The Stone Necklace

by Carla Damron

  “There was an accident. He and your mom are at the hospital right now. Your brother is coming to get you.”

  “An accident?” No, that wasn’t right. It couldn’t be. Becca had just seen him. He had kissed her head and—

  “. . . accident was bad, I’m afraid,” Dr. Lowery’s lips looked like blubbery worms as he kept talking, but Becca couldn’t make sense of what he was saying.

  “. . . . brother will tell you about it when he arrives.”

  “Sims is coming?” she interrupted. “When?”

  Mr. Brunson laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she pulled away from it. “I’m sure your dad will be okay.”

  “My mom was sick,” she said. “Last year she had cancer. She’s better now though.”

  Mr. Brunson and Dr. Lowery exchanged strange looks, like they felt sorry for her. She didn’t want their pity. “That’s good, Becca. Maybe your dad will be better, too.” Mr. Brunson sounded false, like he didn’t believe it for a second, and it scared her. She wanted to get away from the two men. Away from the school. Away.

  “Let’s head to my office. We’ll wait for Sam—”

  “Sims,” she corrected.

  “We’ll wait for Sims there.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Sandy Albright stood in front of her locker at Mercy General Hospital, relieved to see her name still there; she hadn’t been entirely erased. It was her first day back on the job after a twelve-week suspension, and she was more jittery than when she began her career fourteen years before. She wondered how people would treat her. Who on the nursing staff knew.

  She found her scrubs, and though the drawstring had to be loosened, the top still fit despite the six pounds she’d gained. She’d walk them off once she got swept away in the chaos on the floor. Sandy was eager to get busy again. Eager to show her nursing supervisor, Marie Hempshall, that she was ready for this. And maybe eager to show herself the same thing.

  “Welcome back.” Pete Borden draped a hairy arm around her shoulder. He smelled like mint and cigarettes. “Place ain’t been the same.”

  “Really? Didn’t we all get big raises? And extra vacation time?” These lines she’d rehearsed, hoping to cut through any tension as she was re-introduced to her job.

  Pete laughed. “Yeah, and I won the lottery, and we have a gay Republican in the White House.”

  “Damn. At least a girl can dream.”

  He twitched a thumb towards the door. “Ready for PM report?”

  Not in the least, she almost said, but she plastered on a grin. “Let’s do it.”

  She survived the meeting by taking copious notes, writing down each patient’s name and status, and avoiding the probing eyes of others in the room. Fifteen minutes later, the briefing ended and she sprang to her feet. “Sandy, stick around for a second,” Marie Hempshall said. “Pete can handle the first part of rounds.”

  Here we go, Sandy thought. She twirled the blue NA wristband that her sponsor had given her to read the letters engraved: “TIWBS”: Today I will be sober. The slogan needed to get her through the hours, the days, the weeks to come.

  Marie led her to the small, windowless office that she shared with the third shift supervisor. Marie’s face was like a full moon with the nose and eyes squinched close together and a mouth no bigger than a green bean. She sucked in her stomach to round the desk and drop into her seat. Sandy claimed the other chair, trying not to think about her last visit when Marie tried to fire her.

  “You know the situation, right? Probationary status for a year. You have to attend NA meetings the full twelve months. You’ll have to maintain a log of your attendance to be signed by the NA group leaders. There will be urine screens. Speaking of which—” Marie pulled a small package from her drawer and ripped open the top. She handed Sandy a cup. “We’ll go down to Human Resources.”

  Sandy stared at the plastic container, swallowing her humiliation. And this was just the beginning. She tucked the cup in her pocket as she pushed out the door, moving fast, Marie’s short legs stuttering behind her. Get this over with, she thought. Then get the shift over with, then the day . . . Damn.

  She led the way to the administrative offices, through the cube farm that was the billing department, and into the single-stall bathroom beside the HR director’s office. When Marie pushed in with her, Sandy realized why they’d come here—no hint of privacy. “I’m not peeing with you staring at me.”

  “It’s policy.” Marie snapped on latex gloves. Sandy glared. Marie turned around to face the mirror. “This better?”

  Sandy lowered the pants of her scrubs and sat. At first, she wasn’t sure she could do it, but she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, which relaxed her enough to fill the cup. She handed it to Marie.

  “I’ve got the testing card right here,” Marie said.

  “Of course you do.” Sandy tied up her scrubs. “Well?”

  “We have to give it a minute.”

  Sandy squirted foamy soap into her palms and turned the faucet on full force, vigorously scrubbing under the torrent of warm water, a comforting hospital ritual. That done, she joined Marie in studying the cup: three ounces of pee that could overturn her life.

  Marie removed the card. “You tested clean.”

  “You sound disappointed. I am clean. I’ve been clean for three months and nine days.” Three months, nine days, three hours.

  Marie dumped the urine into the toilet. “Okay, here are the rules. You no longer have access to Schedule Two medications. Whoever works the shift with you will have to administer those drugs. You can do vitals and blood draws, change dressings, take care of other medical needs.”

  “For how long?” Sandy understood the rationale. She’d been caught taking nine Oxycontin tablets from the pharmacy cart, which caused her to be put on probationary status and would have led to prosecution if the hospital administrator hadn’t panicked about the publicity. Her current license was probationary. One tiny infraction would implode her fragile nursing career.

  “We’ll revisit that issue in six months.” Marie pursed her small lips. “You think you can do this?”

  “Do what?”

  “Your job.”

  Sandy leaned against the counter. “Why are you so pissed?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Take a peek in the mirror, Marie.” She gripped the bracelet. Today I will be sober.

  “You screwed up,” Marie said in a rush. “You work in cardiac ICU—you could have hurt somebody. God, Sandy. Someone could have died.”

  This Sandy knew. Thank God no one had. Her near-miss had happened at the other hospital.

  “They never found out about this when you worked up in Charlotte?” Marie asked.

  “I didn’t use back then.” She hadn’t needed to, back when she had a life.

  “You think the rest of us haven’t been tempted?” Marie spoke to her reflection in the mirror. “We work three twelve’s in a row, then have to pull a double shift. We’re beyond exhausted and desperate for a boost. But the difference is we know it’s wrong. That’s why we don’t do it.”

  “Guess that makes you stronger than me.” Sandy’s sarcasm was thinly veiled, but the truth was Marie had a point. She often worked a sixty hour week, covering for nurses who called in. She had no life outside the hospital because there was no room for it. That Marie didn’t use drugs was actually kind of admirable.

  Sandy said, “The real difference is I couldn’t stop with a ‘little boost.’ A little boost just got me started. I needed ten milligrams of valium to get through some shifts. Eighty of Oxy when I got home.”

  “Damn.” Odd how Marie sounded impressed.

  “Yeah. Dug myself quite a hole.”

  “And you got it all from here?”

  “No. You can’t take that much without getting caught. Most I got through less reputable channels.” She didn’t tell Marie how easy it was to buy the stuff, how her dealer worked two floors up from her and supplied at least twenty other hospital staff
. Taking from the pharmacy cart had been extraordinarily dumb, something her group therapist had described as Sandy’s hitting bottom. Her cry for help. Sandy defined it as her nose-dive off the stupid truck.

  “Well, I hope you make it. I do. But it’s up to you from here on out.”

  Of course it was up to Sandy. Heaven forbid she should get a little support from her supervisor. “Guess I’ll help Pete. I take it he knows my Schedule Two restrictions?”

  “Of course. Most of the nursing staff knows.”

  It felt like a punch. “So that policy about drug treatment being kept confidential was all a load of bull.”

  “The other nurses have to cover what you can’t. But I never told a soul about your being in treatment.”

  No, of course you didn’t. No one would figure it out from the Schedule Two restrictions, would they, Marie? Sandy had been kidding herself—the whole staff probably knew. Welcome back to General Hospital.

  She pushed past Marie and fled to the sanctuary of the staff lounge. Did she think her problems would be kept secret? What an idiot she was. She smacked a hand against her locker in frustration.

  Thwank.

  That sound. The metal resonating, vibrating her fingers, her arms, the nerves running the length of her body. The itch rose inside her. She used to keep her stash in this locker, wrapped in a latex glove and tucked in the toe of one of her Crocs. So easy, open the locker door, make sure you’re alone, find the answer. And God, she could use something right now. A few hits of valium would make her smooth as ice cream. She could buy it off the PT assistant on seven; she’d already been screened, no one would know. She groped for the cell phone and pressed the first entry on her speed dial.

  Her sponsor’s voice said, “Please leave a message . . .”

  Sandy didn’t leave the message she wanted to: “Real life and sobriety don’t mix.” She was doomed. On the job less than an hour and ready to undo three months and nine days. Her nerves quivered out of her, stretching for relief. One pill to get her through reentry.

  No. She had to get it together. She’d worked too hard. She could weather this. She paced over to the sink and splashed water on her face. As she took in a shuddery breath, she studied her reflection. Brown eyes with new bags beneath them. Dark hair with no shape or luster, the blond highlights remaining on the bottom three inches. A sag behind her chin that hadn’t been there a few months before. This wretched sober life touched every part of her. She gripped the bracelet.

  Her cell phone rang and she rushed to answer. “Jackie?”

  “I saw you’d called. How’s it going?” her sponsor’s voice was concerned.

  “Terrible. I’m about to blow it. I could use some about now.”

  “This minute?”

  “This minute.”

  “Then take a deep breath and breathe through this minute. Then breathe through the next one.”

  Sandy was still skeptical about the whole breath-works aspect of recovery but hearing Jackie’s voice helped her imagine there might be a future.

  “You knew this would be hard. But you can do it.”

  “Keep telling me that.”

  “You can do it. You can do it.”

  The words poked through like sunlight through a blind. “Thanks.”

  “You said to keep saying it. I’m free till noon. You can do it . . . Hey, want to know a secret?” Jackie asked.

  “Sure.”

  “That bracelet I gave you. What do the initials stand for?”

  “Today I will be sober,” Sandy recited.

  “Yeah, except that’s the cleaned up version. What it really stands for is ‘Today I won’t be a screw-up.’”

  Sandy stared down at the purple band. “Oh, hell. That’s more like it.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Leave your phone on, okay?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Sandy clicked off, but kept a grip on the cell, knowing it would be her lifeline. She would turn it off in the treatment areas but keep it in her pocket, and that would have to do.

  At the nurse’s station, Sandy grabbed a couple of charts to get familiar with her patients. Cardiac intensive care meant low patient/nurse ratios, but required a special vigilance. She had to anticipate problems, and to do that, she had to check the feel of her floor. Sometimes she had a sixth sense about who to keep a close eye on.

  Patient one looked stable. A woman, mid-fifties, recovering from a triple bypass, who’d be moved to a general floor later that day. The second chart told a different story. Mitchell Hastings, admitted yesterday. Fifty-four years old. Massive coronary. Anoxic before resuscitated. Minimal brainwaves, the guy was pretty much dead. Were they keeping him to harvest organs? Or maybe the family hadn’t let go. That kind of thing could take time.

  “I haven’t checked him yet,” Pete said, looking over her shoulder. “Would you mind?”

  “That’s why I’m here.” She tucked the chart under her arm, looped the stethoscope around her neck, and headed for room five-fourteen. Mitchell Hastings might be the perfect first patient for her. Not much there for her to screw up, was there?

  Muted lighting at the head of the bed showed a bruised face, intubated respiratory, and half open eyes that saw nothing. Skin on his neck was the color of cigarette ash, streaked red from broken capillaries.

  The quiet shoosh and click of oxygen seemed too loud in the thick silence of this man’s dying place. Sandy reached out, feeling his cheek with the back of her hand. This was something she always did, making soft physical contact with the patient. Especially patients like this one, caught somewhere between this life and whatever lies beyond. She hoped her touch could reach him.

  “What’s your name?” A middle-aged woman sat in the shadows, her legs crossed, her bony hands gripping the still fingers of the man in the bed.

  “Sorry. I didn’t see you there,” Sandy said.

  “I don’t think I’ve met you,” the woman said.

  “I’ll be his nurse for the PM shift. My name is Sandy Albright.”

  “I’m Lena.” She stood and came to her, moving with a fluid grace. Her yellow sweater had tiny spots of what looked like purple paint on the sleeve. A petite woman, her silver hair had been trimmed at an angle, short in back but chin-length in front. Wrinkles made parentheses around her mouth. “This is my husband, Mitchell.”

  Sandy opened the chart to record the O2 level and read the other vitals. “He’s running a bit of a fever,” she said, frowning.

  “I know.” Mrs. Hastings’s fingers fluttered over the back of his wrist. He couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything, and Sandy hoped Mrs. Hastings understood that.

  “But it doesn’t matter,” Mrs. Hastings said. “Do you think he knows I’m here? I mean, I know his brain is damaged. I know he can’t understand. But maybe, somehow, he knows he’s not alone?”

  Sandy turned to her, wanting to see her face, to gauge how much denial lingered there. But the woman’s weary gray eyes were clear. Honest. “We can see what the brain’s doing, so no, he doesn’t consciously know you are here. But if you believe in a soul, and I do, then maybe a part of him does know.”

  Sandy checked the other monitors, moving quietly, unobtrusively, not wanting to interfere. She could be a ghost when that’s what the family needed. It was harder when they invited her inside to ride the waves of grief with them. Some nurses managed to detach themselves, but Sandy had never mastered that. Maybe things would have been different if she had.

  “I never thought—he was always my rock. I don’t think he knew it though,” Mrs. Hastings said. “I had breast cancer last year. We weren’t sure I’d make it. Mitch was terrified of my dying. It had been a difficult year, even before.” She hesitated, pulling her hand away from him.

  “I’m glad you recovered from the cancer.”

  “It’s a miracle, in a way. Think I’m entitled to another?”

  Sandy didn’t answer. At the hospital, people always wanted a miracle. And some doctors cons
idered themselves deities, hoping to oblige. Her ex-husband, Donald, had that kind of ego. She’d been attracted to his swagger and self-confidence in the beginning, but later on, it had been their undoing.

  Mrs. Hastings asked, “How do you do this? I mean, this kind of nursing. It’s got to be so hard.”

  “It has its rewards, too.” Sandy reached over to adjust the line attached to the IV, then checked the sink area and small trashcan beside the bed.

  “I wish you could have known Mitch. He was a compassionate man. Sensitive. And he could be so funny. He was my high school sweetheart.” She let out a loud breath. “I can’t believe I’m talking about him in the past tense. It seems wrong.”

  No, it seemed so right. Sandy looked down at the shell of a man, hoping they’d turn off life support soon. Holding on seemed the cruelest thing. Cruel to the patient who had no quality of life, and to the family holding on to a frayed thread of hope.

  “I need to check on some other patients,” Sandy said. “But before I go, is there anything I can do for you?”

  Mrs. Hastings shook her head. “I’m going to stay a little longer, if that’s okay.”

  “You can stay as long as you like.” Sandy exited, closing the door behind her.

  TONYA LADSON STUDIED HER husband in profile as he drove down Washington Street. In the gray haze of twilight, he looked as though he’d been carved from granite: his angled beard, his dark eyes hooded by thick eyebrows. He’d been quiet since they left the doctor’s office.

  The windshield wipers stuttered against the glass; they should have been replaced weeks ago. She would remind John to do that when he was in a better mood. Impaired visibility could lead to an accident.

  Memories from the morning pinballed through Tonya’s brain. The white car folded against the tree. The crash of breaking glass and growl of the twisted door. The EMTs working on the other driver, while Tonya prayed, prayed hard, that he would revive. The ambulance blaring as it took the man away.

  “Is he asleep?” John asked, eyeing the rearview mirror.

  Tonya turned around to check on their son. Byron’s head rested against the side of the car seat, his fourth finger dangling from his lips. “Out like a light. Guess the medicine they gave him worked.”