by Rada Jones
“I’m sorry, Faith.”
“It’s OK. We were no longer together anyhow.”
“Still, it must be hard for you.”
“It is. But after he killed all those people…”
Emma gasped. The suspicions hanging over Carlos weren’t public knowledge. How did Faith know? What did she know?
“Which people?”
“The patients.”
“What makes you think he killed patients?”
“Who else, if not him?”
Emma shrugged.
“It must be him. He was involved with all of them, one way or another. He killed them, one by one. Then he could no longer stand the remorse. Or maybe got afraid of getting caught. That’s why he tried to commit suicide. That’s what that accident was about.”
Emma’s jaw fell. She didn’t think Carlos had killed the patients. There was no reason to believe that the accident was a suicide attempt. But then, I barely know him. Faith does. They lived together for years. She knows him better than anybody.
And she hates him.
“I don’t know, Faith. It doesn’t sound like the Carlos I know. I think he’s a decent man.”
In a flash, Faith turned dark. Eyes spitting fire, she stood up to pace.
“You’re right. You don’t know. I do. Did you know he was only twelve when he joined a gang? He was fourteen the first time he got arrested? He’s a criminal. He’s always been a criminal. That’s who he is.”
Fists tight, head forward, Faith paced the small room. Back and forth, back and forth. Like a caged animal.
“He puts on a good face. He pretends to be nice. He acts like he cares about you. But he’ll throw you under the bus if it suits him. That’s what he did to me. He threw me away. Me!”
Eyes wild, black painted nails digging into her palms, Faith choked with rage.
Filled with unease, Emma leaned back. She has nothing good to say about him, even as he’s dying. No tears, no regrets. Nothing but hate.
She waited and waited for Faith’s anger to die down. It didn’t.
“Faith, would you like me to call somebody for you? A friend? A priest? How about getting you something to help you relax?”
Suddenly, Faith’s fury vanished. She smiled like nothing had ever happened. She took Emma’s hand.
“Oh, no. Thank you, Dr. Steele, I’ll be all right. I was just surprised. You’re right, Carlos is a good man. I’m heartbroken that this happened to him! He couldn’t have killed all those people. Thank you for talking to me.”
“Of course.” Emma forced herself to hug her, then rushed out. Touching Faith made her skin crawl. She went back to work. She saw the dog bite in Room 4, the drunk in 7 and the broken ankle in 12.1. She forgot about Carlos and Faith, until the phone call.
“I thought you’d like to know how he is,” Dr. Roth said.
“Of course.”
“He’s made it this far. We had to do a pericardial window. It was good that you didn’t intubate, he had a pneumothorax too. His spleen was shattered. He made it by the skin of his teeth. For now.”
“How about his head?”
“Not much on the CT. No fracture, no bleed. We’ll see if he wakes up. We’ll lighten up the sedation tomorrow. If he makes it that far.”
“Thanks for calling, Dr. Roth. I appreciate it.”
“My pleasure. I hope I’ll see you around.”
Emma smiled and hung up. She ordered antibiotics for the pneumonia in Room 14 and signed out.
69
It was still early when Emma’s phone woke her up the next morning. They needed her at the hospital. She brushed her teeth, threw on a set of clean scrubs, and left.
Mike, Gus, and Sal were waiting in Mike’s office.
“What’s up?”
“Your patient? Room 14? Yesterday?
The pneumonia I admitted before I left.
“Yes?”
“He died.”
“Really? He wasn’t that sick! How come?”
“He died from a morphine overdose.”
“Morphine? Who gave him morphine?”
“You did.”
“I did not. He was not in pain.”
Mike’s eyes were hard as rocks as he looked at her. He turned the computer screen to show her the chart. Clear as daylight: 50 mg of morphine. Her order.
That’s impossible.
She looked again. Yep. Her order.
“I didn’t order this.”
They stared at her.
“Mike, I didn’t order this. This is insane! Why should I order 50 mg of morphine? I never, in my life, gave more than 10 at any one time! And this patient wasn’t even in pain!”
“This is your patient. This is the order. This is your electronic signature.”
“I did not order this.”
Gus stared like he’d never seen her before. Mike frowned. And Sal…Sal’s eyes didn’t meet hers.
“That’s not what the computer says,” Gus said.
“What time was it?”
“3:45,” Sal said.
Just before the end of my shift. I was still in the ER. Except that I didn’t do it.
“Who gave it?” Emma asked. No nurse in her right mind would give such a monstrous order.
Sal shrugged. “It’s not marked.”
“Who was his nurse?” Mike asked.
“George,” Emma said.
I didn’t put in that order. And George would never give it.
“We’ll speak to him. Can I have a moment with Dr. Steele?” Gus asked.
Mike and Sal left, closing the door behind them.
“Emma, how much do you drink?”
Emma’s stomach fluttered. A wave of nausea hit her.
“Nothing, ever, when I work.”
“Still, how much do you drink?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“Actually, it is. I wonder how much your drinking interferes with your work. As ED director, you’re practically always on call. Even in your off hours. As such, you’re actually drinking on call.”
Emma’s anger blew through her like a dark wind. Her throat tightened.
“I know you have a lot of stress. The job is stressful. Your personal life hasn’t been easy. Ken’s death. Victor. Taylor. All that takes its toll.” He paused, waiting for an answer.
One-two-three. One-two-three. Emma counted her breaths in an effort to slow her heart rate. She crossed her arms tightly on her chest, to prevent herself from punching him.
“However, we cannot allow your personal problems to interfere with the care and the safety of our patients. You are becoming a liability for the department. You need to put your life in order.”
Emma’s teeth clenched so hard she could hear them crack.
“I’ll give you one week. Sort out your personal life. Consider detox. There are many upscale, discreet facilities. You could turn your life around.”
Emma knew a lot about detox facilities. She had researched them for Taylor, who’d eloped from one only weeks ago. She didn’t need detox. Her drinking was her problem. Nobody else’s. She hadn’t ordered that morphine. She never drank on the job. She’d never drink and drive. Somebody was sinking her. She remembered George: “I have a feeling something bad is about to happen to you, Emma.”
He was right.
70
The house was quiet when Emma got home that evening. She walked from the kitchen to Taylor’s room, then to her own bedroom, where Guinness slept on her bed when she thought nobody knew. Nobody home. She went to the wine rack.
“If you drink, you are drinking on call.”
So what?
She was always on call. She’d been on call for months. Ever since the blasted day they made her director. Her drinking never interfered with her work. If anything, it helped. Thinking of her wine had sustained her through many nasty encounters with patients, consultants, and staff. Instead of blowing up, she’d smile and nod, thinking: Stupid motherfucker. You’re
not worth getting in trouble for. I’ll reward myself with a better wine tonight for keeping calm as I talk to you. Like now.
It feels like a night to celebrate. What? I’m not sure. Being alive? Figuring out who the killer is? Having a quiet moment? Between the ER, Taylor, and Guinness, that’s as rare as hen’s teeth.
She chose a 2004 Brunello de Montalcino. A very special Italian wine. She’d fallen in love with it by mistake. She and Victor were in Rome for their honeymoon. Thanks to Margret, they stayed at an exclusive hotel near the Pantheon, so posh that the doorman intimidated them.
They made love. They slept, embraced. They woke up at midnight, hungry. Rome was asleep. They had to make do with the stale sandwiches in the room and the bottle of expensive Brunello they’d bought for Margret.
“We’ll buy her another,” Victor said.
They sat together on the windowsill, their thighs touching. They watched the moon pour gold over the Pantheon. They ate stale salami sandwiches and drank Brunello from each other’s lips. They talked. They made love. They watched the darkness swallow Rome when the moon hid behind the buildings. Brunello had tasted like love, magic, and Rome ever since.
Emma opened the bottle. It surrendered with a wet “pop.” She poured the blood of the grapes in a long-stemmed glass. She sat on the green leather sofa, put her feet up, and sniffed the wine. Cherry, strawberry, and walnut.
Walnut? She took a second nose. Walnut. Enough foreplay. She took a healthy sip. She closed her mouth around the wine, allowing it to bathe her tongue, the inside of her cheeks, her palate. She chewed on it, driving it into the farthest corners of her mouth, imbibing every taste bud. She swallowed. She focused on the lingering finish pleasuring her mouth even after the wine was gone. Like the glow of the sunset, still there after the sun is gone.
She sat alone staring at the dark TV screen, thinking. About Rome. About Victor. About how marriages fail and love dies. About Vincent.
That’s when our marriage died. It died the morning when Vincent didn’t wake up.
He woke her up every night, then every morning before dawn, asking to feed. Except that night. Her full, heavy breasts woke her up that morning. He’d never slept through the night. He hadn’t this time either. He had been dead for hours. His eyes were open, his face purple, his tiny body stiff as a board. Emma did mouth to mouth. Victor called the ambulance and took Taylor away. Nothing helped. Vincent was dead, and their marriage died with him. For a while, they pretended it was still alive. They were still together, but they each grieved alone. Almost.
Emma turned to wine. Victor turned to Amber.
Amber’s pregnancy sealed the deal. She was going to give Victor his son back.
Emma was empty.
Amber had a girl.
Emma had nothing. Nothing, but hundreds of nights waking up in a cold sweat to check that Taylor was still breathing. It took her a year to come alive again. Not fully alive—a piece of her got buried with Vincent. More alive than not.
That was long ago. Too long to remember how it used to feel being a whole person. She survived Vincent’s death thanks to wine. Emma knew she was an alcoholic. She drank every day. She never drank before work. She never drank and drove. But she loved wine. Wine was always there when she needed it. He never failed to soothe her, warm her, release her inhibitions, dull her pain. Wine made her feel relaxed, smart, and funny. Wine silenced her mother’s voice, that voice inside her telling her that she was never good enough, smart enough, successful enough. She never worked hard enough.
Wine allowed the real her—the carefree, funny, life-loving person inside her—to come out. Life would be untenable without it. At work, she was the straight-laced, never-give-up doctor that she was, thanks to coffee. She always did the best she could. At home, she got to be herself. She ditched the bitchy conscience her mother had beaten into her. She felt less empty, less alone, less of a failure. She couldn’t let go of her wine. She’d rather let go of her job.
Wine was her lifeline. She shivered thinking about how her life would be without wine. She didn’t want to know. She poured the last of the bottle thinking about Boris. Handsome, charming, futureless Boris, who had stopped drinking.
She drank to his health.
71
“Dr. Steele to Room 3.”
Emma was happy to leave Room 7. He didn’t want to wait for his results. He wanted a sandwich and a taxi voucher, and he wanted them now. Emma shrugged. I’ll send the caseworker. I hope she can deal with him.
Her stomach turned as she stepped in Room 3. Nausea became dizziness. She had to lean on the sink to let it pass. She took a deep breath. Seriously? I knew that life’s always there to kick you in the ass, but I didn’t know it had such impeccable timing!
The patient in Room 3 was Boris. Boris, chalk-white, still smiling.
“Hello, Emma. I couldn’t stay away.”
“I guess not. What happened?”
He smiled. The dried blood around his mouth made him look like Dracula’s cousin. “This happened.” He pointed at his blood-covered shirt.
“When did this start?” Emma asked, her thoughts racing furiously. She shouldn’t be involved with his case. It was too personal. She should ask somebody else to care for him. But the other doctors were busy. And she couldn’t leave him. Not now, when he needed her. Not ever.
“Last night. I hoped it would stop. It didn’t.”
Emma wanted to slap him and hug him, all at the same time.
“What do we have for IV access?”
“An eighteen in the right AC,” Judy said. “Working on a second.”
“Thanks. I’ll put in orders.”
She smiled and left the room, biting her lip to keep from crying. She ordered labs, she ordered blood, she paged GI. She went back.
So pale he looked transparent, his blond hair stiff with blood, he smiled when he saw her.
“There’s something about you, Emma. It’s like the sun comes up when you enter the room. I’m glad I got to tell you this. Don’t ever forget it. You are the light.”
Emma’s throat tightened. She was about to burst out crying. She wondered what the nurses thought. Then his expression changed. His eyes closed, he bent over the side of the bed. A fountain of blood came out of him. Then another.
He leaned back and smiled again.
“I wish we had more time. I wish we met years ago, when I was a man and a lover, not this grotesque caricature of myself, waiting to die. I wish I could be with you then, now, and forever. Would you have married me?”
“Why don’t you wait and ask me later?” Emma laughed, her heart in shreds. “I’ll have to think about it. I’m a little busy now. I have a patient to care for.”
He smiled again, but the light in his eyes was fading.
“There is no later, Emma. This is it. I know it. You know it too.”
His eyes closed for a moment, his blood-splattered face calm, too calm. Dead calm.
He opened his eyes and caught Emma’s hand.
“I’m glad I met you anyhow. Even now. My life was brighter because of you, Emma, my light.”
He let go and bent over again. He bled, and bled, and bled.
I didn’t know one human can have so much blood. Five liters? It feels like five hundred.
Years later, when the GI arrived, he glanced at Boris. He frowned.
“What did you give him?”
“Everything. Blood, Protonix, TXA, octreotide. I tubed him for airway protection. I started the massive transfusion protocol.”
He shook his head, his mouth a thin line.
Blood spurted out around the tube. Thick and opaque, blood covered the camera, hiding the bleeder. There was no way to find it. There was no way to stop it. They gave units after units of red cells, plasma, and platelets to replace the puddles on the floor. That kept him alive a little longer. But the only way to save him was to stop the bleeding.
They couldn’t do it.
Intervention radiology would help, but there
was none in-house.
Surgery would help, but the surgeon was in a complicated trauma case.
The second surgeon came. Too late.
Boris died. With him, another piece of Emma’s heart. She’d fallen for this brilliant, charming, terminal Russian like she hadn’t fallen in a long time.
Her heart heavy, her eyes burning, she called Vera. She didn’t want to tell her.
She didn’t have to. Vera knew.
She arrived minutes later. She hugged Emma, her eyes bright with tears.
“I’m sorry, Vera. I couldn’t save him. I tried.”
“I know. There was no saving him, Emma. His chances died when he drank away his liver, years ago. It just took him a while to catch up.”
She didn’t know how she went through the rest of her shift.
Back home, that night, Emma looked at her wine with fear and longing.
Am I really killing myself?
She didn’t know. Even worse, she didn’t care. Who cares if I die? Nobody, really. Vincent is gone. Taylor is pretty much on her own. Victor has Amber. Boris died today.
She shrugged. If I kill myself, may as well do it in style. She picked her most expensive wine: A bottle of 2012 Domaine des Comtes Lafon Meursault 1er Cru ‘Les Perrieres… mineral notes that need some encouragement… citrus peel, walnut, and smoke with a long peacock's tail on the finish that reasserts its position as the most propitious premier cru’. Propitious? I can use that. Today more than ever. Encouragement too. These wine people have a way with words!
She sniffed it. She lifted the glass to her lips.
Guinness barked. Sitting facing her, staring in her eyes, she barked again.
She lay her head in Emma’s lap.
Tears burned Emma’s eyes. “You’re right. You care.”
She poured the wine back, recorked it, and went to bed.
72
Angel
I’m disappointed, Emma. I thought we were friends.
For you, I did things I never did for anybody else. I did things nobody else did for you.
