Code Triage

by Candace Calvert

  Kristi’s eyes darted toward the doorway and Sam turned. Nick leaned against the doorframe, black hair tousled, beard growth even more prominent, faint shadows under his eyes.

  “Excuse me,” he said, summoning a small smile for Kristi. His gaze returned to Sam, and she was struck again by the pain in his eyes—and something that looked impossibly like fear. It made her want to run to him, hold him, offer the comfort he’d given her so many months ago. It made her want . . . so much more. He nodded. “I’m leaving, I guess.”

  She guessed that his wife had asked him to.

  “Unless you need me for anything?” He raised his brows.

  Don’t ask that. “No.” She glanced at the young mother. “I’ve told Kristi that we talked. Temporary decisions will be made when she’s ready for discharge. And she knows that I still need to talk with Dr. Stathos regarding her son.” She could feel Nick’s tension even before she turned to look at him.

  “Well . . . okay.” His lips pressed together for a moment. “I’ll check with you later, then.”

  “Good.”

  As she watched him walk away, Kristi spoke. “My doctor’s last name is Stathos. Is she his wife?”

  “Yes,” Sam said, watching the white coat in the distance. Until next Friday.

  +++

  Riley, stomach rumbling, waited impatiently for the hospital elevator and then smiled when the doors opened to reveal Caroline Evers. She hadn’t had many opportunities to talk with Leigh’s half sister. Although, seeing the lab tech’s sullen expression, she wasn’t entirely sure they’d find enough conversation to fill the short ride to the basement.

  “Hi,” she said, stepping onto the otherwise-vacant car. “Are you headed down to the cafeteria too?”

  “Already ate.” Caroline’s eyes, darkly lashed in contrast to her hair, were the color of gathering storm clouds. And empty somehow, sad. Riley thought of the few things Leigh had relayed about her sister’s stay at the treatment facility and their recent move back to Leigh’s home. A house now full of packing boxes. A lot of change in such a short time. I know how that feels.

  “I brought food from home,” Caroline added, her expression softening a bit. “Trust me, Nick Stathos lives to feed people. And still buys like he’s doing it for his restaurant. He stuffed that freezer with meals.” She glanced away, but not before Riley saw the sadness in her eyes. “Before he moved out.”

  “I met him today.” Riley kept her voice casual. “He helped us out in the ER. Belligerent visitor. Your brother-in-law’s quite a mediator.”

  “Good thing, I guess.” Caroline’s lovely mouth twisted into a pained grimace. “I’m sure you heard about the situation he’s falling into today.”

  Riley kept silent. Listening was her job these days.

  Caroline gathered her long hair into one hand at the back of her head. “How’d you like to mediate between your wife and your mistress in the middle of a jam-packed emergency department?” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t know who to place bets on, my big sister or that sorry home wrecker, Samantha Gordon.”

  The Child Crisis investigator?

  “Besides—” the empty look returned to Caroline’s eyes—“it looks like I’m going to have to give up on them. Whatever happens, happens.” She stepped through the doors, then glanced back at Riley. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “I . . . forgot something,” Riley hedged. “I’d better go back.”

  She leaned against the elevator wall, watching the doors close over one last glimpse of Leigh’s sister. She wondered if there was even a small chance she could convince her to come to a Faith QD meeting one morning before her shift. That young woman needed to fill her emptiness with something solid.

  She started to push the floor button with her left hand, then frowned and edged closer, pulling her right index finger from the sling and pushing it against the button. No sensation, dull as a block of wood. Once the skilled hand of a working trauma nurse, now a teacher’s pointer against a blackboard. Riley sucked in her breath, pushed harder, and the button lit.

  The elevator opened on the first floor and she stepped forward, nearly bumping into a young man hurrying aboard. Slight in build, shoulder-length brown hair, patch of a beard below his lower lip. Dressed in navy blue scrubs and a shiny gold 49ers jacket. His face was dotted with perspiration. “Oops, sorry ’bout that,” he said after stepping out of her way. “I’m . . . late.” He offered her a hasty, apologetic smile. Then sniffed and rubbed a jacket cuff across his nose. “I’m new here.”

  “Not a problem,” she said, reaching out to hold the door as she exited. She smiled. “And welcome to Golden Gate Mercy. It’s a good place to work.”

  “Yeah. Um . . . can you tell me which floor is pediatrics?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Second floor, north.”

  “Thanks.”

  Riley headed down the corridor toward the ER, ignoring her growling stomach. If Leigh needed her, even just to sit quietly by, she’d be there. It wasn’t trauma nursing. But it was what she had to offer right now. And she needed to feel useful again.

  +++

  Nick slid his key into the lock, heard the click of the dead bolt, then turned to peer down the Richmond District block—our block. Rows of mismatched homes, mostly Victorians, some lovingly restored with fresh paint the colors of sherbets, leaded-glass windows, shingled turrets; some with sagging porches and peeling paint; most with wrought-iron entry doors. Trees rising from sidewalks; shrubs in planters hugged close to foundations; window boxes filled with purple bougainvillea, butter yellow chrysanthemums, and trailing orange nasturtiums. He cocked his head, taking in the timeless blend of sounds that was the voice of this neighborhood: shouts of children at play, pigeons on the wires overhead, honks, and the distant hum of buses moving along the crisscross tangle of electrical lines. Farther out . . . gulls, foghorns, and the faint whoosh of the ocean.

  He drew in a breath of crisp, sea-scented air and peered farther down the steep slope of cracked asphalt where—when the fog rolled away—there was a barest glimpse of the majestic Golden Gate Bridge. Rising from its piers in the bay between huge towers, a breath-catching span of vermilion suspended over the ocean with scalloped cables like . . . frosting on a wedding cake. He remembered Leigh’s words: “We don’t need a wedding cake, Nick. We have the Golden Gate . . . every morning and every night.” And now she was at the hospital with Sam, while he was cleaning his things out of their house. He turned as a familiar voice called out to him.

  “Nicky, darling, is that you?”

  He waved to the elderly woman on the paint-layered pink porch next door—flowered housecoat, gray braids looped over the top of her head, red-framed glasses. She extended a large piece of broccoli toward a birdcage.

  “Antoinette! What’s the word from Cha Cha this morning?”

  She glanced at the gray cockatiel, a grin lighting her face. “Same thing he’s been saying for fourteen years: ‘Forever and ever. Forever and ever.’”

  Nick grinned back. Then remembered Leigh straining to understand the bird that first time, when they’d been invited for tea. She’d been certain Cha Cha was squawking, “Never, never.” His smile faded. He should have seen the writing on the wall back then. He glanced at the lowered shades of his neighbors’ house. “And how is Harry?” he asked gently.

  Antoinette’s shoulders sagged beneath her housecoat. “Good days and not-so-good ones. He needs the oxygen most of the time now. But he knows my name and still loves his tapioca. I fix the instant now; found it for a dollar thirty-nine at the Safeway.” Her sparse brows drew close behind the red frames. “I worry about having something on the stove. Hot pans, you understand.” She shrugged. “We’re managing. Signed on for the long haul, Mr. McNealy and I. Forever and ever.”

  One week.

  “It’s so good to see you there. I’m still praying that . . .” She sighed.

  “Thank you.” Nick’s throat tightened. “I’m here to pack up a few more things. While
Leigh and Caroline are at work. That’s the arrangement.”

  His neighbor’s face scrunched into a rare frown and she crossed her arms, making the broccoli look like a switch in the hand of an angry schoolmarm. “And it’s a lousy one, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  He wanted to hug her. “I don’t mind. And you keep saying those prayers, Antoinette.”

  “I never quit, darling.”

  He opened the door, stepped into the foyer, and saw the lemon tree. And the yellowed leaves on the tile floor beside it.

  Caroline was right. Leigh was letting it die.

  +++

  Leigh glanced out the exam room door toward the nurses’ station and released the breath she’d been holding. She refused to succumb to anxiety that already felt too much like waiting for the other shoe to drop. There had been no further sign of the Child Crisis investigator she’d spotted from a distance at Kristi Johnson’s bedside. And right now the only people at the desk were the ward clerk, Cappy, a housekeeper, and Riley. Maybe she got the information she needed from the chart; maybe she left. Gone . . . to be with Nick.

  “I’ll be giving you some steroids in addition to the diphenhydramine,” she said, studying her patient’s rash-splotched face. “That’s the Benadryl. Same antihistamine you’ve used in capsule form for your allergies, but we injected it through the IV this time.” She watched as the woman’s eyelids drooped. “It’s what’s making you feel sleepy now, Mrs. Wong.”

  Her patient, a forty-two-year-old teacher, scratched at her neck, then peered up at Leigh. “Will I be able to go home?”

  “Yes, I think so. After we watch you for another hour or so to make sure those hives are gone and no wheezes crop up.” She smiled. “And if you promise to stay away from strawberries. Fresh, frozen, dried, or juiced—they are not your friend. It’s a common allergy; my sister reacted to strawberries when she was just a baby.” Leigh saw her patient’s eyes droop again and thought of baby Caro’s miserable hives, the way she’d scratched and scratched. And how Leigh, at age fourteen, was the one to administer the Benadryl liquid and trim her sister’s tiny fingernails to prevent her from scratching herself raw. Because their mother wasn’t there, as usual. And because her stepfather couldn’t cope . . . after his wife left him to hunt for husband number three.

  Leigh stepped back to allow the nurse to inject the steroid into the IV port and checked the clock on the exam room wall. Almost two. Another couple of hours and she’d be able to get away—stop by the house to change into her riding breeches, grab an apple and some carrots for Frisco, and drive out to Golden Gate National Park. The stables were her escape, her refuge, more and more these days. Away from lists, packing boxes, a rapidly emptying house still filled with too many memories. Some of them painful, barely healing. She pressed her palm low against her scrub top, unable to stop the thought. And the confusing mix of feelings that always came with it. I was almost a mother. Would it have changed things with Nick? Should I have told him?

  “I’m finished, Dr. Stathos,” the nurse said, stepping away from the bedside. “And her latest set of vital signs is up on the monitor.”

  “Great. Thank you.” Leigh scanned the display and lifted her stethoscope from around her neck. “One more listen and I’ll let you rest,” she told her patient. She pressed the plastic disc to the woman’s chest, asked her to inhale and exhale, and then repeated the sequence on her back. “Very good,” she assured her. “And your hives are fading nicely.”

  Mrs. Wong’s sparse brows scrunched. “It could have been worse, couldn’t it? There was a little boy at our school who took a bite of someone’s peanut butter cookie and died. They tried and tried but couldn’t save him.”

  “It happens, unfortunately. That’s why we hear so many warnings these days about peanut allergies and why doctors write prescriptions for EpiPens. That’s injectable adrenaline, to stop the allergic reaction and support the vital body systems.”

  “Did I get that medicine?”

  “No. You didn’t need it. Your reaction has been limited to the skin—hives and itching. The more serious allergic reactions involve rapid swelling of the face, lips, and airway—with wheezing, a sudden drop in blood pressure, and loss of consciousness. It’s called anaphylactic shock, and a true emergency. We see it most often after bee stings or with some food allergies like peanut butter and shellfish. Many times as a side effect of medications. Antibiotics can be a real problem.” Leigh patted her patient’s shoulder. “But don’t worry; your strawberry reaction isn’t going in that direction. We’ll give you a prescription, as well as plenty of written information on allergies. Meanwhile, rest a bit. The nurses will check on you, and I’ll come back and see you later. I have a few other patients to finish with.”

  Leigh crossed to the desk and checked with the ward clerk regarding the admissions. Mrs. Baldwin had gone upstairs, with her husband accompanying her. Kristi Johnson’s baby was in a pediatrics room that would accommodate his sister as well as his mother. They were expected to be transferred up there within twenty minutes.

  Leigh peered down the corridor. “And Child Crisis? Did that investigator ask to talk with me?”

  Riley spoke up. “I haven’t seen her since she finished talking with Kristi. Not sure if she’s still here. I’ll check around, if you like.”

  “No,” Leigh said, seeing compassion in Riley’s eyes. Does she know? “That’s fine. I think I’m going to grab my knitting and a cup of coffee and take them outside. Relax for a couple of minutes.” She saw Riley nod and was certain she did know. For some reason it helped. “If anyone needs me, you know where I’ll be.”

  She filled her coffee cup—a ceramic mug with a handle shaped like the hindquarters and tail of a bay horse—and carried it outside. For once, the parking lot was clear of ambulance and rescue vehicles. Just one young employee, wearing a 49ers jacket over his scrubs, getting into his car. Leigh settled onto a bench and took a sip of the coffee, thinking once again how convenient it was to live so close to the hospital. She wouldn’t have to fight the notorious San Francisco rush-hour traffic. Just drive home, get dressed for the stable, leave this stressful day behind. She closed her eyes and listened to the comforting blend of sounds: traffic on Geary Boulevard, gulls calling overhead, the electronic click and whoosh of the ER doors opening, and—

  “Dr. Stathos?”

  Leigh’s eyes snapped open and her heart climbed to her throat.

  “I’m Samantha Gordon.”

  Chapter Five

  Leigh stared at her husband’s lover.

  Samantha Gordon’s lilac blue eyes were unblinking, her expression composed. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

  Leigh breathed through her nose, fighting an alarming wave of nausea. Was this really the shadowy apparition who crowded so many ugly, angry nightmares? Her gaze moved over the woman’s face. Sharp, narrow. Too much makeup, short hair . . . Nick likes long hair. Why, why . . . ?

  “Sorry?” Leigh rose to her feet, finding satisfaction in the fact that despite her modest height, she still topped the Child Crisis investigator by at least two inches. “You’re sorry? Now that’s . . . a word.”

  Sam chewed her gum for moment. “I don’t expect you to believe me.”

  Leigh’s heart thudded in her ears, shouting escape as insistently as Frisco’s hoofbeats against a clay trail. “What exactly do you expect from . . . this?”

  Sam glanced away and sighed, her breath a humid waft of cinnamon. She ran her fingers through her hair and met Leigh’s gaze again. “I expect that we—all of us; you, me, Nick—can be adults.” For the first time, her expression showed a hint of vulnerability. “And I expect that things will get easier for Nick soon. So he can move on with his life. My brother’s death hit him hard. And coming so soon after your separation . . .” She nodded, the softness in her expression gone. “Being with me and my little daughter helps him.”

  She has a child? Leigh’s breath stuck.

  Sam saw it and smiled. �
��Elisa’s three. Nick’s good with her. I’m sure you know how much a family means to him. Losing his mother the way he did, being raised in foster care—”

  “Don’t.” Leigh raised her palm. “Don’t you dare.” The nausea swirled again. “Don’t stand there and presume to explain my husband to me.” She realized with horror that she’d started to tremble.

  Sam took a step backward but kept her gaze leveled at Leigh. “All I’m saying is that I understand where he’s coming from. We’re very much alike. And I want you to know that I think you’re doing the right thing. With the divorce. It’s hard on Nick right now; he’s confused. But that won’t last forever. It never does.”

  Leigh bit into her lower lip, grateful for the wail of a siren in the distance.

  “Looks like you’ve got more work to do,” Sam said, her voice completely matter-of-fact. As if their entire conversation had been that way. “So do I.” She patted her briefcase. “I have all the information I need on Kristi Johnson; anything else I’ll get from her admitting physician. I’ll be visiting regularly during the baby’s hospitalization.” The frosty eyes captured Leigh’s. “And I’m sure we’ll see each other again.” She turned and walked away.

  How Leigh made it back into the ER—punched the lock code, put one foot in front of the other along the length of the corridor to the nurses’ station—she had no clue. When she got there, Riley glanced up with questions in her eyes but said nothing. Leigh caught the charge nurse’s attention. “What’s the ambulance?”

  The nurse glanced at the ward clerk’s computer screen. “Transfer from a nursing home. Needs a catheter change.”

  Leigh scanned the dry-erase assignment board. “Anything I need to do urgently in the next few minutes?”

  “No, we’re fine, and your relief doc’s here early.”