Time of Death

by Lucy Kerr

  “You can have the top bunk, if you want,” Riley said from behind me.

  “The top . . .”

  “The top bunk.” She towed me down the hall and threw open her door. “See?”

  Purple. That’s what I saw. Purple everywhere, simultaneously deep and bright, so intense my eyes vibrated. A few spots were taken up with posters of the U.S. Women’s Soccer Team, or adorable puppies, but the color was inescapable. It was like walking into a giant African violet. The green-and-white rag rug covering the wooden floor only heightened the effect. In the corner was my old bunk bed, the one Charlie and I had slept on until I left for college, the purple polka-dot comforters made up with military precision.

  “You redecorated.” My backpack hit the floor with a thud.

  “Mom said I could pick any color I wanted!”

  “That was . . . nice . . . of her,” I managed.

  “You can have the top bunk,” Riley repeated, her little face pinched with anxiety. “If you want. It’s my favorite, but Grandma says you’re the guest, so you get to pick.”

  “Bottom,” I said automatically and climbed in. “But . . .”

  Her eyes lit with glee. “This is the best, Aunt Frankie. It’ll be like a sleepover every single night!”

  I looked around at the violently violet walls, then up at the shining face of my new roommate.

  “Fantastic,” I said, and fell asleep.

  Riley, I discovered a few hours later, snored. She stopped when I jostled the mattress, but the damage was done. If I were home, I’d be midway through a shift by now, and my body wouldn’t let me fall back asleep.

  Moonlight filtered through the leaves outside my window, casting shifting patterns across the hardwood floor. A moment later, Riley resumed snoring. I groaned, threw back the polka-dotted comforter, and headed downstairs.

  To my surprise, the kitchen light was already on. My mother sat at the table, a cup of tea at her elbow, her latest book club selection in front of her.

  “What are you doing up?” I glanced at the wall clock—a chicken in the middle and eggs marking the hours. My mother collected poultry, for reasons she’d never explained, and the collection had taken on a life of its own: tea towels, sugar dishes, mugs, spoon rests, and some truly awful art projects that looked like Riley’s handiwork. Every time I came home, more had hatched, and the effect of all those beady eyes and sharp beaks was unsettling. I turned my back on the assorted birds and focused on her. “It’s after midnight.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t need much sleep these days.”

  I nodded and searched the pantry for cereal.

  “I saved you some food,” she said, going to the fridge and pulling out a plastic-wrapped plate. “Riley was worried when you missed dinner. Chicken casserole.”

  “My days and nights are switched, that’s all. She could have woken me up.”

  “You needed the rest,” she replied, popping the food in the microwave and handing me a napkin embroidered with a malevolent-looking hen. “I was hoping it would improve your disposition.”

  Sinister birds aside, I did feel better. “I’m sorry I snapped.”

  She patted her hair. “I know. Now eat.”

  I thought about saying more—there’s something about a warmly lit kitchen in the middle of the night that invites conversation—but instead, I shifted to safer ground. “How’s Charlie?”

  “She’s doing well. Rowan had a good evening, and Matt came home around ten. I’m sure she would appreciate it if you were there when the doctor came by in the morning.”

  “I’ll be there,” I promised.

  “Good. Now I’m going to bed.”

  She’d stayed up to check on me, I realized. The book, the sleeplessness . . . they were excuses, and I should have seen through them immediately.

  “Thanks for the dinner, Mom. It’s really good.”

  She smiled and set about locking up, making sure the porch light was on and opening the kitchen door so she could secure the screen. “What on earth? Get out of here!”

  I sprang up. “Who’s there?”

  “Not who,” she said and pointed to the back steps. “What.”

  Sitting in the circle of porch light sat a tangle of orange and white fur, green eyes glowing. It spotted me and yowled fiercely. My mom jumped back and snatched up the broom. “That thing sounds like a demon. It looks like one, too.”

  “It’s a cat,” I replied. “I think.”

  A familiar cat, actually. It looked like the creature who’d darted in front of my car as I drove home. The one I’d nearly flattened.

  “Well, it’s not coming in,” she said. “I can see the fleas from here.”

  The cat stared at her balefully, then nudged something toward the door.

  “Ugh! Francesca, what . . .”

  I squinted. “It’s a mouse. Or maybe a vole.”

  She handed me the broom, then stalked away, calling, “Whatever it is, get rid of it. And send that thing away before you lock up.”

  “Did you follow me home?” I asked when I stepped outside. The cat stared at me, unblinking. “I hate to break it to you, but stalkers are not generally looked upon with favor.”

  I swept up the mouse—not a vole, on closer inspection—and headed to the trashcan to dispose of the corpse. The cat trailed after me, protesting at the theft of his plaything. Backlit by the porch light, I could see hints of its scrawny body beneath the thickly matted fur. I reached out, hoping to get a sense of exactly how malnourished the creature was, but he hissed and took a swipe at me.

  “Fine,” I said, snatching my hand back. “Suit yourself.”

  But I couldn’t help putting a spoonful of chicken casserole on a saucer and leaving it on the porch before I locked up and went back to bed.

  SIX

  The next morning dawned clear and crisp, the sky pink with sunrise as I headed to the hospital. Doctors tend to round early, and I was eager to hear how Rowan was progressing. Even a single day—or night, as Clem had shown—could change everything. I shook off the melancholy that threatened, determined to stay positive in front of Charlie.

  The doctor was pleased with Rowan’s progress—she was doing so well, he wanted to start her tube feedings earlier than expected. Charlie’s relief shone in her eyes. “Stapleton girl,” she murmured as she reached through the isolette to stroke Rowan’s tiny hand.

  “Stapleton girl,” I agreed. “Tough as nails.”

  Shortly after the doctor left, however, Garima appeared outside the NICU. A frown was etched between her eyebrows, and a security guard stood behind her, looking profoundly uncomfortable.

  “Be right back,” I told Charlie, who nodded and kept singing to Rowan. I joined Garima outside. “What’s wrong?”

  “The vice-president wants to see you,” she said and glared at the guard. “But this gentleman won’t say why.”

  Now security showed up. “Let me guess. Paul Costello’s still mad?”

  The guard lifted his hands in apology. “Mr. Strack told me to bring Miss Stapleton down, ma’am. He didn’t say anything else.”

  “Do you want me to come along?” Garima asked me.

  “Am I in that much trouble?”

  “I doubt Walter Strack would summon you to his office solely to introduce himself. He’s too busy trying to sell this place to the highest bidder to interact with patients or their families.”

  My hands turned clammy, but I pasted on a smile, aware of Charlie watching us through the window. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

  As it turned out, my meeting with Walter Strack, vice-president of Stillwater General, was anything but fine.

  Strack was a bland-looking man in his fifties, sandy hair starting to recede along the temples, jawline soft and sagging above an expensive-looking tie. After a brisk introduction and an insincere query about Charlie’s health, he sat down at his sleek glass-and-chrome desk, adjusted his tie, and proceeded to ruin my life.

  “Clement Jensen’s death was obviously a
tragic event, Miss Stapleton, despite the best efforts of my staff to prevent it. As you know, sometimes these matters are out of our hands.” He sighed heavily. When he spoke again, the regret in his voice had hardened into something far less compassionate. “Unfortunately, while I am confident that my staff acted appropriately, your actions—your unsanctioned actions—have opened us up to a lawsuit.”

  “A lawsuit?” Laura didn’t strike me as the type. “His daughter wouldn’t sue. She wanted answers, not cash.”

  “Not Mrs. Madigan. Her husband . . .” He consulted the paperwork. “James.”

  “Jimmy? They’re not together. He’s barely in the picture!”

  “Whether he is ‘in the picture’ or not is irrelevant. Mr. Madigan has the right to file suit, as he is married to the next-of-kin. He informed us of his plans this morning.” Strack looked like he’d smelled something rancid. “He even, quite thoughtfully, came prepared with a settlement offer.”

  Jimmy’s more interested in gambling chips than chipping in, Laura had said. “That’s a little fast, don’t you think? He’s trying to bluff you into a big payout. He doesn’t have grounds for a suit.”

  “He absolutely does, thanks to you.”

  I straightened, making my tone as coldly official as his. “With all due respect, Mr. Strack, my actions were well within the standard of care. Giving a patient nitro is a doctor-approved protocol at every hospital I’ve ever worked at.” Normally, nurses aren’t authorized to dispense medication without a doctor’s orders. But most hospitals had standing orders, or protocols, written by staff physicians. These protocols were like blanket prescriptions, allowing nurses to automatically dispense certain medications in specific, time-sensitive situations. I’d followed Chicago Memorial’s protocol to the letter.

  “You aren’t authorized to work in this hospital. You have no idea what our protocols are.”

  “It was an emergency situation! If anything, I gave Clem a fighting chance. I’m certainly not responsible for his death.”

  “It was reckless.” He tapped the report in front of him with a stubby finger. Paul Costello’s words, no doubt, and they carried far more weight than mine. Clearly, he was blaming me for Clem’s death—but why? Was he angry that I’d showed him up in the ER, or was it something more insidious? Had he missed something? Was he worried the hospital would blame him for the delay in treatment? Was it pride, or an attempt to shift the blame?

  Strack continued. “According to this, you didn’t run an EKG. You didn’t even ask for help.”

  “There was nobody around to ask,” I protested. “Everyone was inside dealing with the bus accident.”

  “You should have tried harder.” He leaned forward. “And you should have stayed out of Mr. Jensen’s room. You had no legitimate reason to be there. Who’s to say you didn’t ‘help’ him to an early grave?”

  I froze. Even the whisper of a malfeasance charge—deliberately committing harm against a patient—could end a career. This wasn’t just bluster or idle threats or careless talk. This was trouble. Deliberate and dangerous, coming at me with the force of an F-5 tornado.

  My own thoughts whirled as I tried to make sense of it. Amid the chaos, the missing piece—the source of the unease plaguing me since I’d first met Clem—finally surfaced in my mind. His reluctance to enter the ER. The way he’d gripped my sleeve, insistent. The desperate gasp of his words, wasting precious breath when he had none to spare. “Not . . . accident.”

  Clem wasn’t talking about the bus accident. He was talking about his heart.

  Which sounded crazy, but no crazier than the idea that I had killed Clem, as Strack was suggesting.

  Before I could say anything, Strack continued. “Do you know what I think happened, Miss Stapleton? I think you wanted to save the day. You grew up in Stillwater, if I understand correctly.”

  “Yes,” I said, keeping careful hold of my temper. If I told Strack Clem had been murdered, he’d think I was trying to throw suspicion on someone else. Paul Costello, for example. He’d twist my words and use them to ruin me. “How is that relevant?”

  “I think you wanted to show us how it’s done in the city. You wanted to be greeted as a hometown hero, but you took it too far. Now a man is dead, and you could cost this hospital millions.”

  So much for holding my temper—or my tongue. “Which one bothers you more?” I asked. “Because I know which one worries me. Clem’s death was a tragedy, but I don’t think it was unavoidable. I definitely don’t think it was my fault.”

  “Well, we’ll see what the state licensing board says.”

  I drew back. “Excuse me?”

  He smiled, lips compressing into a thin, cold line. “I’m not sure how they handle things in Chicago, Miss Stapleton, but here at Stillwater General, it is standard procedure to launch an investigation any time a patient dies within twenty-four hours of admission.”

  “Of course,” I said through frozen lips.

  “If it turns out your actions contributed to Mr. Jensen’s death in the slightest, not only will I personally file a complaint with the Department of Professional Regulation, I’ll have you charged with manslaughter. At the very least, Miss Stapleton, you will never practice nursing again.”

  SEVEN

  Strack’s words hit me like a lightning strike, leaving me stunned and speechless in my chair.

  Which was better than leaping across the desk and strangling him with his stupid silk tie. Considering he’d just accused me of killing a patient, homicide—even justifiable homicide—wasn’t in my best interest.

  Nurses are good at compartmentalization. It’s how we keep from breaking down at the tragedies we face daily, so we can prevent the next one. So I locked away my outrage and stalked out before Strack could utter another word. An orderly and a patient both drew back in alarm as I approached the elevator, and I forced my expression to smooth out. By the time I reached the maternity ward, I looked like my usual pleasant self.

  Or so I thought.

  “What’s wrong?” said Charlie, the moment I entered the NICU. Rowan was snuggled up against her chest, a gauzy blanket covering them both.

  “Nothing,” I said, and tried to change the subject. “They started you on kangaroo care already? That’s great.”

  Studies had shown that preemies responded well to skin-on-skin contact with their parents—it helped them regulate their breathing, gain weight, and maintain their body temp. Once a baby was deemed stable, most NICUs encouraged as much kangaroo care as possible, adjusting the monitors’ cords to allow for maximum bonding time.

  Charlie allowed herself a brief smile before saying, “If nothing’s wrong, why was security looking for you?”

  “Parking permit,” I said breezily, brushing my hair out of my face. “Had to move my car.”

  Rowan shifted slightly, and Charlie patted her back, eyes narrowed at me over the baby’s downy head.

  “Really?” she replied. Her voice turned light and crooning. “Did you know your Aunt Frankie has a tell, Rowan? She does. Aunt Frankie twirls her hair whenever she lies. Ever since we were little.”

  I dropped my hand and scowled, but Charlie continued. “She’s lucky Grandma didn’t figure it out when she was sixteen and sneaking out of her room at night. When you’re bigger, you’ll be able to beat her at poker, and we won’t have to pay for college.”

  “Hey Rowan,” I called, matching her tone. “Did you know your mama’s a know-it-all?”

  She smiled. “Which is why my kids won’t be sneaking out in the middle of the night.”

  I thought about Riley, with her stubborn little face and her quick mind. She’d be more than a match for Charlie, if she wasn’t already. “You keep telling yourself that.”

  But Riley came by her stubborn streak honestly. “What’s going on, Frankie?”

  The last thing Charlie needed was another crisis; her attention needed to stay on Rowan and her own recovery. This was my problem to deal with. No doubt she felt the same about
whatever was happening at the store, and the knowledge that she was harboring secrets of her own eased my conscience slightly. To keep my hands busy, I crossed to the sink and began scrubbing in. “I was parked in a tow zone, so I had to move the car. That’s it.”

  “Without your keys? Your bag’s right here.”

  I closed my eyes briefly, my stomach doing the same jolt and plummet it always had when I got caught doing something wrong. I hadn’t felt it in more than a decade.

  I sighed and chose my words carefully. “There was a guy. In the parking lot.”

  “Today?”

  “No. The night I came home. He was having a heart attack, but the ER staff was busy dealing with an accident, so I helped out.” Anticipating her question, I said, “The hospital administration wanted to go over some of the details with me, so they sent a security guard rather than page me.”

  Charlie frowned. “Is he okay?”

  I hesitated. “He died this morning.”

  “Oh, Frankie. I’m sorry.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. The temptation was to tell her everything was okay, that I was fine, that this sort of thing happened all the time. But it wasn’t okay, not by a long shot. A man was dead, and I was being blamed, and my instincts were screaming at me that something was very, very wrong inside Stillwater Gen.

  I looked at my newborn niece, wires and tubes trailing from under the blanket where she snuggled; and I looked at my little sister, worry lines carved deeper into her forehead than they should be, and I wondered if even a locked ward and intensive monitoring could keep them safe.

  It would have to. Rowan needed treatment, and this was the only place she could get it.

  “Is there a lot of paperwork, when a patient dies?” Charlie’s question brought me back to myself.