Bone Dry: An Action-Packed Medical Technothriller (The Gina Mazzio Series Book 1)

by Bette Golden Lamb

“You know, the staff would love to shuffle you off to Pediatrics ... that's where they all think you belong.”

  “I don't care what they think.” The boy's already pale face turned a chalky white. His hands shook.

  Gina gently took his hand in hers. She could feel him start to pull away, then give up any resistance. “You've got to stop making things so hard for yourself, Vinnie. Look at you—you're a mess.”

  He fought with his tears, then began to pant. Ragged breaths tore at his chest, a muscle in his cheek quivered uncontrollably. Finally, he gave up, fell back, and cried.

  Gina silently massaged his thin, bony back, soothed his hairless head.

  “How can you stand to touch me,” he muttered, blinking away the tears from his large black, sunken eyes. “Look at me: I've become one of those people in the World War Two concentration camps.”

  “No you haven't.”

  “What do I look like then.”

  She thought for an moment, then said softly,” You look like a sick, scared kid, fighting for his life.”

  * * * *

  Tracy Bernstein sat in a chair with a book in her lap. She loved mysteries, had looked forward to reading Marilyn Wallace's” The Seduction.” But the novel just lay there, unopened, unread.

  Why hasn’t Gary called? She picked at one of the purple blotches on her arm. He said he would call as soon as he had the money.

  She looked toward the open doorway of her room, hoping he would suddenly appear, money in hand.

  What if he can’t get it?

  Her lower lip was caught between her teeth as she picked at her arm again, then picked harder. Dark blood welled and spread under the skin.

  I have to have it today, Gary!

  Her heart jumped, pounded loudly in her ears.

  I need it today!

  She reached with trembling fingers for the water glass on her bedside stand. As she sipped the water, she winced and gently tongued the ulcer in her mouth—the water's rush, instead of cooling, seemed to sear the delicate tissue.

  The phone rang.

  Her entire body erupted in cold sweat; she sat in stunned inertia.

  Then, she couldn't move fast enough. She tried to grab for the phone, spilled the water, let the glass slip from her grasp. When she finally encircled the receiver with her fingers, it almost slipped from her wet hand. She held the phone tightly against her ear with both hands.

  “Trace? Are you there?”

  “I'm here.”

  “Listen—”

  “Just say you have it, Gary ... please say you have it.”

  There was a long silence. “I will, Tracy. I promise. Tomorrow.”

  “But Gary, I need it now, not tomorrow.”

  “I tried, Tracy ... I tried very hard.” His voice caught, the next words came out in a croak: “I couldn't manage it in only one day.”

  “Don't you understand?”

  “Tracy! Listen to me—”

  “You're all I have, Gary, the only one who can help me!” She yanked the decorative silk scarf from her head, revealing the sparse tufts of red hair. She mopped frantically at a mixture of perspiration and tears that ran down her face.

  “You promised you wouldn't let me down. Damn it, Gary, I' m going to die for certain if I don't get that marrow transfusion.”

  “I know, Trace, I know. But will you please listen to what I have to say?”

  She couldn't respond. The silence grew long, longer. Finally, in a dull, flat voice, she said, “I'm listening.”

  “I'll have the money when the bank opens tomorrow.”

  Again, she couldn't bring herself to speak. Her mind tried to comprehend what he was saying, but all she could focus on was the huge pool of blood that had collected under the skin of her arm. She heard him breathe: short puffs, in and out, in and out.

  “Guess we were pretty dumb to keep sinking all of our money into the businesses,” he offered lamely.

  She was suddenly very sad. “Gary? I'm ... I'm sorry things fell apart between you and me.”

  “I still think we should call the police,” he said.

  “Can’t do that!”

  “Trace,” he said softly,” I feel so helpless. I swear, I did everything I could to get the money today. I just couldn't make it work.”

  “I know you tried your best, Gary, but going to the police isn't an option.” She lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “I can't take that chance. If we don't get my marrow back ... I'll die.”

  * * * *

  Gina was headed back to the nurses' station, her thoughts filled with Vinnie Capello. She glanced in at Tracy Bernstein as she passed her room. It wasn't until she was almost to the station that she stopped and turned around.

  Why isn’t she wearing the scarf? She always wears it.

  Gina's head continued to pound as she dashed back down the corridor. She paused to study Tracy through the glass partition before entering the room: Her body language was all wrong—shoulders hunched, robe gaping, legs splayed, arms dangling.

  Tracy, obviously lost in thought, didn't seem to be aware of Gina's arrival. When Gina placed a hand on her shoulder, she jumped.

  “I'm sorry, Tracy, I didn't mean to frighten you.” She looked into the woman's darting green eyes.

  “I ... I don't feel too well.”

  “Here, give me your arm. Let me help you back into ...” She reached out, then stopped short. “For God's sake! What happened to you?”

  Tracy looked down. “I don't know ... I wasn't really—”

  Gina quickly raised the arm, studied it, and pressed her palms down over the pool of blood that had oozed under the skin of the entire forearm. “Hit the call button. You can reach it from there.”

  “What can we do for you?” a voice on the intercom responded.

  “Helen! This is Gina. We need an ice collar right away!”

  “You got it.”

  Gina checked her watch. “We'll have to hold this under pressure for a while, Tracy. That should stop the bleeding.”

  She looked up at Gina. “I wasn't paying attention. I think I ... bruised it.”

  “You've got to tell us when things like this happen.”

  “I know. I know,” Tracy said. “You've told me so many times I've memorized it: My suppressed marrow isn't putting out enough platelets to clot the blood.” She looked up and smiled weakly.

  The door swung open and Helen came in with a chemical freezebag. “Maybe this will do it,” she said to Tracy. “A little bleed?”

  “'Fraid so,” Gina said. “I'm hoping the pressure and ice will take care of it.”

  Helen set the bag on the bedside table. “Okay now?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Here to please,” Helen said, leaving the room.

  Continuing to apply steady pressure to the oozing subdermal blood, Gina couldn't help but wonder why Tracy hadn't reported the damage to her arm.

  Something’s not right … and it didn’t start with this arm. Something else is wrong.

  “Did you fall, Tracy?”

  “I don't know,” she responded brusquely, turning her head away.

  Gina studied Tracy's profile: pale and drawn, skin dry, covered with dots of purpura. She knew that the stomatitis resulting from her intensive chemotherapy was making it difficult for her to eat or drink. It was a grueling course of treatment, but even with her difficulties, Tracy had done well up until today.

  So why was she sitting here without her scarf? She'd been so proud, almost vain about her once long, beautiful hair. She'd never been without something to cover its loss—until today.

  For a meticulous woman, she’s looking pretty damn grungy.

  It was obvious Tracy hadn't taken a shower; her patient gown was used, dirty under a coffee splattered robe.

  Something’s happened and I’m not catching it, something that’s flipped her around 180 degrees. What the hell is it?

  “Bad day, huh,” she prodded gently.

  Tracy's lips tightened. She s
tared straight ahead.

  “It might help if you told me what's bothering you.”

  Tracy's eyes pierced her with green daggers. “Help? Help who? Me?” She spat out the words. “Gina, you're full of shit!”

  “Full of shit?” Gina bent over to stare directly into her eyes.

  “That's right!” Red dots of anger spotted her forehead. “Full of shit!”

  “Tracy! What is it? Tell me!”

  The patient’s face altered into a mask of disgust. “What I need, Florence Nightingale, is fifty thousand dollars ... and I need it today.” She tried to yank her arm free. “Damn it! Let go of me!”

  “Come on, Tracy, just give me a few more minutes and I think you'll be okay.”

  “I'll never be okay. And without that money I'm never going to leave this hospital, except in a box.”

  Chapter 12

  Gina was stunned. Never had she seen a patient turn hostile so rapidly without an obvious reason. As she stood there holding Tracy's arm, the tension between them mushroomed to a palpable level. She had transformed from a optimistic individual into an angry, withdrawn patient, refusing to even talk.

  When Gina finally stemmed the subdermal bleeding, she made one more attempt to get through to Tracy.

  “If you want to talk, I'm never too far away,” Gina said. “You know I care.”

  Tracy merely stared at the far wall.

  * * * *

  “How's Bernstein's arm?” Helen asked back at the nurses' station.

  “Better. Ten minutes on, ten off the freezebag. Talked to Kessler. We've got our fingers crossed.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Wouldn't tell you, huh?” Helen asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Maybe she doesn't know.”

  Gina thought about that for a moment. “Or she won't say. She seems so angry. It's just not like her to be—

  The call bell interrupted. Helen stepped away to answer it.

  Gina reached for Tracy's chart, slowly flipped through the pages. Leafing through several days of doctor's orders, her index finger moved through the pink pages, on to the progress notes, nurses' notes, medication sheets, and lab reports.

  What am I looking for?

  She put the chart down and tried to find a connection between the written information and Tracy's unexpected change in behavior. There was no explaining it. Then she picked up the chart again, flipping back to the order sheet.

  Marrow in AM.

  Tracy was being engrafted tomorrow. Could she be upset over that? They'd discussed the procedure before and she'd never shown this kind of reaction.

  Maybe this is about her ex-husband. She closed the chart with a slam. Damn it, what the hell is the matter with her?

  “Helen, how about changing lunch breaks,” she asked, watching the other nurse complete her charting. “I'd really like to go at eleven-thirty, if that's okay with you.”

  “Fantastic! I hate when it's my turn to go early, makes the day go on forever.” She paused, looked at Gina, and cocked her head. “Are you okay?

  Gina ran a hand through her hair. “I don't know.”

  Helen put an arm around Gina's waist and looked up at her. “It's still Chapman, isn't it?”

  Gina nodded. “I just need some time to think ... straighten out my thoughts.”

  “Go, mine darlink,” Helen said, shooing her out of the station. “Leaf everyting to me.”

  * * * *

  The normally hectic hospital cafeteria was unexpectedly quiet when Gina arrived for her break. She took a deep breath and enjoyed the solitude, wondering if she should take the early lunch more often.

  The fiery incident with Tracy Bernstein had left her shaken. She thought they’d established something more than just a nurse-patient relationship since Tracy had been on the floor. Her behavior now, however, was not just unusual, it was bordering on the bizarre.

  Why was she into the money thing, and why fifty thousand dollars?

  Gina knew the cost of the treatment, and it wasn't fifty thousand. Besides, it had already been taken care of. True, there'd been a big hassle with her insurance company. But there almost always was. In the end, Tracy told her they were going to pay.

  So what’s making her so angry?

  The situation had a familiar ring to it, but she couldn't isolate it. It just kept nagging at her, trying to push through.

  She lifted a red tray from the multicolored stack at the start of the food line.

  Give it a rest!

  While she moved along the line, she deliberately distracted herself by examining the high-ceilinged room. Stark walls alone would have made the huge place an austere cavern, but the white walls had become a background for a spray of arrows dancing across the panels like electrical lightning.

  A local artist had been commissioned to do the work. Most people were enthusiastic about the results. Others, more vocal, hated it. Even after a year, coming into the cafeteria still could start a endless argument about what art is, or should be. She'd been the center of many heated discussions on the subject. Harry laughed at her intensity on the issue—said she was turning into a crazy Californian. Maybe he was right.

  As she stopped in front of a tray of cheese enchiladas, she studied the artwork again. Yes, she really did like the fluidity of the pastel-colored design. The New York hospitals where she'd worked would have painted the same area a bile green, never giving it an aesthetic thought.

  Although she tried to stay with the distraction, she couldn't. Tracy Bernstein was right there in the middle of all those crazy arrows.

  Why would a stable person like her suddenly fly apart?

  She bypassed the Mexican food, and picked up a carton of non-fat milk and a dish of fresh fruit. After paying, she looked around for a seat, spotted Faye Lindstrom sitting alone at one of the picture window tables, and walked in that direction.

  “Mind if I join you?” she asked the med tech.

  Faye looked tired, but she smiled up at Gina. “Of course not.”

  Gina slipped into the opposite chair and looked out the window at the mass of flowers in the carefully manicured hospital grounds. They ate in silence; the med tech finished a dish of chocolate pudding, bit into a candy bar. Gina nibbled indifferently at her fruit, sipped her milk.

  “Sometimes I feel like running away, hiding in a garden just like that one out there—”

  “— and never coming back,” the med tech completed for her.

  Gina nodded, took another small bite. “I suppose it sounds silly for a thirty-five-year-old, but I wish there was a special place I could run away to. A place where there were only happy endings ... like in the stories my father used to tell me.”

  Faye laughed bitterly. “At least you had a father to tell you stories. Mine was almost never around. When he did show up, he was drunk and beat the hell out of me.” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “I'm ... I'm glad he's dead.” The bitter words contrasted with the delicacy of her fingers as she touched the bones around her eye. “Anyway, those are just fairy tales. If that kind of place ever did exist, it doesn't anymore.”

  “I suppose you're right,” Gina said. She reached across the small table and tilted Faye's head towards the light streaming in the window. “Your eye's looking better.”

  “It doesn't hurt much now.”

  “Did Frank do that to you?” she blurted, almost instantly regretting the uninvited intrusion.

  Faye took a mouth-stuffing bite of another chocolate bar and chewed it deliberately for several seconds before responding. “It's no big deal,” she finally said. “Besides, it was my own fault. I deserved it.”

  “Come on, Faye! No one deserves to be hit like that.”

  Faye shoved the last piece of chocolate into her mouth, gave a fleeting glance at the garden. “I don't want to talk about it.” She quickly looked at her watch. “Anyway, I've got to go back to the lab now.” She scooped up her tray, causing several empty candy wrappers to f
ly off into the air.

  Gina placed a hand on her arm. “You have my number, Faye. Call me if you need to talk.”

  The med tech gave her a noncommittal look and turned away.

  Gina stared thoughtfully at the back of the retreating figure. Faye's reactions to the beating were all too familiar.

  My God! Everyone seems to be flipping out lately. First Carl, then Tracy, now Faye. What in hell’s going on?

  She sat there, tearing her paper napkin into thin strips that she wove into a basket design. Was there a possible connection … between Carl's and Tracy's strange behaviors?

  She realized both of them had begun acting out of character the day before they were to receive their bone marrow engraftments.

  But why?

  Chapter 13

  Frank Nellis checked his watch, then opened the hallway closet door and stared hard at the small freezer on the floor. He resisted the temptation to open it and peek inside. He wasn't supposed to do that.

  It was no bigger than an oversized breadbox, fit neatly into Faye's hall closet. The stainless steel unit was fed by an exterior liquid nitrogen tank that kept the temperature at minus 90 degrees centigrade.

  Inside the cryogenic chamber was biological gold—ten plastic bags, each filled with a combination of 40cc of marrow and 40cc of glucose medium mixed with DSMO preservative. The marrow had been harvested six weeks earlier, then frozen inside the bags.

  Once, when Faye had caught him with the freezer door open, she threatened to end the whole business. He poked, prodded, coaxed, pleaded, punched her around. But the cow had her limits. She said he would have to learn the process so there'd be no mistakes. When he finally convinced her he was serious about saving the marrow specimens, she agreed to do her part.

  Little darlin’s a real humanitarian.

  But at the moment, he was alone and the compulsion to look inside the freezer was as great as ever. He thoughtfully scratched his nose, then quickly opened the door, allowing a blast of icy air to engulf his face, almost taking his breath away. “Couldn't resist!” he gasped, catching a glimpse of the frozen marrow. He slammed the door shut, threw a loud kiss at the freezer.” Mr. Bernstein, I love you.”