My head jerks up involuntarily. Sexy Surgeon hasn’t been by to rescue me once tonight. But I don’t miss him. I swear I don’t.
Well, maybe a little.
“Good luck with that,” another nurse says. “Dr. Reilly never answers his pager.”
That statement is met with a smattering of giggles and agreement.
“True,” the first nurse says. She’s a matronly woman in her fifties. “He’s cute though. I can put up with a lot if they’re cute.”
“Yeah, and he’s really cute,” a third nurse chimes in.
I can’t help but feel annoyed. Mostly because I know that there’s no level of cuteness that I, as a female (human), could obtain that would allow me to get away with treating the nurses like crap the way Ryan does.
I finish up my orders, hand them over to the nurse, and race down the hallway to the bathroom. I make it to the stall seconds before any loss of continence occurs. Good thing I’ve barely had time to drink anything tonight.
I’m pulling up my scrub pants, my elbow pressed against the stall door to keep it closed since none of the bathroom stalls have functional locks, when I hear the page booming from the loudspeakers overhead: “Dr. McGill, please call extension 3425!”
Okay, that’s the unit I’d just been sitting on a minute earlier. I probably forgot to sign my orders again, but why would they page me overhead for something like that? I check my pager to make sure I didn’t miss a page. I haven’t. I quickly wash my hands and race out of the bathroom. It’s got to be an emergency if they paged me overhead.
A nurse named Beth is waiting for me when I arrive back on the unit. I double over for a moment, puffing unattractively.
“What’s going on?” I gasp.
“Mr. Chandler asked for a higher dose of Benadryl,” Beth says.
I stare at her. “You paged me overhead for that?”
Beth shrugs.
I am so tired. I feel like I’m going to cry. “This is an outrage! You can’t even pee in this place!” I’m almost screaming at this point.
A resident in scrubs sitting in the nurse’s station looks up at the sound of my outburst. Naturally, I had to express my frustration about peeing in front of Sexy Surgeon. He grins at me sexily.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“You gave him 25 mg of Benadryl,” Beth says. “He says it’s not working and he needs 50 mg. So another 25 mg.”
“Okay, sure,” I say.
I start hunting around for Chandler’s chart so I can write the order. I can just feel Ryan’s eyes watching me, but I try to ignore him best I can.
“I can’t believe you’re giving in to the drug addict,” he says.
I turn around to glare at him. “It’s Benadryl. Last I heard, that’s not a narcotic.”
Ryan stands up to join me at the chart rack. He’s closer to me than he needs to be. “Let me guess,” he says. “The guy has been getting tons of narcotics, and finally your attending or Alyssa made you cut back. So instead, he starts asking you for Benadryl. Like, all the freaking time.”
I frown. “How did you know that?”
“Because, young Medicine Intern,” he says, “Benadryl potentiates the effects of narcotics. All the smart addicts know that.”
I narrow my eyes. “And how do you know that?”
“Because I work at County Hospital,” he says with a shrug.
He’s wrong. He’s so wrong. He has no idea what he’s talking about. And I really wish he’d wipe that smug grin off his face.
“I’m right,” he says.
“This guy is not a drug addict,” I insist as I pull Chandler’s chart off the rack. I’m prepared to give him all the Benadryl he wants, if only to spite Ryan.
Anyway, I’m 100% sure he’s not a drug addict.
“Yeah? What’s his diagnosis?”
“Shingles.”
“How old?”
“36.”
“HIV-positive?”
I feel my fingers ball into fists. “Yes, but not from drugs.”
Ryan raises his eyebrows. “You’ve got to be kidding me. What sob story did he feed to you?”
“His fiancé was cheating on him,” I say, sticking out my chin.
Ryan starts to laugh. “Oh boy, he must have been so happy when he laid eyes on you.”
That is totally untrue. I mean, well, yes, he did look happy when he saw me come into his room in the ER. But that’s just because I was his doctor and he was in pain and he knew I was going to help him. Not because he saw me as some naïve little intern who he could manipulate to get pain meds.
Right?
Crap.
“What room is he in?” Ryan says, looking down at the chart. Before I can answer, he reads it off. “423. Chandler. Got it.”
My stomach seizes up as I watch Ryan stride down the hallway in the direction of Chandler’s room. This is bad. I start to chase him down. “What are you doing?”
“I’m doing you a huge favor,” he replies.
Oh no.
I can’t seem to stop him though. He slows down in front of Chandler’s room, and doesn’t even bother to gown up. He pulls on a pair of gloves with a loud snap and strides into the darkened room. I follow a few steps behind, fumbling with the fabric of the yellow isolation gown which doesn’t seem to want to unfold for me.
“Mr. Chandler?” I hear Ryan ask. “My name is Dr. Reilly.”
Alex Chandler struggles to sit up in bed. He rubs his eyes and looks at Ryan. “Hi,” he says. He doesn’t seem thrilled.
“I want to make something really clear to you, Mr. Chandler,” Ryan says, his face impassive. “We are not drug dealers here. You are not getting any more pain meds while you’re here. No morphine, no Dilaudid, no Demerol, nothing. No Benadryl either. You can have Tylenol—that’s it. So I want you to quit bothering poor Dr. McGill here because it’s not going to work.”
Chandler stares at Ryan in surprise. “I’m… you know I have shingles, right?”
“And you’re using it as an excuse to get high,” Ryan says. “Nice job. But it’s not going to work anymore.”
Chandler looks from me to Ryan, finally deciding to address me: “Dr. McGill, I swear to you, I’m not—”
“Don’t bother,” Ryan cuts him off. “She’s not the boss. She’s just an intern.”
My face burns. I want to tell Alex Chandler that I’m sorry, that I didn’t tell Ryan to talk to him this way, but my lips feel frozen.
“I’m going to report you to the patient advocate,” Chandler hisses at Ryan. “You can’t talk to a patient this way, Dr. Reilly.”
“Go ahead,” Ryan snorts. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and she won’t bother to check how many times you’ve been to the ER this month looking for drugs. Or in the ERs of other nearby hospitals.” He raises his eyebrows. “And maybe she’ll be blind too and won’t see the track marks on your arms.”
Oh God. He’s right. How did I not notice that?
Alex Chandler’s face has turned very red. “That’s… you… I’m not…”
“Read my lips,” Ryan says, folding his arms across his chest. “No more drugs. Not here. You’re done.
“Fine,” Chandler says roughly. And then he does something really unexpected, which is that he rips his IV right out of his arm. Tape and all. It must have hurt, but he doesn’t even flinch. “I’m leaving. I’m not going to be treated this way.”
He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands up. He’s a little shaky with his first step, but then it’s obvious he’s not going to fall.
He glares at me. “Thanks for ratting me out to your boyfriend over here. Really classy.”
My mouth falls open. I don’t even know what to say.
Chandler pushes past me, his shoulder jostling mine, and the last word I hear him say before he leaves is: “Bitch.”
_____
I can’t stop shaking.
After I fill out the paperwork for Alex Chandler to leave the hospital AMA (Against Medical Advice), Ryan
follows me to a quiet corner outside of the ward and sits with me while I replay what just happened over and over. I feel like a complete idiot. Chandler was manipulating me all along and I hadn’t the slightest clue. I spent the whole day defending him like a fool.
“Don’t feel bad,” Ryan says. “It’s your first week. It happens to everyone.”
“Did it happen to you?”
He grins. “No. But I’m much meaner than you are.”
I bury my face in my hands. “I’m terrible at this.”
“Yeah,” Ryan agrees. “But so is everyone.”
“No, I’m the worst.”
“I think you’re underestimating how bad everyone else is.”
I’m not sure this line of reasoning is making me feel any better.
“That guy’s been doing this for years, I’ll bet,” Ryan says. “He’s a nice-looking guy so he makes himself look clean-cut just so he can fool some goodhearted person like you. He’s an expert at it. And this is only your first week.”
“Yeah,” I mumble.
“Listen,” Ryan says. “Are you done for the night?”
I nod.
“Good.” He stands up then holds out his hand to help me to my feet. Ryan’s hand feels so warm and comforting in mine that I feel sad when I have to let go of it. “I’m going to walk you to your call room.”
Hopefully, I don’t end up in the wrong room again and have to make Alyssa’s bed.
He presses the button for the elevator. He tugs absently at the V-shaped collar of his blue scrub top and I again see that tantalizing bit of blond chest hair peeking through. I don’t know if he notices me looking, but he gives me this smile that I can’t quite read.
The elevator comes a minute later and we both step inside. I lean against the back corner, and Ryan presses the button for the seventh floor. As the doors slide shut, he looks at me, no longer smiling. I look at him. And before I know what’s happening, he moves toward me and starts kissing me.
I feel his hands running up my back and into my neck and my hair as his lips press against mine and his tongue penetrates my mouth. The bristles of his golden five o’clock shadow graze my chin hard enough to cause pain, but I can’t get enough of it. I know it’s a cliché, but I feel myself melting against him. Sexy Surgeon knows how to kiss, that’s for sure. For once, I love how slow the elevators in this hospital are.
I hear the ding of the elevator reaching its destination and the doors swing open. Ryan’s hand closes around mine.
“Come on,” he says.
My heart leaps. Even though we’re at work, there are two very reasonable, private bedrooms for us to retire to. Not that I’m going to sleep with Ryan Reilly. Not in the literal or figurative sense of the word. But I definitely would love to make out with him for another hour or three.
The fates are against me though. As usual.
Ryan’s pager goes off. And the guy who never, ever, ever answers his pager looks down at the number, and says, “Shit, I gotta go, Jane.”
I almost cry. “Seriously?”
He sighs and rubs his face. “Yeah, I don’t want to either, believe me. Get some sleep, okay?”
How the hell am I supposed to sleep after that just happened? But I say, “Okay.”
“To be continued,” he says, and slips back into the elevator just before the doors slam shut.
Hours awake: 21
Chance of sexy time in near future: 25%
Chapter 15
Tiredness wins out as usual, however, and I do manage to squeeze in a couple of hours of sleep before my pager wakes me around 7 a.m. I have another ten minutes left until my alarm goes off, but I figure at this point I better just get up. I make only a halfhearted attempt to look respectable by straightening out my ponytail, but I don’t even bother with the finger brushing. Even though Alex Chandler left the hospital, I now have nine patients to see before we round with Dr. Westin, who we’re meeting at 8 a.m. By Alyssa’s logic of allowing thirty minutes per patient, I should have started rounding at 3:30 a.m. So I’m way behind right now.
By some miracle, I get everything done and arrive at Dr. Westin’s office only a few minutes late. Naturally, everyone is already there, and Alyssa is looking at her watch with an annoyed expression on her face. I want to take her watch and flush it down the toilet. But I can’t because I don’t have time to go to the bathroom anymore.
“Why didn’t you page me when Alex Chandler left AMA?” Alyssa snaps at me the second I enter the room.
“I told the nurses to page you and let you know,” I say.
“The nurses?” Her voice is dripping with contempt. “You should have called me. Yourself.”
Okay, the truth is, I knew I should have called Alyssa and told her myself what happened. But it was three in the morning, I was already shaken about Chandler going off on me, and I didn’t feel like getting screamed at on top of it. So I made the nurses do it. I mean, he was already gone. There was nothing we could do about it.
“Sorry,” I say.
“You should have called me,” Alyssa says. “If anything happens with a patient, you call me. You should know that by now.”
“I understand,” I say.
“She’s right, Jen,” Dr. Westin says. “Listen to Alyssa. She knows a lot.”
I hate everyone in this room.
We get up to go round on all our patients. I feel like I’m in a bit of a daze, and half the time when Dr. Westin asks me a question, my answer is, “What?” At one point, he just shakes his head at me and says, “My, my, my.” I can tell I’m not really impressing anyone here.
When we get to Mrs. Jefferson’s room, her big toothy smile makes me feel better for about half a second, right before Alyssa lays into me right in front of her and everybody. “How much fluid did she put out last night?”
Because she has bad heart failure, we are monitoring Mrs. Jefferson’s “ins and outs,” meaning, we record everything she drinks (“ins”) and everything she pees (“outs”). As much as I feel sorry for myself right now, I feel slightly more sorry for the nurse who has to keep track of how much pee Mrs. Jefferson makes.
I fumble through my notes. “Um… two liters? No… three liters?”
“Which is it, Jane? Two or three?”
I just stare down at my notes. At this point, anything I said would be a guess and she knows it.
“It’s your job to know the patient’s ins and outs,” Alyssa says. “It’s not my job. It’s your job.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“My, my,” Dr. Westin says.
As the rest of the team walks out of the room, Mrs. Jefferson says to me, “Hey, Jane?”
She’s not supposed to call me by my first name, but I don’t mind it right now. It’s better than “Doctor” with the scare quotes.
“What is it?” I say.
“Don’t you let them get to you,” Mrs. Jefferson says. That puff of gray hair on her head makes her look very wise all of a sudden. “I know you’re doing a good job, sweetie. You’re a good doctor. And I know because I dealt with lots of doctors.”
I nod.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “You’re real sweet now, but in a year, you’re going to be like a cougar. Just like that tall lady doctor who yelled at you. You’ll see.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“One other thing,” Mrs. Jefferson says. “Would you mind giving my husband a call, just to tell him what’s going on with me? His number’s in the front of the chart as my emergency contact.”
“Sure,” I say, putting it on my checklist to make sure it gets done. At least I can manage to not screw that up.
_____
We finish up with rounds and I find a quiet place to get my work done, and after a few minutes, Nina joins me. I have to admit, I look around for Ryan. I know that nothing is going to happen right this minute, me with a ton of paperwork to do and him with… I don’t know, surgery to do. But I want to see him. Maybe sneak one more kiss in the elevator.
I hate myself for liking him so much.
I’m working my way through the long checklist of things I need to do before I can go home and go to sleep when an intern named Dave wanders over to us. His brown hair is sticking straight up and he looks really freaked out.
“Hey,” he says to me, running his hand through his hair, making it stick up even more. “Have you seen Connie?”
I shake my head. Connie is very focused on getting out of the hospital as fast as she can, which means when I see her, she’s often just a blur.
“She signed out to me an hour ago,” Dave says, “but then one of her admissions from last night got his third set of cardiac enzymes back and it was elevated. So… that means he’s having a heart attack. Right?”
“Right,” I say. “I think so.”
I glance over at Nina, who shrugs.
“So I paged Connie to tell her and ask her what to do,” Dave explains. “But she’s not answering, so… I don’t know what to do. What do I do?”
Nina and I exchange looks. “I think you’re supposed to start the patient on a heparin drip?” Nina suggests.
“Maybe you should call cardiology?” I say.
Dave just stares at us.
And then I get this great idea. Connie has been Miss Perfect to this point. If I call Alyssa and tell her that Connie left the hospital before finding out if her patient was having a heart attack or not, that might deflect some of Alyssa’s anger from me. That would be awesome.
Also, we could figure out how to treat the patient. That would be helpful too.
Dave stands by while I page Alyssa. She answers quickly, which is one thing I can definitely say about Alyssa: she is prompt. “Dr. Morgan, returning a page,” she barks into the phone.
“Hi,” I say. “It’s Jane.”
“What is it?” she asks, preemptively disgusted by anything I have to tell her.
“So Connie left about an hour ago,” I say. “She signed out to the on-call intern. But now her patient ruled in for a heart attack. And she’s not answering her pager. So…”
“So…?” Alyssa prompts me.
“So the intern isn’t sure what to do,” I say.
“And what did you tell him?”
The Devil Wears Scrubs Page 10