by Lucy Kerr
“Yes, actually.” His sniping and the callous way he’d treated Clem needled me even more than a typical doctor’s bluster. I stuck my hand out, matched my tone to his. “Frankie Stapleton. I’m an ER nurse.”
“Not here, you’re not.” He ignored my outstretched hand. “Paul Costello, attending. Now . . . get the hell out of my ER. Both of you.”
The rest of the staff looked away, unwilling to meet my eyes or even nod encouragement. It wasn’t as if I expected them to throw me a parade, but I had saved a man’s life. The cold shoulder seemed a little extreme.
Stiffly, mindful of my injured back and wounded pride, I headed out. My stricken volunteer trudged after me. “Elevator?” I muttered, and she pointed to the correct hallway wordlessly. No doubt she felt even worse—the first time a doctor chews you out is terrifying, especially when you haven’t done anything wrong.
“Thanks for your help,” I said once we were out of earshot. “I couldn’t have gotten Clem inside without you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said with a weak smile.
I pushed the elevator button before realizing I had no idea where Charlie was. “Which floor is maternity?”
“Four.”
“Great.” I paused, noticing the tears welling in her eyes. “Hey, don’t listen to that guy. You did great tonight.”
She nodded, tears spilling over.
“What’s your name, kid?”
The elevator doors slid open, but she didn’t follow me.
“Meg.” She sniffled. “Costello.”
“Costello?” The doors began to close, but I held them open with my foot. “Costello like that attending?”
She stared at the tips of her running shoes. “He’s my dad.”
I closed my eyes. “Perfect. Just perfect.”
In the twenty minutes since arriving at Stillwater Gen, I’d managed to save a life, make an enemy, and reduce a teenage girl to tears.
Even for me, it was quite a Saturday night.
I tapped my foot, restless as the elevator rose. It felt strange to be in a new hospital, to walk around in civilian clothes instead of my usual scrubs.
Stranger still, nobody had asked for identification. At Chicago Memorial, you couldn’t get past the front door without proper authorization. Here, I’d made it through the ER, across the lobby, and onto the elevators without a single person questioning me. Even taking into account the bus accident, the lack of security made me uneasy. Only when I arrived at the maternity ward’s waiting room, surrounded by pastel seascapes and parenting magazines, did someone asked for ID.
“Room 422?” said the nurse behind the window, eyebrows lifting. She buzzed me through the security door. “You’re the sister, right? The nurse?”
“That’s me. Frankie.”
“Rachel,” she replied. Her smile disappeared as soon as I asked how Charlie was doing.
“She’s hanging in there,” Rachel replied, running a hand over her sleek brown pixie cut. Her tone suggested it hadn’t been easy for anyone. She walked me to the nurses’ station, then pointed. “Down this hall, last door on the left.”
“Thanks. I’m guessing I missed evening rounds?”
“Yeah, but Dr. K is around somewhere. I’ll let her know you’re here.”
“Great.”
Charlie’s room was at the end of the hallway, the door standing partly open. I took a breath and slipped inside. Clad in a hospital gown, my sister lay curled on her side, squinting at an outdated laptop, the wide black blood pressure cuff wrapped around her arm like a mourning band. Next to the bed, the fetal monitor whirred as it printed a continuous record of the baby’s heart rate.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” I said softly.
She jolted and looked up. I was startled by how dull her complexion was, the way worry and fatigue had robbed her dark-brown eyes of their usual sparkle and surrounded them with purplish rings instead. Usually, Charlie kept her thick auburn hair in a braid—like me, she didn’t have the time to wrestle with the unruly curls—but now it hung limp and lifeless down her back. “I needed to look over these invoices. Where have you been? I thought you’d get here ages ago.”
It was a split-second decision to lie. I’d spent years deflecting accusations that I cared more about my patients than my own family. Telling Charlie I’d put off seeing her to help a perfect stranger, no matter how ill he was, wouldn’t help our relationship or her blood pressure.
“Traffic was lousy,” I said, tucking my messy hair behind my ears. “The store can wait. Let someone else handle it.”
“I can’t. Besides, it’s not as if I’m getting any rest here. Honestly, we’d be better off at home.”
“You wouldn’t,” I assured her, and took the laptop away. “And you know it.”
Her hand rubbed slow circles across her stomach. Even from this position, I could tell she wasn’t full term. Emergency room nurses are trained to expect the worst, but I forced myself not to think of all the complications a six-week-early baby could have.
“Everything they say is a jumble,” she said. “It’s all numbers and medicines, and I can’t figure out what any of it means, or why it’s happening. How can I let them help me when they won’t tell me what’s going on?”
It sounded petulant, but I heard the fear at the heart of her words. It made sense—Charlie was scared witless, and just like when we were kids, she was lashing out. My back twinged ominously as I lowered myself into the bedside chair. “Well, now I’m here to translate, so stop giving them a hard time.”
She bit her lip. “I’ll try.”
I gestured to the IV stand where three clear plastic bags hung at eye level. “The bag on the right is what we call maintenance fluid. It’s to keep you hydrated. The one in the middle is magnesium sulfate, to prevent seizures. The last one is a blood pressure medication called hydralazine. The bands across your stomach are monitoring the baby’s heart rate and any contractions you might have, same as when you had Riley.”
“Is the baby okay?”
I glanced at the monitor and saw the regular rhythm of peaks and valleys. “She looks good. Unlike your blood pressure.”
She rubbed her temples. “The drugs aren’t working, are they? My headache hasn’t gone away.”
“Give it time,” I said as a knock sounded at the door.
A tall, slender woman wearing a doctor’s coat and pale-blue scrubs peeked her head in. “Frankie?”
“Garima? You’re Dr. K?” Garima Karundhi had been in my class at Stillwater High School, but we’d lost touch, just as I had with everyone else. Her black hair was coiled neatly at her nape, and her eyes behind thick black-rimmed glasses flicked over me in a fast, thorough assessment.
“I am, indeed. I moved back after my residency; they wanted someone to grow this department, and I wanted to be close to my mom and dad. You’re at Chicago Memorial these days, aren’t you? What level is their trauma program?”
“Level one, adult and peds.” The highest designation—the place where the most critical cases, young and old, were sent. A grueling, relentless, exhilarating place. I missed it already.
“You always were an adrenaline junkie,” she said with a grin. “I’m glad you’re here. Charlie could use a friendly face.”
Charlie and I hadn’t been friendly for years, but I nodded. “Rachel said you’d rounded already.”
Even on the maternity ward, doctors only checked in on patients once or twice a day. Garima’s presence this late at night was not a good sign.
“What can I say? I like to keep an eye on things,” she said, brisk and deliberately cheerful as she lifted the blanket to examine my sister’s swollen feet. “How are you feeling, Charlie? Have you been able to get some sleep?”
“Not really,” she admitted meekly.
“Head still hurt? Blurred vision?”
Charlie nodded, and Garima examined the same monitor printout I’d looked at, her expression betraying nothing. Finally she said, “We’re going
to up your dosages a bit—I’ll have Rachel come in to change out the IV bags.”
“Can’t Frankie do it?”
“Not my hospital.” I shook my head and tried not to think about the nitro spray I’d given Clem. “I’m strictly an observer.”
Before Charlie could protest, Garima added, “Frankie can double-check the medication, if it makes you feel better.”
Charlie considered, and I gave her hand a gentle squeeze. She sighed. “I guess that’s okay.”
“Good.” Garima tipped her head toward the hallway. “Let’s catch up, Frankie.”
I gently drew my hand away and levered myself out of the chair, promising, “Five minutes. I’ll be right outside.”
Garima shut the door behind us. The bright light of the corridor emphasized the frown lines suddenly bracketing her mouth.
“What happened to you?” she demanded. “You look like you’re in pain.”
“Wrenched my back transporting a patient.” Her eyebrows lifted. “I know, I know. Rookie mistake.”
She nodded. “Rachel can get you a cold pack, if you need it.”
“I’m fine,” I said, waving away the offer. “What about Charlie? Two days before she delivers, you think? Three?”
“I’m hoping for more, but . . .” She took off her glasses, rubbed the bridge of her nose. “She’s not responding to the hydralazine, and it doesn’t help that her blood pressure goes up every time she sees a stethoscope. Even with an ideal patient, this kind of situation could go either way.”
“And Charlie’s not exactly ideal.”
“It helps that you’re here. This is the calmest I’ve seen her since she was admitted.” Putting her glasses back on, she peered at me. “How long are you planning to stay?”
“I’ve got a few days before I need to be back in Chicago,” I said. “You think she’ll deliver by then?”
“Probably. The baby will have to go to the NICU for several weeks, at the very least. How much vacation time do you have?”
“Some,” I said. “But . . .”
“Take it,” she said firmly. “Charlie’s going to need you, regardless of when the baby comes. Her husband’s a good guy, but between Riley and the store, she’ll be stretched pretty thin. And your mom . . .”
She didn’t need to say anything more. She couldn’t, actually.
“Francesca! What took you so long? Why didn’t you call? Where have you been?”
I flinched. Garima sighed.
Lila Stapleton—my mother—had arrived.
* * *
“This is what it takes to get you home? A medical emergency?” My mother turned to Garima. “Twelve years she’s been away. Would you treat your mother like that?”
“Depends on how she treated me,” Garima replied.
“I came home at Christmas,” I protested.
“Fine. Ten months.” My mother—all four feet eleven inches of her, silver-streaked hair pulled back in an immaculate bun—paused to inspect me. “I wish you’d grow your hair longer, Francesca. And pastels wash you out,” she said, fingering my pale-blue sweater. “How many times have I told you to wear jewel tones?”
“It’s a hospital, Mom. Nobody cares how I look.”
“You should care. Just because you’re engaged to that doctor doesn’t mean you can let yourself go. Did she tell you, Garima? Engaged to a surgeon, not that we’ve ever met him.”
Garima stifled a grin as I slid my left hand behind my back.
Too late. My mother grabbed my wrist, eyes narrowing.
“Where’s your ring?”
I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I gave it back. We called off the wedding.”
“What? Again?” Another nurse poked her head into the hallway, took one look, and wisely retreated.
“Mrs. Stapleton,” Garima cut in, “I need you to keep your voice down. This is a hospital, and people—including your daughter—are trying to rest. Now, I’m going to write that order for the nurses; you two should visit with Charlie, but avoid any subjects that might become heated.”
My mother’s mouth snapped shut, though her eyes promised the topic wasn’t closed. “Of course. Say hello to your mother for me, Garima. Let her know book club is at my house next week.”
“I will. Lovely to see you,” Garima said and escaped. Before my mom could start in again, I ducked back into Charlie’s room.
“You have a visitor,” I trilled.
“Mom?” Charlie pushed herself up on her elbows. “Why are you here? You’re supposed to open the store tomorrow. You should be in bed.”
“What’s more important? Selling leaf blowers and potted mums or checking on my daughter?”
“We can’t afford to lose any sales, Mom. None of this is going to come cheap,” Charlie said, tension creeping back into her voice. I remembered the way she was staring at the laptop and wondered if the baby wasn’t the only thing stressing her out.
“Charlotte, relax,” ordered my mother, in the least relaxing voice possible. “I can set my own bedtime, thank you very much. And now that your sister is here, I can go to sleep knowing you’re in good hands.”
“She was in good hands before,” I said. “The staff here is top-notch.”
“Well, she’s in better hands. Family hands. Francesca, I’ve made up a bed for you.”
I knew a trap when I saw one. The minute I walked in the door of my childhood home, the interrogation would start. “I’m staying here tonight,” I said quickly, shooting my sister a desperate glance. “To keep an eye on Charlie and the baby.”
My mother looked horrified. “But there’s only a couch!”
“I’d feel better if she stayed,” Charlie cut in. The automatic blood pressure cuff went off with a hiss. Conversation halted, and I glanced at the numbers: one sixty over one ten—definitely higher.
“I’m staying,” I said firmly.
Charlie exhaled, relief plain on her face, and my mother, for once, seemed to understand. “I suppose it will be nice for you to have sister time,” she admitted. She bent and kissed Charlie on the forehead. “Call if you need me.”
“I will,” Charlie replied.
We both exhaled, audibly, as the sound of Mom’s footsteps faded. “She means well,” Charlie said.
“I know. But thanks for the save.”
She nodded, and the IV stand beeped shrilly. Her hand flew to her stomach. “What is that? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. The bag’s almost empty, that’s all,” I said, and pointed to the digital readout. “Someone will be in to swap it out soon.”
Moments later, Rachel appeared with a fresh IV bag in hand.
“See, she scans it to make sure they’re giving you the right medication. That’s how they know they’re giving you the exact thing Dr. K ordered. She’ll set the flow rate and infusion times to match the order, so you get a nice, steady dose.”
“You’re sure the medicine won’t hurt the baby?”
“Positive. They’re doing exactly what I would do.”
She settled back against the pillows, biting her lip. When we were alone again, she said, “Everything seems louder at night, don’t you think?”
I listened, hearing the beeps and chirps of various machines, the PA system in the hall, the conversations of the other patients, and the faint, outraged wail of a newborn. I wondered if they’d gotten Clem to the cardiac lab, if they’d found his family, if his prognosis was good. “I guess. It’s quieter than the ER.”
“You’re used to it,” she said and yawned hugely. “Thanks for coming home. I know you hate it.”
“I don’t hate it, exactly. It’s just . . . slow.” Too full of memories. I stared at the bare space on my left ring finger, but instead of picturing sapphire and platinum, I saw a tiny diamond chip, catching late-summer light.
“And you go fast.” She paused, following my gaze. “Noah MacLean is still in town, you know. He never left.”
“I’m aware,” I said stiffly.
“And now you�
��re in town.”
“Not permanently.”
She nodded and closed her eyes. “I figured. But I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me, too,” I said. To my surprise, I meant it.
* * *
Well before dawn, I woke with a start, panic propelling me from sleep. Charlie snored delicately, all her monitors humming along. From the hall came the quiet bustle of late-night nursing—lowered voices, gentle knocks, faint newborn wails. I sifted through the remnants of my dreams, trying to figure out why my instincts were shrieking and my shoulders cramped with worry.
Nursing and rock-climbing have a lot in common. Both require equipment and experience, but those can only take you so far. Sometimes, when you’re faced with an especially tricky patient or a rough ascent, you need to rely on your gut to figure out the next move. Mine was warning me that something was off.
“Everything okay?” Rachel asked as I wandered out of Charlie’s room.
“Yeah, she’s asleep. Her vitals look good,” I added. “I just need to stretch.”
My back, at least, was no longer throbbing, which I took as a stroke of luck.
“Hey, is this yours?” Rachel hefted my backpack onto the counter.
“It is!” I’d dropped the lime-green bag while I’d been treating Clem and hadn’t thought about it since. “Where did you find it?”
“Someone dropped it off. I didn’t see who.”
I frowned. So much for a locked ward. “Thanks. I’ll grab it on my way back.”
She flashed me a thumbs-up and returned to her paperwork.
According to the directory on the elevator wall, the second floor housed cardiac patients. I wasn’t about to risk the wrath of Costello by checking for Clem in the ER. After this much time, Clem had either been transferred to the cardiac ward . . .
. . . or the morgue.
Despite Costello’s abrasive manner, he struck me as a good doctor—fast, decisive, smart. So I took my chances and headed to the cardiac wing.
Once again, I marveled at the lax security as I stepped off the elevators. If I’d known what room I was looking for, I could have walked right in. Instead, I approached the male nurse on duty. He glanced up at me through wire-rimmed glasses, shaved head gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
