by JJ Lamb
“So, as they say, if ain’t broke, don’t fix it – the new name will be Pneucanex-CW.”
He held up a hand to stop the moans. “Live with it!”
“And what does the tacked-on CW represent?” Yamada asked.
“And what’s the name of the company you work for, Marti?”
“CHEMwes… Oh! Sorry.”
“Now, back to you, Eddie,” Merz said. “A week from Wednesday there’s going to be a nice little ceremony at Ridgewood General involving the head of their Oncology Department, the president of CHEMwest, an economically challenged lung cancer patient, and as much of the local and national media as we can turn out.”
“And my part in this?” Eddie said.
“You’ll be point man — responsible for delivering the first batch of Pneucanex-CW to Ridgewood. Marketing is putting together a script for you on how to interact with the patient and all the dignitaries involved. Got that?”
“Yes.” Eddie was about to say something else when he felt his cell phone vibrating in its holster.
Father!
“Good,” Merz said. “Now not a word of this to anyone outside of this office or you can kiss your ass goodbye.”
Chapter 7
Harry Lucke’s focus on a travel brochure was interrupted when the winter rain came crashing down on the roof of the oceanfront cabin Gina and he had planned to share during their four-day honeymoon.
He stared at the colored pictures of Florence, a city Gina had talked about incessantly the past couple of years.
Would serve her right if I took off for a riotous couple of weeks in that fabulous city and came back speaking Italian like a native.
He flung the literature out into the middle of the room; it hit a Barcalounger and dropped to the floor.
“Who am I kidding?”
What would he do in Italy without Gina Mazzio by his side except wander the streets and moon the days away?
Can do that right here. Save a few thousand bucks.
He moved to the window and stared out at the panorama of the Pacific Ocean. The water was gray and moody with tumultuous white caps – thunderous waves crashed against the rugged shoreline. The random, natural violence suited his mood.
He grabbed a Gortex hooded shell and went out into the rain; the wind-blown drops pelted his face, trailed down under the collar of his corduroy shirt. His feet sank as he trudged along a narrow strip of sand that wove in and out of strewn boulders. The driven rain stung his face – it was what he needed to clear his head and think about his life with or without Gina. He sat down on a wet rock and watched the clouds merge with the ocean.
This time, he feared, his Bronx bombshell had become too much for him. Maybe he needed time away from her.
Usually he could adjust to her mood swings because the flip side brought him the most loving person he’d ever known. It had been that way since the day they met, almost three years ago when he was working Ridgewood’s ICU. She was floated in from Oncology to help cover an overflow of new admissions.
They’d clashed right from the start–
* * *
“We need him hooked up now!” Harry yelled.
Gina was struggling with a gurney that was caught in the elevator door. “I just got him here,” she yelled back.
“Move!” Harry insisted. “Can’t you see this guy’s hypoxic?”
She glared at him. “Just tell me where you want him and I’ll perform like the puppet you seem to think I am.”
He leaned over and read the identification card clipped to her scrubs. “Pop him into the slot next to the nurse’s station for now, and for God’s sake hook him up to the O2. Got it?”
Without a word, she spun on her heel.
At the end of the shift, Gina cornered him in the elevator.
“Who the hell did you think you were talking to? Don’t ever yell at me like that again! Understood?” she said. “Not if you want to leave this place in one piece.”
“If you can’t keep up, you don’t belong in ICU.”
“Look, buster, I don’t belong in ICU. Got it?”
“Oh, yeah. That much was obvious.”
“Like I said, don’t ever mouth off at me again. I’ve probably got as many years in nursing as you have, and I expect some respect, especially from another RN. Capisce?”
“Hey, I was hassled. I’m sorry.”
“Come over to Oncology tomorrow and let me return the favor.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“Damn straight.”
They turned their backs on each other as the elevator made its descent. Despite their clash, Harry hadn’t been able to keep from sneaking a glance at her now and then. He found her very attractive. And once he thought he’d caught her looking at him, or perhaps it was only wishful thinking on his part. He had to admit that for being out of her element, she’d caught on quickly and appeared to be a damn good nurse.
As the elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open, he allowed her to step out first. She didn’t look at him as she moved briskly past him.
“Ms. Mazzio?”
She stopped, turned toward him. “Yeah?”
“In an attempt to make up for my knuckle-dragging earlier today, I would very much appreciate it if you would allow me to take you to dinner.”
Her steely glare relaxed, she burst out laughing, and agreed to go out with him.
At dinner, he apologized again. “It’s a family thing,” he said.
“Apologizing?”
“No, acting boorish.” And before he realized it, he was telling her about growing up in San Francisco where the men in his family worked the port docks loading and unloading cargo.
“Part of their Saturday night entertainment was to pick on me for going to nursing school.
“And the women?”
“Cook, clean, patch up the men, and have babies.”
She laughed.
“You find that funny?”
“No,” she said. “A picture flashed in my mind of you in your scrubs exchanging punches with some bearded guy in filthy jeans.”
“You mean, with a background like that, how’d I ever decide to become a nurse?”
“Something like that,” she said.
He told her about the football scholarship to the University of New Mexico, how he’d majored in sports training, and how that led to thinking about becoming an MD.
“What changed your mind?”
“The scholarship wasn’t hefty enough. It wouldn’t cover medical school, so I gave nursing a try. Came back to San Francisco for my first job.”
“No girlfriends along the way?”
“A date here and there, nothing serious. Most gals aren’t too crazy about a guy who’s always too broke to take them anywhere.”
“You make pretty good money now,” she said.
“Haven’t met anyone I want to spend it on.”
Before long they were seeing each other exclusively; then they moved in together.
* * *
But there was a well of depression from her disastrous first marriage; memories would sprint to the surface at the drop of a wrong word. She would lash out, leave him feeling helpless. At times she would cry, become fearful — not want to leave the bedroom, much less the apartment. It was hard to be objective, to figure out what was real or imaginary.
He’d gone into their relationship with his eyes wide open, understood from the beginning what he was facing – it would take a long, long time, if ever, before Gina would fully trust him, or any man.
Harry looked up at the sky, let the rain wash away his despair.
He wasn’t sure exactly what happened Friday night – they were talking, then all of a sudden they were arguing, and then, bam, he was out the door with a half-packed suitcase.
One thing he knew for certain: the wedding was definitely off.
What was it they’d been talking about? He forced his memory to respond: A telephone call. One that came in just before Gina got off work.
Some jerk-off trying to pull her chain. That took him back to other times when he Hadn’t taken her seriously: the bone marrow incident, her work on the union contract. Both had caused terrible rough spots in their relationship, particularly after Alan Vasquez almost fired her
Mazzio was a serious woman – didn’t want to be considered a light weight. Treating her that way wasn’t even like him. It was a stupid mistake!
And now, some creep on the telephone was pushing her buttons, causing her to sense danger.
Real or imagined?
“Cutting up women? I don’t think so, Gina,” he’d said in their apartment living room.
Wrong move again, Lucke.
Still, she should have just given him hell, allowed him to apologize, and gone on with their plans.
Or, if she flat out didn’t want to marry him, she should just say so and be done with it.
He walked back to the cabin, picked up the brochure he’d tossed aside, and put it in his suitcase next to his laptop and smart phone.
What was he going to do with the two-week break he’d arranged with the traveling nurse registry? The plan was to either work on their apartment, or look around for a new, larger condo. He certainly wasn’t going to call in and make himself available for a new assignment right away, and when he did, maybe he would request someplace far, far away, like maybe Alaska.
But he did need a place to stay. Maybe he could hang out at his brother’s place for a while.
Harry looked out at the ocean, watched ten-foot waves crash against an outcrop of offshore rocks, spray high into the air.
On a stormy day like this, the two of them should have been tucked away in the cabin, warmed by a roaring fire, making love.
“Shit!”
Chapter 8
The Ridgewood nurses loved the Swiss chocolate, personalized notepads, and expensive pens that Eddie St. George dropped off on Mondays. Best of all, Oncology’s Mike Cliffords had gone ballistic over the free Warriors tickets – floor level, right behind the home bench. In fact, the doc was in such an up mood, he signed off on one of the largest drug orders ever written for Ridgewood’s Oncology Department.
Eddie hadn’t lost his touch and couldn’t wait to see the transaction posted back at CHEMwest so the others knew it, too. Merz would make some kind of phony congratulatory display, then try to grab some of the fame and glory. Eddie was still pissed at Merz for sandbagging him into doing the ridiculous marketing ploy to introduce the designer alteration of Pneucanex. All it would do is eat up time he could be devoting to sales calls.
He entered the elevator, reached for the “G” button, paused a moment, and punched “C” instead – that would let him off at the overpass to Ridgewood’s clinic wing. It wasn’t a part of the facility he visited very often, but that was where he might find Gina, the OB/Gyn advice nurse who had taken his call Friday evening.
A wave of weariness swept across his shoulders. The physical and mental stress, plus the accelerated pace of Milty Hiller’s demands for more packages was exhausting.
And the dilemma of Father’s brain tumor. Was it only four months ago he’d learned about it? The shock had worn off as the guilty relief grew. Soon Father would be dead. Yet despite the tumor, nothing seemed to change. Father was the same physically. In fact, he seemed stronger than ever, and even more vicious.
Eddie couldn’t face it anymore; it had to end now, and he needed to find Mother as soon as possible, or he might never find her.
Why did she leave? Was it really as Father said? Does it matter? I need to see her again, to hear her voice.
His briefcase became heavier and heavier with every step even though it was actually some ten pounds lighter than when he’d started that morning.
He tried to distract himself by looking out the windows that lined the bridge to the clinic wing, but the height caused an unexpected sense of vertigo. The dizziness passed as he pushed through the swinging doors.
A tall, long-legged woman walked up to him; her name was stitched across the breast pocket of her white coat: Lexie Alexandros, Manager. She gave him a brief up-and-down evaluation, pausing at his red, gel-spiked hair before carefully reading his visitor’s identification tag.
“Are you lost, Mr. St. George? We usually don’t see CHEMwest reps in the clinic.”
Perspiration trickled down the small of his back. He made a quick evaluation as to whether this woman represented a danger to him.
“I know.” He smiled, looking deep into her eyes. “Mike Cliffords has been hounding me for months to check out the clinic wing. Said he would appreciate my input with respect to future renovation plans.”
He waited a moment for Alexandros’ reaction. When none came, he added, “Guess that’s because I walk the halls of just about every medical facility in the Bay Area.” He waited again. “Anyway, he thought I might have a fresh idea or two.”
Her features relaxed; she flipped a lock of hair out of her eyes. “We’re pretty low down on that totem pole. No money, no new clinic.” She laughed out loud. “But that’s Clifford’s pet committee. He plagues everyone for ideas.” She ambled away. “Have a look around. It won’t take long to see the obvious.” She tossed a goodbye wave over her shoulder.
Eddie set his case on the floor, pulled a notebook from his pocket, and scribbled a bunch of nonsense, waiting for the pounding in his head to stop.
He peered down the clinic’s two corridors: one with offices that alternated on either side of the hallway, the other with a continuous stream of patient examination rooms.
He out away the pad, picked up his briefcase, and edged past several empty offices. Checking his watch, he realized he might be out of luck. It was still the lunch hour.
Then he heard her voice – Gina!
She was in an office, explaining to someone why she didn’t get married over the weekend. He could tell from the timbre of her voice that she was close to tears.
“…what do you want me to say?” Gina said. “We didn’t get married. That’s it.”
He looked down the corridor, afraid someone would catch him standing there eavesdropping. But this room was at the far end of the hallway and he’d only passed three other offices directly before this one, all of them empty, at least for the time being.
He pulled out a pad and pen again. If anyone showed up, he would pretend to be thinking, taking notes.
“... something happened here Friday. It scared the bejesus out of me. And Harry was anything but supportive.”
She’s going to tell them about my phone call. Who else has she told besides her boyfriend?
“…why didn’t you call someone? … “like who? … don’t think there was a living soul … not even Security? … couldn’t get through … Administration? … didn’t want to risk having to talk to … with our history … I wouldn’t even try … there’s always la policia … spoke to a Detective Yee, but she didn’t seem terribly interested; brushed it off as a crank call.”
The jumble of voices convinced him that the other nurses didn’t believe her.
“I’m really fond of you, Gina Mazzio, but I gotta say, you confuse the hell out of me. Have you and Harry Lucke really broken up?”
Eddie’s hopes fell. No one had believed her. Yet, what had he expected, that some magical savior or non-existent exit would appear with one telephone call? That he could then find Mother and they would disappear together? Escape from Father?
What a fool I am.
Father was right: Eddie would continue to get away with everything. He’d be clever, look innocent, and most people will never see a thing, even if it’s right in front of their noses.
He pressed against the wall, moved in closer to hear the rest of the conversation. He lost the thread of what they were saying. Remembered with little boy eyes when he hid in the butcher shop and watched Father:
Peek around the corner, hide among the aprons on fat wooden pegs. They hang nice. The red stuff makes funny pictures on the cloth.
Father left me
in the office with my crayons.
He would beat me if he knew I snuck out. Don’t matter. Father beats me anyway.
Mommy used to save me.
Mommy’s gone.
Miss Mommy.
Want to cry, to scream at Father. But hide so he can’t see me.
Promised not to come into the shop. Promised to be good, stay in the office.
Always tell Father I don’t want to come here. Brings me anyway. Brings me every day except Sunday. Here, with the bad smells.
See a girl with no clothes on
Blink, rub my face. She looks right at me. Tries to tell me something. The smell of the aprons makes me dizzy.
Father walks up to her, calls her “Lola,” Mother’s name. But she’s not Mother.
Her screams are loud, hurt my ears.
“Let me go, you bastard!”
Father laughs. Laughs the same mean way he laughs before he hurts me. Hurts me bad.
The room spins. Don’t like Father hitting her.
Squint, make everything turn blue to cover it all up. Blue is nice. A shiny blue like the broken crayon I left in Father’s office.
More screams. Cover my ears, cover my face. Peek through my fingers. Have to see.
Fingers spread wider.
Father throws her on the table. Climbs on. Rides her like a cowboy. Want to yell but must be quiet. Father will find me, beat me.
Don’t want to look. Throat closing. Can’t breathe. Gulping. Choking. Need air.
Try to make it go away.
Make the blue darker.
Darker.
The girl screams louder.
Louder.
Her eyes burn me. Feel my tears dropping, spilling on the aprons.
The cowboy gets up, roars like a lion, carves a dripping red smile on her neck.
Father turns, looks right at me, points.
He’s coming for me.
