every time I do anything klutzy, even a minor misstep or stumble, instead of just going on, the first thing on my mind is Huntington’s disease. It’s like a bad dream, and I can’t wake up.”
He held her hand, then slid his chair close to hers. He turned toward her and coaxed her into his arms. “Come here,” he said, standing and pulling her gently to her feet.
She stood and allowed him to lead. She slowly placed her head against his chest and cried. He patted her back before letting his hands and arms rest around her, gently but certainly pushing their bodies into close contact. She felt his breath, then his lips brush against her forehead. “It’s going to be all right, Claire. You are so strong. You’ll make it.”
She sniffed and blinked back the tears. “I don’t feel very strong.” She turned her head and clung to his broad shoulders. She needed the support. Brett was offering it freely. So why did she feel on edge? She could sense his breath quickening. Slowly, softly, he was applying pressure on her lower back, edging her even closer.
Her thumb felt for the diamond on her ring finger. She spun it around and closed her fist. She felt his breath on her hair, on her ear. The hairs on her arms stood up as she tilted her neck to allow his face access to her neck. He nudged her earlobe with his nose, then his lips. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
Claire closed her eyes and tried to push aside her hesitancy. She longed for comfort, and his arms felt strong and secure. She shifted her upper body against his, her skin fully aware of his warmth.
She pinched her eyes closed and put her palms on his shoulders. She pushed back and avoided his gaze. His fingers drew across her back and arms, lingering, tracing a meandering path down her arms as she backed away. His touch electrified her. His hands were lightning, warm, and full of energy. With her throat suddenly parched, her breath came in short gasps. As much as she wanted to surrender to the comfort he wanted to give, resting in his arms felt like a betrayal. “I—I should finish this dictation.”
Brett took a step forward and swept her into his arms. In a moment, his mouth was on hers, kissing, searching. Her movement was firm, more decisive than she felt, her hand against his chest pushing forcefully until her arm was at full extension.
“No.”
She saw a flash of fire in his eyes. Hurt? Passion? Anger? She watched as he pumped his hand into a fist.
“Claire—”
“I can’t. I—”
“You can!” Brett stepped away, still holding his hand in a fist. “You talk with your lips, not with your heart.”
Claire shook her head. “No.”
“Claire, listen to your heart,” he pleaded.
“Don’t do this to me. I need you. I need you as a friend, a confidant. No one else in this department has heard the story I told to you.”
Claire watched as Brett took a deep breath and blew it out through pursed lips.
“Sometimes I think I should just quit the program.” It was an admission that shocked her, even as she spoke. “Just one more straw on this camel’s back, and I’m outta here, back to Stoney Creek and a simple life.” She dropped her eyes to the table. “The Lord knows my mother could use the help with my father.”
“You wouldn’t quit. You’ve lived for this.”
“What makes you think you know what I will do? And how can you presume to know my heart?”
“I—well, I—” He threw up his arms. “Vibes, I guess.”
“Vibes?”
“Good vibrations. I thought you felt what I felt.” He looked down.
“Brett, the last thing I want to do is hurt you. If I’m sending you vibrations, it’s out of my own confusion.”
Brett looked at his watch. “I’d better leave you. I know Rogers has you on a tight schedule.” He took a step to the door. “I’m sorry.”
“Brett, I’m the one who’s sorry.”
Brett
gathered up their trash from lunch. “I’ve got to get back to the lab.” He opened and shut the door without saying good-bye, leaving Claire alone. She sunk to her chair and stared at the Dictaphone.
I must be see-through. If I have an ounce of desire for that man, he can sense it like I’ve shouted it from a stage. She paused. I’m just like Grandma, inviting unwanted advances … or are we getting what we want?
“God,” she whispered. “I finally decide to share my problems with another resident, and I just seem to end up with one more problem.”
Looking at her watch, she shook her head and backed up the Dictaphone to listen to what she’d just recorded.
Then, picking up where she’d left off before Brett’s interruption, she took a deep breath and continued.
The blue rental Dodge Durango SUV wove across the double yellow line as Billy Ray Davis squinted at the map. He swerved back and muttered a curse as the driver of an eighteen-wheeler loaded with turkeys laid on the horn. A feather lodged momentarily on his windshield before flying off toward a field of corn to his right. “Blasted poultry trucks!”
He pulled out a cell phone and started to dial with his thumb, but when the road curved sharply to the right again, he lost his place and decided it was time to find a place to stop.
He found a gas station in Berryville and pulled in for gas, a six-pack of Heineken, and a large bag of jalapeño nuts. He’d found the delicacy on a recent trip to the South, and loved the peanuts seasoned with peppers enough to endure the heartburn he was sure to experience. That’s why he bought the Heineken. Not that it made the heartburn better; in fact, it made it worse. His physician had said something about relaxing his gastroesophageal sphincter or some such fancy doctor-speak. But the Heineken would cool him down enough to sleep, even if the peanuts tortured him.
Ramsey had insisted he leave right away. “We’ve got to do our groundwork early, before everyone is on their toes,” the attorney instructed. But now, Billy Ray was lost on a country road, buying beer at a mom-and-pop gas joint, with a map that didn’t even show a town by the name of Stoney Creek.