Pink Slips

by Beth Aldrich

  The elevator seems to be moving slowly, and is ever so slightly wiggling from side-to-side as we await the ding announcing our arrival on the floor where we’ll get off. The elevator is empty so we have a minute to talk.

  “I’ll go right up to the desk,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll tell them I need to see the doctor again today, while you go and sit in a chair near the corner. I’ll let Donna, the receptionist, know that you are with me so she doesn’t approach you and make a big deal.”

  “Perfect. I’ll wait for you there and see if I can snoop around and find clues.”

  I snicker at his comment as I imagine the big orange letters on the side of the Scooby-Doo Mystery Machine, carrying five of the best cartoon mystery sleuths of all time: Shaggy, Scooby, Velma, Fred, and Daphne. I loved the voice of Shaggy, played by the actor and radio personality, Casey Kasem, who was also the voice of the syndicated radio show America’s Top 40. Even back, then they had creepy stalkers, but Shag and Scoob would always foil them. I wonder if my boys will ever watch Murder She Wrote or Scooby-Doo? Every kid I knew in grade school watched those shows religiously. They’re innocent and timeless. I guess I’ve always had a thing for mysteries. How ironic.

  Donna’s warm smile is very welcoming to my father, which eases any apprehension.

  “Mr. Anderson, it’s very nice to meet you. Make yourself at home while Betsy meets with her doctor. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, Donna, I’m good.”

  The nurse calls my name and brings me down the hall to the exam room, placing my file in the plastic holding container attached to the wall.

  “Let’s get your weight. We won’t be needing a urine sample right now since you were just here this morning.” This nurse is quick and efficient, unlike Donna. She’s medium height, with brown curly hair and perfectly manicured nails. “The doctor will be with you shortly.”

  I wonder what Dad is doing in the waiting room. Hopefully he can unearth something, anything, to shed some light on this case.

  From down the hall and through the exam room’s slightly opened door, I hear my father’s familiar voice. “Excuse me Donna, where’s the closest men’s room?”

  “Oh, you can use ours. It’s down the hall on the left, next to the supply room.”

  Dad has always had a way of working through obstacles with ease because he looks so sweet and innocent. People trust him and he’s brilliant, which would explain why he was the head of ABC-TV here in Chicago for years. After his heart surgery last year, he decided to retire; now he travels the world with Mom and works with Scooby-Doo and the gang, protecting and saving me from danger.

  While Dr. Deller does a manual exam to make sure the baby is doing okay, I move my gaze to the sink on my right—anywhere but in the direction of the doctor, whose hands are currently in a compromising position, a situation I’ve been in a lot over the past few years.

  “All set, Betsy.” My doctor says as he wipes off the ultrasound goo covering my belly. “Things are moving along nicely. I’m surprised to hear that you are having sharp pains. I trust you know what labor pains feel like, so I’m assuming the pain you were feeling was different. Perhaps you were having gas or indigestion?”

  I search my mind to falsely answer his question, then reply, “You know, you’re right. Maybe it was just gas pains.”

  “Well, there’s no sign of distress with the baby, but let’s take another look with the ultrasound again on Monday to make extra sure. Stay off your feet when you get home, but first, to ease your stress, why don’t you go and see Steven?” He pauses. “I’m sure you’re tired of always having to come over here several times a week, but I want to monitor this baby all the way to delivery. Never hesitate to call and come back in.”

  I agree with my doctor, but as he is speaking, my fleeting thoughts raise suspicions about his involvement with the menacing envelopes. In my heart, I know that he’s not guilty, but an unrelenting pull is directing me back here.

  “Thank you so much. I agree it will be nice to have a day or two off from getting poked and prodded.” I let out a desperate laugh and hesitate for what seems like an eternity. Finally, I turn to face him head-on. “Just wondering, doctor, do you go over to the hospital much? Reason why I ask is because the ICU nurse told me that a man came to see Steven the other day, claiming to be his brother, and I thought maybe you might have seen something that appeared out of the ordinary.”

  He shoots me a surprised look and instantly replies, “Why on Earth wouldn’t I tell you if I knew something like that, Betsy? I am just as worried about him as you are. As a doctor, we take an oath for the health and the wellbeing of all people.” He tilts his head and looks at me. “What aren’t you telling me? What’s wrong?”

  I can’t help but wonder if he’s being truthful with me, or throwing me a line that he prepared ahead of time if he were ever to be confronted. I’m not sure why I feel this way, but I do. Something is just not right—about this doctor, this office, and this building.

  “Oh, I know, Dr. Deller. I’m distraught about so much right now, so I am shaking the bush on every front, trying to figure things out. Just disregard my question.” I decide to avoid telling him more details until I find out how he or his office fits into this puzzle.

  As I gather my belongings, I deduce that my question was an odd one, and I should have realized it the moment it formulated in my mind and then spilled from my mouth. I’m certain that he won’t take offense.

  But if he is guilty, this will certainly motivate his timeline for attack.

  As I exit the exam room and make my way to the reception area, I catch a glimpse of my father’s furrowed brow and intent glare. I can tell something is not right. Hopping up, he raises his left eyebrow, then purses his lips, nudging his head towards the exit. Our steps are in unison as we quickly leave the office.

  “Betsy, keep walking; don’t say a word, just keep walking, and go directly to the car.” I always know when my father quickly talks this way he means business.

  My heart races as I pick up the pace to match my dad’s. Wow, those walks he and Mom take every morning on the beach and around town are really keeping them in fabulous shape. He’s putting me to shame. After several silent seconds, he sighs cautiously, darting his eyes around the perimeter of the parking lot all the way to the car.

  Safely inside, with Mom in the back seat and me in the front passenger seat, we are free to talk. He locks the door and puts the car in reverse to pull out of our spot. Driving slowly, he circles the large U-shaped parking lot, looking in between cars, searching.

  “Can you tell us what’s going on, Dad?” I push. “Everything went okay inside the examination room; the baby is fine. I felt horrible making up this fake pain, but in reality, I did just have spotting, so I guess it’s warranted.”

  Dad looks in the rearview mirror, acknowledging what I just said, before speaking. “You have to listen to me and don’t interrupt. I think that your doctor, or at the very least, someone in his office, is involved with the stalker. I highly doubt it’s your doctor, but there is some link that we have to figure out.”

  “What evidence do you have, Scooby?” I’m trying to keep things a little light to offset my shaking body—make lemonade out of lemons, if you will. I visualize me as Daphne and Mom as Velma.

  Somehow my dad manages a smile and Mom follows suit. “That’s funny, dear, but we have a real problem on our hands and it’s not getting any better. When you left for the exam room, I went ahead and asked to use their bathroom.” Dad is talking very quickly, as if he’s trying to get it all out before someone rushes the car, or worse. “When I walked by the supply room. I peeked in and saw an open box of pink sheets of paper. Next to that was a box of white business envelopes and a sheet of paper that looked like it came from your medical file! I read it quickly because I didn’t want anyone seeing me, but your name was on it.”

  I’m trying to stay calm as I reply, “A copy of my file was in the storag
e room?”

  My dad nods in agreement, then continues. “I know it sounds like no big deal, but then, when I was at the front desk, I also noticed your medical record was up on the computer screen. I’m not sure why it would still be up on the screen after you left the waiting room to go into the exam room.” He waits for our collective gasps before finishing his thought.

  “Call it coincidence or whatever you’d like—maybe a sloppy stalker—but when I got out of the restroom and back in the waiting area, I overheard Donna talking to herself asking, ‘Why was that sheet with Betsy’s medical information in the supply room?’ That made me very anxious, so I strolled over to her desk and made light conversation about how they have a very comfortable, laid-back office.

  “I then asked what computer system they used for clients because I was thinking about getting a system set up for my work clients.”

  “Dad, you don’t have work clients.”

  He nods his head and says, “I know, but she doesn’t know that. And by the way, who in God’s name doesn’t close out of patient files in this day, and age of patient privacy?” Before we can answer he continues talking, “I’ll tell you who. A stalker who’s opening up your files when the receptionist is away, that’s who.”

  The idea that a stalker may have been reading my medical files sends numbing panic throughout my entire body. I push my feet against the floorboards and squeeze the door handle to stabilize myself. Trying to believe everything will be okay, I breathe in deep, peaceful breaths aiming for tranquility. “Whoever wrote those notes wore latex gloves or something like that, because the police couldn’t pick up any prints on the on paper. But it’s way too coincidental that a page from my file was in that storage closet next to the paper.”

  I fight back a sob as the violation blends with the rage boiling within me. I need to find out who this is and confront him directly. The thought sends terror down to my bones. How could I defend myself against a man who’s six feet tall, if confronted face to face?

  “Betsy, your mother and I will go over to the hospital with you to see Steven, then we can head over to pick up the boys at school. We can figure out dinner later. Why don’t you call or text Misty and fill her in? If we get delayed at the hospital, she can always go get the boys.”

  The reflection in the mirrored elevator doors at the hospital reveal dark circles under my eyes and hair out of place—a woman at her wit’s end. Yep, that’s about right.

  My father keeps his hands lightly on both of our backs as the doors open onto the ICU floor. He gently escorts us down the hall to see my husband. No wonder my mom loves him so much; his consideration is boundless.

  We enter Steven’s room, and find that he’s nowhere to be seen. A swell of panic instantly fills my body. Worry powers my steps as I run over to the nurse’s station, Mom and Dad falling in behind me. Their support gives me the burst of confidence I need to form my question.

  “Excuse me… excuse me!” The words come out of me like a popped cork. “I’m Betsy Ryan, and—”

  “Mrs. Ryan. We were just going to call you,” replies a nurse I’ve never seen before. She looks alarmed. “Unfortunately, there’s been an incident, and the police are on their way up right now. But I can assure you we’re doing everything in our power to keep your husband safe.”

  “Keep him safe from what? What are you talking about?” I wail helplessly.

  Dad tightens his grip on my shoulder. “Ma’am, please, just tell us what’s going on. Is Steven okay?”

  “I’m really sorry,” she says, “but that’s all I can say right now. I promise to update you as soon as I can. Please sit tight and we’ll check in again, okay?”

  I nod weakly. Nurses and doctors are running this way and that, and a couple are on their phones demanding extra security. I realize that the mass confusion going on behind her is probably about my husband, wherever he is.

  I back up several steps, feeling my legs give out from under me as I fall into my father’s arms. My heart is knocking against my chest, pain searing my solar plexus. Mom is standing right next to me, ready to catch me if I fall again.

  With soothing tones, they steer me over to two metal chairs that are situated no more than fifteen feet away, near the ICU desk. There’s no way I’m leaving this seat without information.

  Waiting, Mom sits beside me, tenderly rubbing my forearm in a protective sort of way. I notice movement in Steven’s room and realize Dr. Abbott has gone inside. I summon the energy to get up and wobbly-march over to him, my parents close behind.

  “Excuse me, Dr. Abbott,” I ask, peeking through the space, between the security guard’s hip and the door. “Can I please speak with you?”

  He motions us into the room, as he tells the security guard to let us pass by. Steven’s room feels lonely, impersonal, and smells of death without him in it. I sit down in that chair I hate so much, immediately searching my mind, trying to select the right questions to ask Steven while I picture him in my mind—not the husband who’s lying unresponsive in some hospital bed, in some other wing of this place—but the husband who lifts our sons over his head to his shoulders, who helped me plant the bushes in my front yard, who proposed to me wearing a Northwestern sweatshirt on a crisp fall day.

  “Thanks for letting us in, doctor,” Dad says as he gently pushes past me. “Now please, for the love of God, tell us what’s happened here. Why is there a security guard at the door? We have a right to know!”

  “Folks, trust me, I understand you’re worried; so are we,” Dr. Abbott offers gravely. “Here’s what we know. About twenty minutes before you arrived, the ventilator alarm in this room went off. Our head nurse raced over here and discovered an unauthorized needle protruding from Steven’s IV line. She removed it immediately, and we’ve sent it to the lab.”

  “How long will it be before you know what was in the needle?” my father asks. “My daughter is very distraught about this.”

  “I’m not sure how long, but I’ll let you know when we know. We moved him to another room after they flushed his system because the police needed to search this room.”

  “Is he stable?” I ask, searching for answers in his eyes.

  “I want to reassure you,” he says, looking directly at me, “I’ve just come back from checking your husband’s vitals, and yes, he’s currently stable.”

  Numbly, I fish around my purse for a tissue and catch the drip coming out of my right nostril. I fold the tissue in half and dab the corners of my eyes to drain the tears that have pooled there. Mom scoots her chair closer to mine and squeezes my knee.

  “Still,” he continues, “we can’t be too careful. We’ve drawn blood and rushed that to the lab. We’ve also introduced a new fluid combination to further flush his system of any potential toxins. And the lab is currently in the process of analyzing the needle and its contents, so we’ll have a better sense of exactly what we’re dealing with.” He puts Steven’s chart down. “Meanwhile, the police have arrived, and as you can see, we’ve stepped up our own security throughout the ward as well.”

  Dad clears his throat. “Well, I’ll be. With all due respect, sir, I cannot begin to imagine how some unsavory character could have gotten into this restricted-access room in the first place, let alone poisoned my son-in-law in broad daylight! I mean, he might as well have been in a—”

  Mom cuts in with her most calming yet authoritative voice. “My husband’s right, sir. We’re angry and concerned. But right now, we just want to know a few of things: How can we help our daughter? Can we stay here past visitor hours, for example? How can we trust that your newly increased security will be enough to protect my son-in-law? And when, for goodness’ sake, can my daughter get in to see her husband again?”

  The doctor’s expression is one of apology and regret as he replies, and he sounds sincere when he does. “I personally assure you we are doing everything in our power to keep Steven stable and safe. We will keep a security guard on duty at his door twenty-four hours a day unti
l he’s released from the hospital. Unfortunately, we do need to wait for the police before we can grant visitation rights to anyone, including family. I’m so sorry about this.”

  My parents look at each other, stunned. Mentally racing through my list of questions, I realize one of the elephants in the room has not been addressed. “Doctor, may I ask, do you have any idea who might have done this?”

  “Honestly, Mrs. Ryan, we do not. No unknown visitors or new staff members have been in the hospital today to our knowledge. The police are combing through the guest and staff entrance manifest as we speak to see if they can come up with any leads.”

  “Okay… but I have a favor to ask. If you discover that anyone from Dr. Kevin Deller’s office was here today, can you please let us know?” I ask, hopeful.

  “I will do what I can,” he says, gently, “but the police are handling it from here, so they’ll know more than we do. I’d suggest you go to them with any concerns and questions you have about this. In the meantime, we, your doctors and nurses, will do what we do best: give Steven the best care we can.”

  The cafeteria is just about as typical as you can get for a hospital, with its stainless-steel countertops, stark wooden tables, and deeply unflattering lighting. The smell of meatloaf and mashed potatoes triggers an unwelcome memory of the institutional food we were fed in grade school. Being in the food industry, I know all about the variety of chemicals, fillers, and general crap that often goes into food prepared in large quantities.

  With Mom, off to pick up the boys, Dad indulges in vending machine cuisine, a bad splurge habit he never gave up after heart surgery. The Snickers bar, packed with peanuts, he claims, is a wonderful bridge to dinner later tonight. My stomach is in knots, unable to even think of food. I opt for Sprite and Ritz crackers.