Beautiful Potential

by J. Saman

  “What can I get you?”

  “Whiskey,” I tell the bartender without even bothering to glance up at him.

  “You don’t strike me as a whiskey drinker,” the man says. And really, what the fuck? The last thing I want right now is his commentary on my choice of alcohol.

  “Well, I am,” I say evenly, though it’s a lie. Whiskey is what my father drank. The one I’m about to have will be my first ever. But if it was good enough for that asshole then it’s good enough for me.

  The guy doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t ask for my ID. He doesn’t even ask what sort of whiskey I’d like, so I suppose that means I’m at his mercy there. At least he’s not chatty, otherwise I’d have to get up and find another dive bar, instead of drowning my nonsensical sorrows here.

  The harsh stink of whiskey permeates my nose as the small glass slides in front of me. My stomach rolls as I’m assaulted with a mélange of memories I’d just as soon forget. But in the most fucked up of masochistic ways, I’m making myself live them.

  I raise my small shot glass and tip it back.

  No toast. No self-pitying thoughts. Just blind drinking.

  The wretched substance burns all the way down my throat, making me cough out and wince. I set the now-empty glass back down and point to it. “Another?” the old bartender chuckles, finding me comical in my quest for total blackout obliteration. “Didn’t seem like you liked the first one all that much.”

  “I didn’t. But keep ‘em coming.”

  My eyes are fixed on the wood top in front of me. My hands gripping onto the edge of the bar. I’m beyond angry. Rage might actually be a closer description, but I can’t decide who I’m pinning it on. Me or my father.

  “Wanna talk about it?” a sweet melodic voice says as the chair next to me shifts and someone slides in it. A floral breeze brushes past me and as I turn, I’m greeted with a woman I never would have expected in a place like this.

  She’s blonde, petite and beautiful.

  Long tanned legs cross at the knees as she leans forward, smiling at me in a way I don’t feel I deserve. “You look like you could use a friend.”

  I take her in for a moment. She’s older than me, but not by much. Maybe twenty-five, maybe older. Hard to tell. She’s made up pretty heavily.

  And she’s dressed for a night of fun.

  “Are you a prostitute?”

  Instead of being wholly offended, which is what I anticipate, she’s laughs. “Are you always this rude or should I excuse your nasty comment because you’re having a bad day?”

  I study her for a minute. “You didn’t deny it.”

  She bends forward even more than she was a moment ago, alluring me with some of her small, but nice cleavage. “Would that make it easier for you? If I told you I wasn’t a prostitute?”

  “I don’t care either way. It’s more of a curiosity.”

  She smiles, her large doe-like brown eyes locked on mine as she says, “I’ll have what he’s having,” to the bartender who is still waiting on her. “And in answer to your question, no, I’m not a prostitute. I’m just a girl who needed a drink to escape her first visit home in nearly five years. And you look like someone who is suffering as badly as I am, so I figured what the hell.”

  “I’m Finn,” I say, my hand outstretched to shake hers.

  “I’m Kelly. Nice to meet you, Finn.”

  “Likewise. Sorry about the prostitute thing.”

  She shrugs, clearly not bothered in the slightest. Her pretty smile shining just a bit brighter. She’s not from the same neighborhood I’m from. I can tell that just by looking at her non-designer dress and cheap knock-off purse. But I don’t care about this either.

  In fact, I think I like this about Kelly.

  “Cheers, Finn. To drowning your sorrows with complete strangers.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” And I do.

  In fact, Kelly and I drink a lot together. She gets me. She understands that my father was an abusive asshole. She doesn’t judge the fact I’m inexplicably torn up over his death. She loves that I’m in medical school. She even suggests we get together when we’re both back in the city.

  I like Kelly. She is pretty. And sweet. And smells really good.

  Kelly has a beautiful body that I want to fuck so badly I can hardly contain myself.

  So I don’t.

  I kiss Kelly and she kisses me back. Kelly kisses me back so much so that she climbs into my lap and whispers the name of a hotel not too far away.

  Yeah. I think I like Kelly. I think I like Kelly a lot.

  Chapter 7

  Finn

  Present Day

  The hospital is my go-to place. My safe zone. The one arena I’m in total control of.

  And I like control. I thrive on it. I don’t even give a shit if that makes me an asshole. Though I know I pretty much I am one. But the moment you let your guard down, the moment you relinquish some of that control, it all goes to shit. I’m not even being dramatic here.

  It’s Murphy’s motherfucking Law.

  And it always goes wrong for me. At least the things I don’t have any control over do.

  But not here. Here I’m meticulous. Methodical. Precise. Here I’ve got it all figured out.

  That is until I saved her life on the sidewalk.

  Work was my focus. But now I find myself wondering every time I go in or out of the hospital if I’ll bump into her. Every time an OB consult is called for. Every time I go to the cafeteria. Every time I go to that goddamn bar with work people.

  And when I don’t bump into her, I tell myself I’m relieved.

  Because I have to be.

  “Yo, Banner,” Max Slater says as he saunters up to me, slapping my back like we’re best friends.

  We’re not.

  I can’t stand the guy and I’m sure he knows it because I do nothing to hide my general dislike of him. But he’s after chief resident for next year and thinks that if he buddies up to me, I’ll put in a good word for him. I won’t. I don’t work that way.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you resemble your namesake?”

  I give him my most irritated glare, not even caring if I’m proving his point. If he thinks he’s the first person to ever liken me to Doctor Bruce Banner then he’s an even bigger moron than I previously thought.

  “Yes.”

  “Dude, you need to lighten up, man. The nurses, and every female doctor for that matter, are crawling over themselves for you, but if you continue to be…rough around the edges, then they’ll give up.”

  I pause, taking a moment to observe him. Why do so many doctors have overinflated egos? Yes, we’re educated and make decent money. But that’s hardly a rarity in New York. Maybe it’s the life and death stuff. But if anything, that should make us humble and not egotistical. If anything, we know just how precarious it really is.

  “What do you want, Slater?”

  “To help you out.”

  That almost makes me laugh. Almost. “I don’t need your help and I definitely don’t screw around with people I work with.”

  He shakes his head like I’m missing out and maybe I am, but I doubt it. And it doesn’t matter anyway. None of these women are Gia Bianchi. And even if they were, I still wouldn’t go there.

  He laughs like I’m the fool here. “Whatever, man. More for me.”

  “Right. More for you. Now get back to work and leave me the fuck alone.”

  I walk off, leaving Max to sexually harass the nurses and doctors without involving me.

  The ED is pleasantly busy. Perfectly so. But just as I finish up with one of my last patients of the day, all hell breaks loose. I get stat paged at the very second that a gurney comes rolling in through the ambulance-bay doors. A woman is screaming. Not just screaming, but shrieking at the very top of her lungs.

  Which means she’s breathing well on her own so that’s an automatic plus. But then I see that she’s p
regnant. Very pregnant. And bleeding. In fact, blood is pouring out of the side of her chest as well as her right flank.

  Fuck.

  I run over, yanking my stethoscope off my neck and grasping it in my hand. “Thirty-two year old female,” the paramedic wheeling her in starts. “Thirty-five weeks pregnant. G2P1 with stab wounds times two. One to the right flank and one to the right chest. Her vitals are surprisingly stable, but she lost a lot of blood at the scene. Patient is complaining of lower abdominal pressure. LR given en route and as you can hear, we did not need to intubate.”

  “Trauma three and someone page OB,” I yell to the nurses as they come flocking over to help.

  “Already done,” someone says and the moment we get her into trauma three, the woman goes nuts.

  “My baby,” she screams. “You have to save my baby. Oh my god, he stabbed me. He stabbed me. My ex-boyfriend tried to kill me and my baby.”

  “What’s your name?” I ask as I snap on gloves. The nurses are already cutting off her bloody clothes and covering her with a gown. She needs a central line. That much is clear, because she’s absolutely going to need blood in addition to the fluids we’re already giving her as well as medications. But I can’t do a femoral one as she’s pregnant so I go for her internal jugular, blindly inserting it by landmarks.

  “Mariana,” she sobs and the fact she’s so vocal and alert despite her injuries is astounding. “Please, just save my baby.”

  “We’ll do everything we can to save both of you.”

  I hate this. I can’t stand it. Everything about this situation is twisting my gut into a knot. But I tamp everything down and focus on the patient because it’s life or death time and neither she nor her baby are dying on my watch.

  I turn to one of the nurses whose name I think is Jamie and bark, “Where the hell is OB?”

  “On their way,” she says with a nervous expression I know all too well. This woman is bleeding profusely from her side. It seems to have spared the abdomen, but still. She has a very pregnant abdomen. We have no idea the status of this baby or if that knife hit something vital.

  Not even one minute later, as we’re trying to examine her chest wound, OB comes in. Not an obstetrician, but goddamn Gia. Who is not a doctor. Who is not a surgeon. And who does not belong in my trauma room with this trauma.

  “Where is OB?” I snap at her.

  She looks up at me with those aqua-colored eyes of hers and I can’t help the twinge of regret I have for the way I just spoke to her, but it doesn’t change the facts. “They’re tied up. You’ve got me.”

  “No,” I bark. “We need a doctor. Not a midwife. Someone get OB on the phone now. This is not acceptable.”

  Gia gives me a murderous glare. “I’m just here to assess the patient, Dr. Banner. I’ll take her up if the baby is at all compromised.” And then she ignores me, going right up in between the patient’s legs. She whispers something to one of the nurses who whispers something back to her and then she says, “Mariana, I’m Gia, one of the midwives here. Can you feel the baby move?”

  “No,” Mariana sobs. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Okay,” Gia says far calmer than I would have thought. “I’m going to examine you and we’re going to do everything we can for your baby.” Gia sticks her gloved hand up inside of this woman and then quietly leans over to one of the nurses and says, “We need NICU and Peds here. Now.”

  “What’s going on with the chest wound?” I yell out, bringing myself away from Gia and the baby and back into my job.

  “Chest wound is superficial,” Dr. Thomas says. “We can clean it and stitch it up.”

  “Then do it, Thomas,” I bark and he flinches, but really? He was just standing there waiting on instruction. He needs to learn how to swim. I will not be his life vest. “She’s lost enough blood. What about the flank wound?”

  “Deeper,” Dr. Slater says. “She’s going to need some imaging and possibly the OR to repair any damage. I clamped the bleeders I could feel, but it’s definitely not all of them.”

  “How are her vitals?” I ask.

  “Stable,” Corrine, one of the nurses says. “But she’s tachycardic at one-thirty and her BP is holding steady with fluids and blood at ninety-two over fifty-four.”

  “Mariana,” Gia says. “Your baby is ready to come out.”

  “No,” Mariana screams. “It’s too soon.”

  “I know, but we don’t have a choice. You’re having contractions, you’re fully dilated and the baby is crowning. It’s coming now.”

  “Oh, god!” Mariana cries.

  “What are you having?” Gia asks with a smile which doesn’t reach her eyes as one of the nurses puts a gown over her scrubs and protective gear over her face.

  “A boy.”

  “Oh wonderful,” she coos sweetly. “Do you have a name picked out?” she asks as she moves her hands inside the woman’s body.

  “Antonio,” she sobs. “After his father.”

  “Oh, I love that name,” Gia comments quickly, standing up and moving into position before she glances over to me. “Dr. Banner, we need pediatrics here this very moment, because Mariana is about to deliver Antonio. Right now.” She emphasizes that last part, her eyes telling me just how dire this situation is.

  I nod, but I don’t have to do anything on that front as pediatrics and the NICU are rolling in.

  “Where is OB?” I yell again, beyond frustrated that Gia is delivering this baby. But no one is paying me any attention. They’re all too busy doing their jobs and I can’t pull my eyes away from Gia and the baby she’s trying to deliver.

  “Can someone put an O2 mask on Mom?” Gia asks. “Okay, Mariana, you’re having a contraction. I need you to push. Right now. I need a big push. I don’t think it will take much, he’s right here, but let’s get Antonio out as quickly as you can. Do you understand me?”

  Mariana nods and then she pushes, screaming through her mask. Gia encourages her the entire time, guiding her, helping her along. She’s soothing and composed and does everything she’s doing in a way which has Mariana calmer than she’s been since she came in. It’s impossible not to be impressed by her skill level. Especially since she’s so new to the game.

  Twenty seconds later, Gia removes the blue, non-crying baby from Mariana.

  And I’m sick. I can’t watch this baby die.

  Pediatrics takes over from there and Gia is back to work, doing whatever she does with Mariana. The poor woman is sobbing, asking why her baby isn’t crying. I need that baby to cry. I need it to cry right fucking now. I will not break that promise about neither of them dying on my watch.

  I’m half-heartedly supervising as one of my interns cleans and sutures Marian’s chest wound which is in fact, superficial, while surgery is assessing her flank wound. But my eyes are focused on the team working on that baby.

  And just as I’m about to ask for the baby’s status, he cries and everyone breathes out a collective sigh of relief. “Five-minute APGAR is a seven,” one of the doctors announces with a smile, and Gia tells Mariana that Antonio looks good, but will be in a special nursery while they work on fixing her.

  Mariana is crying, and thanking Gia profusely. But she’s also starting to turn for the worse now that the baby is out and her adrenaline is ebbing.

  OB comes bustling in. They examine Mariana quickly, congratulating Gia on a job well done before they leave. They don’t even confer with me. Surgery takes a bleeding Mariana up to the OR. The NICU team follows the surgical team and the chaos is over, with only the remains of trauma left to be cleaned.

  The nurses are cataloging everything that was used, documenting as needed. My intern is animatedly effusing about how that was the craziest trauma he’s ever been in and the nurses are laughing because this is New York City and they’ve seen much worse than that.

  Max Slater is bragging about how he had his hands inside the woman’s side and I’m content because no one died i
n my trauma room.

  Gia is silently scrubbing down at the sink. Once she’s done with that, she grabs a dry blue cloth and wipes her hands off. “Dr. Banner,” she says coolly with her back still to me. “May I have a word please.” It’s not a question. It’s a demand. And then she stalks out of the room, leaving me with the smiles and snickers of the lingering crowd.

  “You think I’m in trouble?” I tease because we’re all in pretty good spirits after that one. Enjoying the positive high and endorphin rush.

  “I heard Gia Bianchi is hardcore and doesn’t take shit kindly,” Corrine, one of the senior nurses says. The other nurses are nodding their heads in agreement.

  “So that’s a yes then,” I deadpan and they laugh.

  “You are the master of giving shit,” Max Slater says and when I treat him to my most menacing glare, he tosses his hands up in surrender. “Just saying you might have met your match with that one.” If only he knew. I throw a Corrine a wink and a bow my thanks to the other nurses because they deserve it for all their hard work and then I leave.

  Gia is out in the hall, waiting on me. Her cheeks are flushed and her skin is slightly tacky, and her hair is disheveled and her eyes are wild, and she’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. Goddamn. I have the strongest urge to grab her small body and haul her off to a dark corner.

  “Miss Bianchi,” I greet her and she scowls at me.

  “Dr. Banner, this way.” Then she spins on the heels of her lavender clogs and marches off down the hall.

  To be honest, if it were any other person, I wouldn’t have let them get this far. I would have ended it in the trauma room or right here in the hall. But I’m enjoying this with her way too much. The fact that she’s unbelievably hot when she’s angry is only fueling me on.

  Gia pushes open the door to one of the small exam rooms and storms in with authority. She spins back around, her arms crossed under her breasts and my eyes can’t help but bounce down there for a moment. She doesn’t speak. In fact, she’s just glaring at me and while I’m liking the hell out of this little encounter, I really don’t have the time.

  “Well?” I prompt. “What can I do for you.”