by Lucy Kerr
“I’m looking for a patient brought in tonight?” I tucked my hair behind my ears, but it was a losing proposition—bedhead had turned my curls even more wild. I must have looked like a mess, so I kept my tone brusque and official. “Late sixties, probable MI. Mustache.”
“You’re his daughter?” he asked, standing to greet me.
I hesitated, and his eyebrows rose.
“No,” I admitted, shoulders dropping.
“You’re the one who found him?”
“That’s me,” I said. I shouldn’t have been surprised at how quickly the news had spread. It was the curse of a small town—everyone knew you, even when you didn’t know them. “Frankie Stapleton.”
“Marcus Rollins,” he said. “Stapleton like the hardware store?”
“Yep. That’s my family,” I said and waited for the inevitable response.
“Oh, I get it—Frankie. Cute.”
“Yeah, my dad thought so, too.” Stapleton and Sons Hardware, founded in 1873. There’d been at least one son in every generation to run the business . . . until I’d come along, and my dad realized a boy’s name might be as close as he’d be able to get to continuing the legacy. So, Francesca and Charlotte, who hyphenated her last name for the sake of the store. I wondered how much pressure my nieces would feel to carry on the tradition. I wondered if they’d want to escape the way I did.
Of course, the store wasn’t the only reason I had fled. Noah MacLean’s still in town. He never left. Hadn’t that been the problem? The knowledge was surprisingly painful, even now. Time, as it turns out, doesn’t heal all wounds.
Marcus cleared his throat.
“Sorry,” I said. “Long night. I wanted to check on Clem.”
“Sleeping,” Marcus said. “The man has enough morphine in him to bring down an elephant.”
Elephant on my chest, Clem had said, and my instinct prickled again. “I don’t suppose I could take a look at his chart?”
“No can do. You all don’t have privacy laws in Chicago?”
He was right, but I tried again. “It’s just . . . I found him, you know? I feel responsible.”
Marcus drummed his fingers on the desk. “Word is, you went at it with Dr. Costello when you brought the patient in.”
If scientists could harness the power of the hospital grapevine, our energy crisis would be solved. I smiled weakly. “He’s probably not going to invite me for a round of golf any time soon.”
“Golf’s boring,” Marcus replied. “Did you cry?”
It would be a cold day in hell before an egomaniac like Paul Costello made me cry. “Hardly.”
“Glad to hear it.” He stood, folding his bulky arms and giving me a stern look. “I’m going to check on another patient. That’s Mr. Jensen’s chart right there on the monitor. I wouldn’t suggest looking at it . . . unless you’re trying to get on Costello’s bad side.”
“We wouldn’t want that,” I deadpanned.
“No indeed.” He winked broadly. “Room 214, by the way.”
“Thanks, Marcus.”
He ignored me and strode off down the hall, humming a Jimi Hendrix song.
I glanced around. The central desk was deserted, though probably not for long. I could hear the murmurs from other rooms—nurses attending to patients or quietly conversing while checking supplies. I had a few minutes at most.
I scanned the chart quickly, ears pricked for approaching footsteps. According to the chart, the cardiology team had put a stent in, opening up Clem’s artery and restoring the flow of blood to his heart. I was surprised to see his drug history included anticoagulants; the medications listed should have prevented the clot that had blocked his arteries. The rest of the procedure had gone as planned, happily. Clem’s last few rounds of vitals—oxygen levels, heart rate, respiratory rate, blood pressure, and more—looked stable, and the tension ebbed from my shoulders.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted another nurse approaching the desk. Before she could ask what I was doing, I swiveled the monitor back into place and headed toward Clem’s room.
Clem’s snores were audible from the hallway. I slipped inside, careful to move lightly. Patients rarely get an uninterrupted stretch of sleep, especially on a critical care floor, and I hated to be the one who woke him. Everything looked as it should: monitors registering his vitals, clearly labeled bags of IV fluid dangling from the stand, and the infusion pump working at the proper rate. Considering the condition Clem had been in when I found him, this was a best-case scenario. So why did I still feel uneasy?
I settled cross-legged into the bedside chair, letting my thoughts drift, hoping whatever was bothering me would rise to the surface.
The answer didn’t appear, but my eyelids grew heavy as the day caught up to me. Sometime later, I woke to the sound of the door opening, light from the hallway slashing across the floor. Slow footsteps approached.
“Hey, Marcus?” I whispered. The footsteps stopped. “Are you sure Clem was taking his meds?”
He didn’t respond. I stretched, rolling my shoulders to dislodge the tension knotted there. “I was thinking . . .”
The door closed with a decisive click. Marcus was gone, and I decide to follow his lead, ignoring the whisper of warning that hovered at the edge of my mind.
THREE
I’d planned to slip back into Charlie’s room and squeeze in a few more hours of sleep, but Garima met me at the door of the maternity unit, grim-faced and rumpled.
“You slept in the on-call room?” I asked after she’d let me in.
“Yes, and it’s a good thing I did. Where have you been?”
“Checking on a patient. What’s wrong?”
Garima bit off the words as we strode toward Charlie’s room. “Fetal distress on the monitor.”
“What? I checked on her”—I glanced at my watch—“three hours ago.”
Had I been in with Clem for that long? Guilt twisted my stomach.
“That was three hours ago. This is now.” She handed me the tapes, and I scanned the narrow strips of graph paper as she continued, “Charlie’s BP is spiking, she’s spilling more protein . . . she’s not responding to treatment. We can’t wait any longer.”
“You want to do a C-section?” I asked, catching her arm before she entered Charlie’s room. “She’s going to freak out.”
“Which is why I’m telling you first. I want to go soon. My suspicion is that when this goes bad, it will go bad quickly. I’d much rather get ahead of it than try to catch up. Agreed?”
I traced the peaks and valleys of my niece’s heartbeat, too jagged and extreme for comfort. I knew the statistics about premature babies, knew the terminology and the treatments and the outcomes. But this baby wasn’t a statistic. She was family.
And she was in trouble.
* * *
“I don’t understand.” Charlie’s eyes filled. “Is this my fault?”
“Absolutely not,” Garima said. “Even with a good night’s rest and increased medication, your blood pressure keeps going up. This condition is out of your control, but the treatment isn’t. We have every reason to believe the outcome will be good. Dr. Solano is an excellent neonatologist, and he’ll be in the OR with us, ready to go the second the baby comes out.”
“Doesn’t she need more time to grow?”
“The betamethasone shot will have developed her lungs. She’s showing signs of distress, and the longer we wait, the more dangerous it becomes,” Garima replied.
Charlie dashed at her tears. “Frankie? What do you think?”
I took both her hands in mine, squeezing them tightly. “You trust me?”
She pressed her lips together and nodded.
“Then let’s go have a baby.”
Things moved quickly after that—Matt rushed to the hospital, the neonatologist checked in, and Charlie was prepped for surgery. I rarely saw procedures outside of the emergency room OR, and the difference was startling—all swift, smooth motion, efficient but not rushed.<
br />
We hit a rough patch right before Charlie was taken into the operating suite, when she realized Matt wouldn’t be allowed inside.
“It’s hospital policy,” Rachel the nurse explained. “A regular C-section is one thing, but nobody is allowed in the OR during an emergency C-section except staff.”
“You’ll be unconscious,” I said, before Charlie could respond. “Besides, what if he keels over when they start? Everyone should be paying attention to you and the baby. He passes out, cracks his head on the floor . . . it’s a distraction.”
“Messy, too.” Matt tucked a wisp of her hair beneath her surgical cap. “I’ll be in the recovery room when you wake up.”
“We both will,” I said.
“No!” she cried as Rachel began wheeling down the hallway. “You have to stay with the baby.”
“The doctors won’t let me see her until she’s stable,” I said.
“But you can wait outside, right? You can be there when they bring her to the NICU.” She twisted to face me, wild-eyed.
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll go in as soon as I’m allowed.”
“Rowan,” she said, weeping now. “Her name is Rowan, and I don’t want her to be alone. Promise you’ll stay with her.”
“I promise.”
“It’s time,” Rachel said in a low voice.
I bent and kissed Charlie’s forehead. “Hang in there, okay? Rowan and I will see you soon.”
Carefully, I pried her fingers from my arm, and they whisked her through the doors, the bright lights and chill air on the other side a stark contrast to the warm pastel hallway I’d been left in.
Matt looked at me, haggard, hollow-cheeked, and speechless.
“Recovery room,” I ordered. “When she wakes up, the first thing she sees should be your face. Do you want me to stay until they bring her in?”
He shook his head. “I swear Charlie’s got radar. She’ll know if we’re not where we should be.”
He was right, so I left him and went to wait for my niece.
* * *
I bypassed the main nursery, a cheerful, yellow room with wide viewing windows. Only a few red-faced bundles lay in their clear bassinets; the rest, no doubt, were rooming in with their mothers. Rowan would head directly to the neonatal intensive care unit, farther down the hallway, where state-of-the-art equipment and specially trained nurses would give her constant care. I paced back and forth in front of the NICU doors, reviewing everything I’d ever learned about preterm babies, trying to remember who in the neonatal unit back home could give me a quick refresher.
The brightly lit hallway seemed to narrow as I stalked from one end to the other, over and over again. A stream of random images played on a constant loop in my head: Peter’s hand cupping my engagement ring, Clem’s “World’s Best Grandpa” hat, Charlie’s terrified eyes. I checked my phone countless times, but the only calls and texts were from Peter—which I didn’t return. I wanted desperately to move, to find a way to burn off the fear and adrenaline coursing through me, but I couldn’t risk missing Rowan. All I could do was wait and walk and worry. I discovered a new sympathy for every family member who had ever paced my ER lobby.
Some time later, my mother strode into the ward. Despite the early morning hour, she was immaculate in a fresh pair of tweed pants and an emerald-green twin set, though her eyes were sharp and dark with worry. My niece, Riley, followed behind. She’d grown at least four inches since I’d last seen her, bony legs covered in bruises, wearing a bright-blue soccer jersey and purple leopard-print leggings. Despite my mother’s attempts to tame Riley’s hair, her fiery-red braided pigtails were coming undone, and her face still bore sticky traces of breakfast. She looked like a fierce, tiny street urchin.
She was probably driving my mom nuts, and I grinned for the first time in what felt like days.
“Hey, Riley.” I waved. “How’d you two get in here?”
“Grandma made the nurse let us in.”
“I figured. Mom, Charlie’s still in surgery. There’s nothing to do but wait.” I checked my watch, startled to see I’d been pacing for less than twenty minutes.
“Fine. We’ll wait together.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be opening the store?”
She smoothed her sleeves. “Your Uncle Marshall’s helping out.”
“Uncle Marshall is, like, eighty.” He also wasn’t my uncle, technically, just a longtime friend of my father’s. He’d been looking out for us ever since my father died, lending a hand at the store or around the house whenever my mom needed it. “You can’t expect him to handle the Sunday crowds.”
“What crowds?” she muttered. “Besides, he’s seventy. And spry.”
“Still—”
Riley piped up. “Is my mom okay?”
“Of course,” my mother replied. “Riley, there’s a restroom down the hall. Please wash your face and hands.”
Riley didn’t move, her eyes fixed on mine.
“Young lady, we are not going to track germs and jam into a place for new babies. Go scrub.”
Riley’s mouth settled into a mutinous line, and I had a sudden memory of her second Christmas. Toddler Riley had spent the entire day defeating every childproofing device Charlie had installed, and there had been a lot of devices.
Riley and I were going to get along well.
“Your mom’s having an operation,” I said. “They decided it was better for her to have the baby today, rather than wait.”
“Is the baby sick?”
“Not exactly. She’s just . . . early. She’s like a cookie that hasn’t been fully baked. Still delicious, but a little fragile.”
My mother made a strangled noise.
“Will my mom be okay? Is she going to—” Riley broke off, turning away to wipe her eyes on her shirt.
“Your mother’s going to be fine,” my mom said, simultaneously producing a clean tissue and sweeping her up in a hug. “Everyone’s going to be fine. I promise.”
I ground my teeth. My mom knew only too well how quickly a situation could turn catastrophic. She had no right to make promises.
“Riley, look at me,” I said, stepping forward.
She wriggled away from my mother and met my gaze.
“Your mom told you what I do.”
She nodded cautiously. “You’re a nurse.”
“I am. I’m a very, very good nurse, so you can believe what I tell you. I won’t lie. Even if a lie might make you feel better, I will always tell you the truth. Got it?”
She nodded again, chin quivering.
“Francesca,” my mother hissed. “You are not helping.”
I ignored her and focused on Riley’s tearstained face.
“I don’t think your mom is going to die. I really don’t. I am ninety-nine percent sure she’s going to be okay. But I can’t promise, because ninety-nine percent isn’t the same as one hundred. Does that make sense?”
Her lower lip trembled. “Okay.”
“Okay. Here’s what I can promise you. I will take care of your mom. I will do everything I can—one hundred percent—to make sure she and your baby sister come home safe and sound. Does that work for you?”
Riley sniffled. “Yes.”
“Good,” I said. “You two should visit the cafeteria. Grandma can have some coffee, you can have some hot chocolate, and when we know more, I’ll find you.”
“Hand washing first,” my mother ordered. When Riley had scampered off, she turned to me. “She is eight years old.”
I shrugged. “Doesn’t mean we should lie to her.”
“She’s sensitive. You’d understand this if you had children of your own.” She paused and went in for the kill. “What happened with Peter? I thought you’d finally . . .”
“I wasn’t one hundred percent,” I said as Riley reappeared, only marginally cleaner. “Mom, can we not do this now? We’ve got more to worry about than my love life.”
“I wasn’t aware you had a love life,” she said arch
ly.
I rolled my eyes. “Make sure Grandma gets decaf, Riley.”
* * *
A bit before seven, Garima appeared outside the NICU, a coffee in each hand. I leapt to my feet, ignoring the twinge in my lower back.
“Easy, Auntie,” she said, passing me a steaming cup. “So far, so good. Charlie’s in recovery with Matt, and the baby—”
“Rowan,” I croaked.
She grinned. “Rowan is hanging tough. They’re getting her stabilized, but Dr. Solano likes how she looks.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, and sagged against the wall.
“You’re welcome,” she replied, draining half the cup in one go. “Busy night, huh? Nice save on that cardiac patient.”
The coffee was strong enough to chew, and I inhaled the rich, dark scent. “Thanks. Any fatalities from the bus wreck?”
“Happily, no. A few critical cases, a few staying for observation. Could have been a lot worse. I also heard you and Paul Costello hit it off.”
“That’s one way to put it. Is he always so charming?”
She raised an eyebrow. “I once heard him refer to his hands as God’s gift to emergency medicine.”
I tried not to gag. “His kid seems nice.”
“Meg? She’s a sweetheart. Painfully shy, but who wouldn’t be with a father like that?”
Which explained why she’d been volunteering at a hospital on a Saturday instead of at the football game with the rest of Stillwater High.
“Come on,” Garima said, tapping her ID badge against a sensor by the NICU door. The lock glowed green, and she hauled the door open. “Let’s get you gloved and gowned.”
A blonde, middle-aged nurse looked up as we entered. “Hey, Dr. K! Heard we’ve got an incoming?”
“Yep, and here’s her Aunt Frankie. Donna, can you get her settled in? I’m going to check on the new mama.”
“Sure thing,” Donna said and waved me back.
“By the way,” Garima said, “Charlie wanted me to tell you to stay put.”
“I am!” I protested.
“She seems to think it’s not your strong suit,” Garima replied as she left. “Glad to see you’re proving her wrong.”
Donna gestured to the soap dispenser and passed me a nail brush. “Here you go.”
