She reached for the medical book she’d brought home, and flipped the pages back to what she’d read earlier. It said spinal fluid, the fluid that bathed the spinal cord and brain, would have a higher protein concentration with GBS. It also said there were treatments to speed the recovery along. She wondered if he’d had any of them while in the hospital. Of course he had, hadn’t he?
Mallory rubbed her eyes and heard the front door open. So involved in research, she hadn’t realized it was only five minutes before Morgan’s 1 a.m. curfew.
“Hey, Mom, what are you still doing up?”
“I’m reading about your friends on that internet meat market, Cyber Space,” she teased, raising a brow and impaling her daughter with a threatening glare. “I’m not too impressed with that peek-a-boo picture of Crystal.”
“As if.” Her self-proclaimed “nerd girl” giggled at the prospect of any one of her honors-student friends being on the sometimes wild and raunchy message boards.
Mallory smiled. She couldn’t fake out her daughter no matter how much she tried.
The willowy ash blonde with huge green eyes and intentionally smudged liner tossed her woven sac purse onto the couch. She plopped down beside it on the overstuffed pillows, and sighed.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?”
“It’s kinda sad to think about my friends splitting up and going to different schools. We all say we’ll keep in touch, but I know it’ll never be the same.” She leaned her head back on the cushions and placed her wrist on her forehead in a melodramatic fashion.
Mallory smiled, turned off the computer, and joined her on the couch. She patted her daughter’s bony knee.
“High school isn’t the end of your life,” she said sympathetically. “College is just the beginning. It may test your true friendships, but it will also bring you new friends. Heck, you may even meet the guy you wind up marrying there.”
“Mom, I’m going to an all-girls’ college, remember?”
Mallory sputtered. “Right.”
Morgan became quiet. Mallory yawned. It was hard to believe she had been almost the same age as Morgan was now when she’d given birth—a child with a baby. But, heck, she’d done all right. She’d raised a well-adjusted and bright girl. She could pat herself on the back for that.
“Mom, I want you to know I’m searching for more scholarships. I feel bad that you have to work so much.”
“Hey, that’s what we parents do. We give you the best chance to spread your wings, then expect you to take care of us when we’re old and gray.”
“Payback.”
“You got that right,” Mallory said, and yawned loudly. “Now, I’ve got to get some sleep. I’ve got a hot doc to take care of again tomorrow. But speaking of payback, doesn’t Crystal work in medical records at Mercy Hospital?”
“Yeah.”
“I may need a favor.”
Without thinking, she walked to the window and took down the large hanging crystal teardrop. Then she thumbed through her CD collection for some Debussy and found Clair de Lune and La Mer. She tucked both inside her nurse’s bag and grinned at her daughter before heading off to bed.
Morgan rolled her eyes at her. “You are so weird.”
It was the last thing she heard before she closed her bedroom door with a smile for her daughter and a plan for her doctor.
*
Mallory quietly hung the crystal in the window with a suction cup and stick-on hook. She slipped the CD into the portable player she’d brought and pressed the start button. JT slept peacefully, with the ventilator pulsing out the rhythm of his breaths. The “Afternoon of the Faun” began to play.
Eager to say hello to her patient, Mallory stood beside the bed and watched. She’d put on a bit of mascara and lipstick that morning all the while asking what the heck she thought she was doing. JT was just her patient, and she was only his nurse.
One angry eye cracked open then slammed tightly shut. She planted her hands on her hips, waiting for him to come around.
“Well, good morning to you, too.”
He kept his eyes sealed with a squint.
She forced him to turn and did her initial assessment, took his vital signs, checked his subclavian line and stomach tube, and prepared to suction his tracheostomy.
His refusal to respond communicated, Go away, in no uncertain terms. She understood that sleep was the only thing he had left to control. But it was her duty to not let him forget about life.
The bright summer morning light hit the crystal just right, and cast a beautiful rainbow on the wall.
“Oh, look Dr. Prescott.” She repositioned him in the bed so he could see it. One of his ridiculous and strict rules was “No pictures of family at the bedside.” Another was “No music.” Well, hell, she’d broken so many things on his list already, she had no intention of observing either of those dreary rules.
She’d stopped in his living room before starting her shift and had found pictures of his young son, which she strategically placed around his bed. One was at his eye level.
Finally forced to open his eyes, he noticed the picture of his son just below the rainbow. He looked puzzled, but not displeased. She had no doubt that he heard the music above the ventilator rhythm as well, especially when it swelled in a lovely crescendo.
She smiled and waited for him to do the same. Instead, he glowered.
“You are such a grouch,” she said, undaunted, feeling familiar with him perhaps beyond the reality of their relationship. “I swear, some people just want to curl up into little balls and die. Well, not on my shift, buddy.” She playfully pushed his shoulder with her hand. “Isn’t that what you’d have said to one of your patients back at Mercy Hospital if they’d have given you this same attitude?”
Mallory used the draw sheet to reposition him for his morning care. She’d have him squeaky clean in no time and ready for range-of-motion exercises. Did he have a choice? No.
Somewhere, halfway through his exercises, she got the idea to get him out of bed and into the bedside chair. A patient lift sat unused in the cluttered corner of the room. She rolled it to the bedside and positioned it over the bed, soon realizing she’d need Jake’s assistance to get JT onto the canvas transporter.
She paged Jake, and twenty minutes later, much to JT’s chagrin, the two of them had him off the bed and on a portable patient lounger, an adjustable chair similar to what was found in a dentist’s office. She’d placed him in a near sitting position with the side rails locked in place and pushed him in front of the window, so he could see something besides four walls.
Mallory wiped and clapped her hands in an exaggerated manner, and smiled at her fish-out-of-water patient. He looked a bit twisted and listed to one side, but it would do.
“Now I can change your bedding without breaking my back.”
“I think you already did break your back,” Jake said, on his way out of the room. “I know you broke mine. That was no easy transfer.”
“The lift did all of the work. All we had to do was swing him over to the chair and hoist him up a bit.” And for JT’s benefit, she said, “And I have attended annual ergonomics updates at work. I know exactly what to do.” She raised a brow and looked over her shoulder to see if JT responded.
He coughed.
Before she’d finished putting fresh linen on the hospital bed, Dr. Berger arrived for his daily visit. His stern look warned her he wasn’t happy. He glared at her. When he turned to look at his patient, she noticed thinning brown hair.
“What in the world do you think you’re doing?” He glanced down at JT and said, “I’m sorry, JT. I thought your rules were made quite clear.” He looked at Mallory again. “I want him back in the bed immediately. Who gave you permission to get him up?”
“Are you sure you want to keep him bedridden? It takes three days of rehab for each day spent in a bed. At this rate, it’ll take six months to have him walking again.”
“He is in no condition to be up.”
&nb
sp; Knowing she’d never win this debate, she decided to change the subject while she bundled up the dirty linen and pushed it into the hamper.
“OK, as soon as I change the linen I’ll put him back. Dr. Berger, speaking of his condition, what’s your take on his slow improvement?”
“It’s hard to say with a tricky disease like Guillain-Barré. We have to wait patiently for his immune system to quit attacking his nervous system.”
“Did he undergo plasmaphoresis therapy or high-dose immunoglobulin treatment in the beginning?”
“We did what we could. We concentrated on stabilizing care—fluids, ventilation, and sedation. I suggest you leave the doctoring to me, and I’ll leave the nursing to you.” He gave a stern and condescending glance her way. “Though with JT out of bed under these conditions, I’m in serious doubt of both your qualifications and assessment skills. There’s no one here to help you if he goes down.”
JT coughed against the ventilator pressure and set off an alarm.
Shocked by the resistance she’d come up against with Dr. Berger, she glanced at JT. He looked helpless and cockeyed belted in the chair, yet he managed a pleasant enough look for both Mallory and Dr. Berger. He must be comfortable, but how could he tell, being paralyzed? Had she made a bad decision by getting him out of bed?
JT seemed to be trying to communicate something to her with his expression. Something she couldn’t quite make out. She followed the direction of his eyes and saw it—his catheter bag had fallen to the floor. So he was completely aware of his surroundings. She quickly stooped down and hung it on the side of the chair before Dr. Berger could find one more thing to nit-pick about.
After glancing at the chart, Dr. Berger felt JT’s wrist to check his pulse. He listened briefly to his lungs, though Mallory couldn’t tell for sure who breathed louder, Dr. Berger or the ventilator. He looked into JT’s eyes as though no one was home, and asked Mallory what his latest blood-pressure reading had been. He hadn’t even realized that JT had recovered the ability to move his face. He turned and scribbled a few sentences into his chart. JT crossed his eyes at him when his back was turned.
Mallory sputtered a laugh and quickly covered her mouth, pretending to sneeze.
“I want him put back into the bed, now,” Dr Berger said in a patronizing voice as he prepared to leave. “JT.” He patted his patient benignly on the shoulder. “We’re doing everything we can for you. Hang on. This will all work out. In the meantime, I’m covering for you as Medical Director. I’m doing the best I can, though I know it’s hard to fill your shoes.” Dr. Berger made a pitiful attempt at a smile for JT then repeated a curt warning growl to Mallory. “Get him back to bed. And if you’re sneezing, wear a mask.”
Once the door had closed, Mallory said, “Yes, sir. Right away, sir…” And saluted. She winked at JT with no intention of putting him back to bed for another hour. J.T. winked back. Delighted to see his response, she grinned. “We’ll show him,” she whispered into his ear, after the doctor was well out of hearing range.
She shouldn’t have gotten so close to him. It took everything in her power not to peck him on the cheek. She knew her care to JT went beyond her nursing role, and her personal feelings blurred the line. She longed to caress his cheek with her hand and gaze into his eyes and tell him how she really felt. But he was her patient.
For the first time that morning JT smiled, and Mallory felt honored to be the one he’d shared it with.
*
Over the next three weekends Mallory developed a routine with JT. She made a point of primping and fixing up a bit, trying to look her best. She’d even experimented with wearing her hair differently than the usual single French braid down her back. She knew it was nothing more than shameless vanity, yet she did it every time she worked with him. Who was she trying to impress? Surely he never noticed.
She’d bring new music—Gershwin, Scott Joplin, Debussy, and even a little Van Morrison—get him up in the chair, do his exercises after his bath and talk to him non-stop. Anything on her mind she’d share with him. Last weekend she’d told him all about her daughter—how bright she was, where she intended to go to school, and confessed how hard it would be to live all alone again. A part of her felt like she was rebuilding their old friendship. Another part simply loved being close to him.
Being unable to speak himself, he was the perfect audience. And as he never rolled his eyes or gave her any indication that she was trying his nerves, she kept up her monologues, keeping him connected with the world and up to date on her rather mundane personal life.
During lunch, she’d read him the sports page, something she’d never do on her own, but as he’d perk up and look mildly interested, she made it a part of their routine. After his dinner she’d read from the Arthur Rimbaud book, and found herself growing fascinated with the young and decidedly mad poet.
She’d end her shift by tucking him into bed while playing piano sonatas on the CD. When she left each Saturday and Sunday night, she knew she’d tried her best and given him her all.
He always looked peaceful when he slept—thick black lashes resting on his high cheekbones—like a child. She longed to run her thumb over them for an excuse to touch him one more time before she left for home. But she knew that would be highly unprofessional and way out of bounds of their patient-nurse relationship.
*
The next Saturday morning, looking forward to seeing him after a long week at Mercy Hospital, she had a surprise when she parked her car. A respiratory care truck was in the driveway, loading the ventilator into the back.
“Did he get a new one?” she asked.
“Nah. He won’t be needing it any more.”
Her heart sank. Oh, God. No one had called her to say Dr. Prescott had died. Tears sprang to her eyes, and stung. Water formed in her mouth and she thought she might throw up. Oh, God. What had gone wrong? He had been doing so well last weekend.
She ran past the men loading the ventilator and into the house to his first-story bedroom. The night nurse was nowhere to be found. She took a deep breath and pushed through the door, prepared to see JT dead.
He lay perfectly still, peaceful and silent. She bit her lower lip and whimpered. Tears blurred her vision. She used the cuff of her hand to push the tears out of the way, and walked closer to his bed. Her stomach tightened into a knot and it became hard to breathe. He must have just died. The IV was still infusing, and they hadn’t removed the catheter bag yet.
With a shaky hand she smoothed her hair and tried to regain her composure before the other nurse returned and saw her blubbering. She noticed his trach had been capped off and decided to lean over and examine him up close, one last time.
One big blue eye popped open. “Good morning, sunshine,” he said in a weak raspy voice.
She jumped back and screamed. “You’re alive!” Wildly relieved yet flustered by his trick, she fought her smile and offered a scolding look. “Do you have any idea what I thought when I saw them rolling the ventilator onto the truck?”
“That Jake had pulled the plug on me?”
She screwed up her face and tossed her head. “What a ridiculous notion. Who’d ever think up anything like that?”
He crooked his mouth into a smirk. “Some control freak idiot?”
She stood perfectly still for a moment, deciding whether or not to take him seriously. She saw the twinkle in his eyes and played along. “Why, Dr Prescott, I had no idea you had a sense of humor.”
“I don’t.”
They stared at each other for another second before they broke into a laugh. Well, she did anyway. His was more like an air laugh, he made the gestures but nothing came out of his mouth.
“I’m so glad to see you alive and talking, I could kiss you.”
He cleared his throat. “I wish you would.”
Their playful moment suddenly grew serious. She stared into his face, assessing whether he’d meant what he’d just said or had simply been teasing her. She couldn’t hide the
fact from herself that she would like to kiss him, but would never allow herself to on the job or, heaven forbid, ever let him know she’d like to.
Mallory smoothed her nurse’s uniform and swallowed a lump in her throat. She nervously fiddled with her hair and said, “I’ll get things started for your bath.”
Seeing a different side of JT had shaken her to the core. She retreated to the basin in the bathroom, business as usual. When he’d been unable to respond, he’d seemed safe. Yet now, discovering he’d been thinking things all along and could only just now begin to express himself, she realized their relationship had changed. And it scared her.
“That’s not fair, you know,” he called out in a brittle voice.
“What’s not fair?”
“You get to see me naked, but I never get to see you in the buff.”
She almost spilled the water from the bowl and felt a blush so deep she knew her face had turned scarlet. How could she face him after that?
But this was her job and she would work to the best of her ability for her patient, she reminded herself as she pushed the tempting thought of being naked with J.T. Prescott far into the back of her mind.
Later, after the most awkward bed bath so far, as was their routine, she did range-of-motion exercises, starting with his feet and ending with his arms. She made the final stretch with extra vigor and leaned over him, pushing his arm far above his head.
“Not that I’m complaining or anything, but your breast always hits me in the face when we do this one.”
She dropped his arm and backed off in horror.
“I could never tell you before.” He smirked and winked. “But it’s definitely my favorite exercise.”
Realizing how true his statement was, she cringed. For the second time that day she blushed.
How intimate they’d become—forehead to forehead, their breath mingling, skin touching skin while she stretched and worked his joints, tendons, and muscles. She couldn’t bear the closeness another second and turned to something safe, business as usual.
“I think you should know that I’ve committed a patient confidentiality violation with you.”
In His Angel's Arms Page 4
