Mercy

by Rada Jones

  She prepared for a left hook. She glanced at Taylor.

  Why isn’t she moving?

  She lost sight of the scalpel. Faith slashed her arm. The deep, burning pain scorched her arm to the tip of her fingers, then back. Blood gushed.

  My left has never been much good anyhow. I wish I had a weapon. A scalpel, or at least my stethoscope.

  She remembered the leash. Guinness had brought it as she left. She thought they were going for a walk. Emma sent her back, rolled the heavy leash and put it in her pocket.

  She pulled it out in one smooth move. The heavy metal clip flew like a bird. The air hissed. Faith’s face cracked. She dropped the scalpel.

  Her hand covering her face, she pivoted. Her right foot side-kicked Emma’s knee from under her. The knee gave. Emma fell to the ground.

  Faith bent over, picked up the scalpel, and went back to Taylor.

  Emma rolled toward them. Faith ignored her. Bent over Taylor, eyes glued to her belly, she brought the scalpel to the skin. Her hand shook. She steadied it with the other.

  The scalpel touched Taylor’s navel.

  Emma grabbed the metal linen shelf above them, and pulled on it with all her strength.

  The shelf leaned, shedding heavy bundles of blankets. One fell on Faith’s shoulder. She dropped the scalpel. She picked it up again.

  Emma pulled harder. The shelf groaned, teetered, then crashed over Faith’s back. Faith screamed.

  The door opened. George, his face darker than the night. Faith saw him.

  She glanced at Taylor, lying on the ground. She dropped her scalpel and ran out past him.

  George’s eyes followed her. He looked at Emma, kneeling, covered in blood. Three feet away, Taylor, blue and motionless, lying on the floor.

  He let Faith go.

  81

  Emma crawled toward Taylor.

  “Taylor,” she heaved.

  “She isn’t breathing,” George said.

  “Pulse?”

  “Yes.”

  Emma bent over Taylor and started mouth to mouth. George called the code.

  I never kissed her on the mouth. Not even when she was a child.

  She kneeled by Taylor’s head and extended her neck to straighten her airway. The only one I kissed that way was Vincent. But he was stiff.

  Taylor’s body was flaccid, her blue face relaxed. Her open green eyes stared into nowhere. Succinylcholine. Or vecuronium. Or roc. The bitch paralyzed her, and let her die. Emma breathed another breath into Taylor’s chest. She didn’t have time to be angry. Not yet.

  She needs oxygen. She’s pregnant. They desaturate like crazy. Then the heart stops.

  Another breath. The baby. If she’s not breathing, he’s got no oxygen either.

  I won’t think about this. Not now. Breath in, breath out, breath in…

  “I got her, Emma,” George said.

  He had the mask with the blue bag attached.

  Emma grabbed the mask and placed it on Taylor’s face.

  George started bagging.

  The stretcher came. The people too.

  A dozen hands lifted Taylor on the stretcher. George kept on bagging. Brenda pushed the stretcher to Room 3.

  Emma tried to stand up. She couldn’t. Her left knee gave.

  Somebody pulled her up.

  Ann.

  “We got her, Emma.”

  Emma limped behind the stretcher to Room 3. She leaned against the sink, staying out of the way, watching.

  “She has no muscle tone. She must have given her a paralytic,” Emma said.

  Ann nodded. “Let’s intubate.”

  George lifted the mask. Ann grabbed the laryngoscope.

  The monitor stopped beeping.

  The heart had stopped.

  Ann froze.

  “Start CPR.” Ann, her face heavy as lead, stared at the swollen belly.

  She’s thinking about a perimortem C-section. You have four minutes to cut a baby out of a dying mother. If she does it, they may die. If she doesn’t, they may die.

  Ann’s eyes found Emma’s, burning the question into her.

  “Don’t. It’s too early. The baby isn’t viable yet. Ventilate her. That’s what she needs.”

  Ann nodded. She put the laryngoscope aside. They ventilated.

  One hundred percent oxygen.

  Epi.

  Fifteen seconds or an eternity later, the beeping restarted.

  She’s back.

  The baby? Who knows?

  At least she’s alive.

  82

  A lifetime later, Emma made it home. She struggled to open the door. Her left arm hurt. Her right hand too.

  Everything hurts. But it’s good to be home. It’s good to be alive.

  Her right hand was broken. A boxer’s fracture. The 5th metacarpal, the tiny bone connecting her wrist to her pinky, was gone. Her cast went from her fingers to below her elbow. The 5-inch gash on her left arm needed 12 staples. Kurt wanted to put in stitches, but she didn’t have the patience. She’d been away from home for too long, while Guinness was locked in the house.

  And she needed wine.

  Taylor was doing well. Physically. The paralytic wore off. She was breathing on her own. They extubated her. Her psyche? That was a different matter.

  This day will haunt her forever. Paralyzed, watching an unhinged killer cutting your baby out of you? That’s the stuff of horror movies.

  Emma shivered. She hated horror movies. Life was horror enough.

  Victor came to check on Taylor. Eric sat with her. The OB came to check on the baby. He looked all right. They kept her overnight to monitor them. Eric stayed with her.

  Emma had a rough time making it to her car, with a cast on one arm, staples in the other, and a mangled knee. Victor offered to help, but she declined. She didn’t need another complication. The drive home was a nightmare, but she made it. She closed the garage door and went inside. Guinness was waiting.

  She’ll jump out of her skin. She’s been locked in for hours.

  She didn’t. She was polite and cautious. She sniffed every inch of her as if she read a small print newspaper.

  What’s she making of all these smells? Of the way I look? A cast on my right hand, a bandage on my left arm. I’m covered in blood. Mostly my own. Who am I kidding? It’s all my own. I’m lucky if I gave her a bruise.

  Emma let her out. She gave her water. She fed her dinner.

  Guinness didn’t want it. She lay by the door, pretending to be asleep, but her ears were up and the hair on her neck wasn’t sleeping.

  She’s waiting for something? Taylor! That’s what she’s waiting for.

  “She’s not coming home tonight. She’ll stay at the hospital, with Eric.”

  Guinness thumped her tail once. “OK.” She went back to waiting.

  “You understand, Guinness? She’s not coming tonight.”

  She doesn’t. She’s just a dog, for God’s sake. German, to boot. How would she understand? She’s worried about Taylor. Nothing I can do. Unless…

  Emma went to Taylor’s room and got her sleep T-shirt. XXL, black, a red jaguar on the chest. She offered it to Guinness.

  Guinness glanced at it, then went back to the door. Her long black nose on her paws, she was waiting.

  “Sorry, Guinness. I can’t walk you tonight. I ran out of hands. Tomorrow maybe, after Motrin.”

  Emma checked the wine rack. She hadn’t had a glass since Boris died. That felt like a lifetime ago.

  She needed wine tonight.

  She needed it to clean her inside. To escape the horror, dirt, and suffering she’d been through today. In a life of daily horrors, this day took the cake.

  Carlos died. He was a good man. He deserved better. He died because of this psychotic bitch.

  Taylor’s heart stopped in front of Emma’s eyes. As for her baby? Nobody knew.

  I should have destroyed Faith long ago. I knew it was her. She was behind those patient deaths. I knew it for a while. She sabotag
ed my career, killed half a dozen people, and almost killed Taylor, while I sat and watched. And I did nothing.Why? Because I wasn’t sure.

  Emma learned early that she was incompetent and useless. So, in spite of common sense, logic, and evidence, she doubted her own judgment. She couldn’t have been smarter than all the others. Mike, the VPM, even Carlos—all said she was wrong.

  I thought they knew better.

  Instead of doing something, she’d looked for more proof. Now she had it.

  It was too late. Carlos was dead, Taylor had been close. Faith had escaped. And Emma was damaged. Seriously damaged.

  Wine would help her through this. Just one bottle. She needed it today.

  She examined bottle after bottle, prolonging the foreplay. She found what she was looking for.

  Carménère. Not subtle, like a punch in the gut isn’t subtle. Dark, dry, and intense with edges you’ll never find in an Australian Shiraz or a Californian pinot noir. Pinot Noir! What an inaptly named, watered-down excuse for a red wine.

  She took a sip. She rinsed her mouth with it, exorcising the evil she’d breathed in through the day. She swallowed. She took another. The warmth entered her. It spread through her body, loving her. The wine took away the pain. It blunted the remorse. It blurred the worry.

  Before too long, the bottle was empty, and the pain was gone.

  I’ll deal with everything tomorrow.

  She called Guinness. The dog didn’t come. She glanced at Emma, then thumped her tail against the floor. She went back to watching the door.

  A little miffed, Emma shrugged and closed the door. You want to sleep in the kitchen, there you go. Have at it.

  She went to her bedroom. She lay down.

  Her back was grateful.

  She fell asleep.

  83

  She woke up bathed in cold sweat. She sat up, her heart racing, and stared into the darkness. It’s nothing. A nightmare. No wonder, with the day I had. Plus the wine.

  The house was dark and quiet. But there was something. She shivered.

  Something evil.

  A noise, almost too soft to hear. In Taylor’s bedroom.

  Mice?

  She stood up. With soundless soft steps, she tiptoed to Taylor’s room. The door was cracked open.

  She wished she had a weapon. Anything. She had nothing. Her stethoscope was in her bag, on Victor’s chair. Same with her scalpel. And her pepper spray.

  That’s silly. It’s probably nothing. I’m just paranoid.

  She stepped softly inside the darkness to Taylor’s room.

  The curtains fluttered in the night breeze.

  Taylor left the windows open. That’s it. The breeze moved the curtains and the windows. There I am, all bent out of shape for nothing.

  She went to close the window.

  An arm closed around her throat, choking her.

  She bent forward to escape.

  The arm’s owner bent with her, laughing softly in her ear. That laughter froze her heart.

  She wanted to scream. She couldn’t. She could barely breathe. She thumped her bare foot to make noise. It hurt. The carpet hushed the sound.

  “Where is she?” a soft voice asked in her right ear.

  Emma couldn’t answer if she wanted to. Not enough air through her vocal cords to speak. She didn’t know what this was all about.

  That’s bullshit. Of course I know. It’s Faith. She’s come for Taylor’s baby.

  Police had come to the ED. They took statements from everybody. Kayla, who watched the cameras and saw Taylor heading to the utility room, then Faith following her. Emma, who’d fought her. George, who was there when she ran away.

  Faith had attacked Taylor, but she was gone. They couldn’t find her.

  Emma had.

  I wish I hadn’t.

  With all her strength, she pushed the arm away. She took a gulp of air. She screamed.

  Guinness heard. She barked, clawing at the kitchen door.

  I locked her in.

  Someone may hear. Maybe.

  The arm tightened again and cut her breath. It choked her scream. It made her dizzy.

  Something sharp pierced Emma’s throat below her right ear.

  A knife. If it was a scalpel, it would be through the carotid by now. Even so, if I move, that knife will go through. She stilled.

  “Where is she, I asked?”

  No point in lying. She’ll figure it out by herself.

  “At the hospital.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re making sure your baby is OK.”

  A sigh warmed Emma’s ear. The arm around her throat softened.

  “When’s she coming out?”

  “Tomorrow, if the baby’s OK.”

  “My baby.”

  “Tomorrow, if your baby is OK.”

  “I’ll call him Dick.”

  Good name. It fits right in.

  “What if it’s a girl?”

  The knife went in a little deeper.

  “It’s not a girl. My baby is a boy. You get it?”

  Emma did.

  “You’re not a bad woman, Emma. You’re even a good doctor. I learned a lot from you. Remember how you told us: Don’t give insulin without glucose if they’re euglycemic, or you’ll kill them? Don’t give opiates and benzos at the same time? Never give hypertonic saline unless they’re actively seizing or in a coma?”

  Emma nodded.

  The arm around her neck softened.

  “That’s how I learned. They don’t teach you how to kill people in nursing school. You learn that from the doctors. I learned from you.”

  How ironic.

  Guinness’s whining faded. She went back to bed. I shouldn’t have closed that kitchen door.

  “You were kind to me, when I was in trouble. I appreciate that. I’ll be kind to you.”

  Kind to me?

  Faith’s weight drained Emma’s strength. She could barely stand under their combined weight.

  “I’ll even let you say good-bye. Sit in that rocking chair.”

  Faith led her to Taylor’s orange rocking chair and pushed her.

  Emma fell in. She took a deep breath.

  Good news: I can breathe. I can even scream. Bad news: Nobody will hear me. Escaping that chair is a challenge on a good day. Today isn’t one of those.

  She started circular breathing to slow down her heart. One in—one hold—one out. Repeat.

  To escape the rocker, she had to push herself up on both hands. She didn’t have two working hands. Not even one. Faith would cut her before she got up.

  That’s not going to happen.

  Faith grabbed Taylor’s leather-bound journal from the nightstand and threw it in Emma’s lap. She stepped back.

  She’s out of reach. She has a knife.

  Emma looked at the open window.

  Too far.

  Faith leaned against the opposite wall.

  Too far.

  Emma picked up Taylor’s purple pen and started writing. A few seconds later she stopped and looked up.

  “Did you kill Carlos?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why?”

  “He was suffering. He was a liability. I’m here to help people. I didn’t want him to suffer. I didn’t want him to tell anyone about me, either.”

  “What was there to tell?”

  “Oh, you’re so smart, Emma, aren’t you? Trying to keep me talking. Hoping to find a way out. Not today. You have five minutes to finish. Five. That’s five more than I gave Carlos. He didn’t deserve them. He betrayed me. Time and time again. You were good to me. That’s why I’m nice to you.”

  I hate to think how this would go if I wasn’t.

  “If I was nice to you, why kill me, Faith?”

  “I’m not Faith. I’m the Angel. The Angel of Death. I’m here to help you.”

  “How does that help me, Angel?”

  “It ends your suffering. You’re old. You’re fat. Your husband left you. Your daughter hate
s you. You’re all alone. Who wants to live like that? What do you have to live for? Work? They hate you there too. I’m only trying to help you out.”

  This is déjà vu, all over again. Just like Mother. The worst is that it’s true. She forgot that I’m an alcoholic. That would round it up nicely.

  “That’s generous of you, Angel. Don’t you think you should ask me what I want, though?”

  “No. People don’t know what’s good for them. They’re too stupid.”

  Emma nodded. She’d often thought the same. She didn’t take over though, like Faith was. Angel, that is.

  “You have one minute left,” Angel said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Leaning against the opposite wall, she was too far for Emma to reach.

  “Then what?” Emma asked.

  “I’m going to help you pass. I’ll open the rainbow bridge for you. You’ll be with those you love.”

  I’m not so sure. All those I love, except for Vincent, are still alive.

  “It’s time.”

  Faith stepped forward. Her knife, a sleek eight-inch blade, thin enough to fillet fish, was ready.

  “Nice knife.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? I love it. It’s sharp, light, and smooth.”

  “I’d love it for cooking. Do you cook?”

  “Not really, except for toast and eggs. Ready?”

  “I don’t know. How should I get ready?”

  Angel got angry. “You’ve had your time. I was generous. It’s over.”

  “Then what?” asked Emma.

  Angel came closer, bending over to pick up the journal, her knife ready.

  Emma rocked back and lifted her legs. She kicked as hard as she could, just under Angel’s knees. Angel fell forward over Emma, knife first. Emma lifted her right arm to protect her throat. The knife came forward, all of Angel’s weight behind it, piercing Emma’s arm. Emma twisted. Loud as a gunshot, the knife broke, stuck in Emma’s cast.

  Emma rolled left with the rocker. She fell on the floor. She rolled again.

  Angel rolled toward her, lifting the broken knife.

  Emma tried to sit up.

  Her left arm gave. She fell back.

  Angel fell over her.

  “I told you to be good. I was nice to you. You had to be the smart one. Again. It could have been easy for us both. One stab and done. Now it’s going to hurt. It’s your fault.” She lifted her right arm with the broken knife and lowered it onto Emma’s chest.