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

by Bette Golden Lamb

  The administrator turned on one heel and hurried out of the lab without a backward glance.

  * * * *

  Gina and Kessler stood in front of the elevator, silently awaiting a ride up to the Oncology floor. Neither had spoken since leaving the Laboratory.

  “What the hell just happened?” Kessler finally blurted out, his face creased in anger. “I thought I could trust you, Gina. I came down here to back you up and now I'm looking right down the barrel of a loaded gun.” He thrust his hands into his pockets. “Damn it, isn't my life complicated enough?”

  “I'm sorry, Mark. What else can I say? When I called you, the cells were missing.” She touched his arm. “I feel terrible having dragged you into this mess. But I swear, Tracy's marrow was missing!”

  He refused to look at her. Instead, he slowly shook his head. “I'm worried about you, Gina.”

  “What do you mean, you're worried about me?”

  “Your judgment's always been above reproach. But this time ... well, I don't know.” He jabbed nervously at the lighted UP button. “I don't think you've really heard what you've been saying.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, for instance, all that stuff about Bob Ghent being involved with the missing marrow that isn't missing. That sort of thing is damn unnerving.” He jabbed at the button again, his face turning a bright red.

  “Jesus, Gina, I'm beginning to think you need some professional help to cope with Chapman's death. The whole thing is making you paranoid.”

  The elevator arrived; they stepped into the empty car. Gina jammed the heel of her hand against the #3 button.

  When the door closed behind them, she said, “I never said Bob was involved ... I said he could be.”

  “Kind of academic at this point, isn't it?”

  Her shoulders slumped as she leaned against the back of the car. “The point is, I know something's wrong. Whether Bob's involved or not isn't the question. It's simply that Chapman's marrow didn't disappear into thin air. Where did it go?”

  Kessler put his hands to his mouth and blew his breath loudly between his fingers. “Damn it, that's not my primary concern. Right now I want to get my hands on that autopsy report and find out what the hell went wrong.”

  “Report or no report, I still think the missing marrow is connected to his death, one way or another.”

  He folded his arms tightly across his chest. “Gina, it's time you became more objective about this whole marrow business. As it stands, you've discredited not only yourself, but me right along with you.”

  “I did what I thought was necessary.”

  “I don't give a damn about what you thought was necessary,” he said, his face an angry red. “Just keep your nose out of where it doesn't belong and leave me alone.”

  Gina narrowed her eyes and fixed them on his. “Yes, Dr. Kessler. Anything you say, Dr. Kessler.” She straightened, gave him a military salute, turned on her heel, and stomped out of the elevator.

  Chapter 18

  Gina avoided Helen's questioning eyes and stormed into the medication room.

  Bastard! Who the hell does he think he is?

  But it wasn't just Kessler's attitude and remarks that made her angry; not even Vasquez's nastiness. She'd acted too rashly. Maybe Harry was right: Why should she put her neck on the block with nothing more than a hunch to go on?

  She tried to compose herself, but her mind kept flying off in erratic tangents—Chapman's death, Harry's lack of support, Tracy's rejection.

  Bringing it down to the now, she focused on her upcoming meeting with Vasquez. Even if he didn't fire her on the spot, would she want to stay on at Ridgewood? If not, what then: Go back to New York?

  She hiked herself up on the counter and let her legs swing rhythmically back and forth. This was the quietest place in the unit. Everything was so orderly, so predictable—so unlike her life. Her eyes jumped from the stock of syringes to the huge floor-to-ceiling storage cabinet, filled to overflowing. She idly examined a few of the familiar plastic IV bags with their major components of electrolyte solutions: Dextrose, Sodium Chloride, Lactate Ringer's. Opposite her, she could see through the double glass doors of the refrigerator, packed with an assortment of antibiotics, chemo-therapeutics, and curative solutions.

  Here, she was surrounded by the things she knew and understood, things she dealt with day in, day out. Looking at them was comforting, an affirmation of her training and expertise.

  So why am I sticking my nose into places it doesn’t belong? Locking horns with Vasquez isn’t very smart, either.

  But thinking about the hospital administrator only made her angry again.

  Damn him!

  After ten years in nursing, she still let people like Vasquez get to her. They made her feel small, by treating her like a recalcitrant child instead of a health professional.

  And what if she did go back to New York, would the laboratory fiasco stay with her, continue to hurt—like a bone lodged in her throat?

  She slid off the counter and rested her cheek against the refrigerator; the cold glass was soothing. If only there was some way she could crawl inside, curl up and hibernate until it was safe to come out.

  No! I’m not running this time. I ran from my marriage; I’m not going to run from my career.

  She reached with shaking hands for her patients' medication cards, stacked in a wooden slot next to Helen's. She shuffled them like a miniature deck of cards.

  Tracy’s marrow was missing!

  She shuffled the cards a few more times, then stood up, stretched, and breathed deeply. Stretching her neck from side-to-side, she felt the tension lessen, her strength returning. Finally, she smiled and held out one hand, then the other. Steady as a rock.

  * * * *

  Vinnie Capello had managed five jumping jacks and, after three pushups, was having trouble getting up.

  An enervating weariness suddenly overcame him, tears spilled from his eyes. He cradled his head on his knees and rocked back and forth on the cold floor.

  After a minute or two, he looked up at the Greenpeace calendar he'd tacked to the wall—an African elephant, ears flared, trunk raised, stood ready to charge whoever was holding the camera. Each passing day in May was crossed off in red; the senior prom was only two days away.

  Angie had given him the calendar as a Christmas present. That was when she was still his girlfriend.

  Gina entered the room. He stayed where he was and watched her wash up before she extended a hand to help him up from the floor.

  “I can get up by myself,” he said, struggling to stand while holding onto the edge of the bed. Perspiration drenched his bare scalp, his face.

  “Tough as nails, aren't you?”

  “Yeah, well, I don't need your help, that's for sure.”

  “Just a macho kind of guy, huh?” Gina said, pulling out a fresh gown from the stack of linens she'd left earlier on the chair. “Trust me on this one, kid—the more you try to be a man who doesn't need anybody, the lonelier you're going to be ... and it has nothing to do with your age.”

  “What makes you so smart? And stop calling me, kid!”

  “Okay, Mr. Capello. Get your macho butt into the shower.”

  Gina gave him a bright smile. “Mr. Capello, this is the time I've set aside to make your bed. Do me the courtesy of getting cleaned up while I take care of things out here.”

  Their eyes locked for few seconds until he finally looked away.

  He started toward the bathroom, but mid-stride his legs refused to move any further. He saw a flash of bright lights, the room began to spin. Clawing at the empty air, he stumbled, started to drop. Gina's hands caught and held him upright.

  “Are you okay, kid?” She wrapped an arm around his waist. “Let me help you to the bed.”

  “You called me kid again.” He leaned heavily on her and walked haltingly by her side on rubbery legs. “I ... I ... don't know what happened.”

  She got him into the bed, wr
apped a cuff around his arm, took his blood pressure, and checked his pulse. “Why don't you back off this exercise thing for a while, Vinnie. You're overdoing it.”

  “If you think ... I'm going to turn into ... a vegetable ... while I’m...” He gasped for breath. “... stuck in here ... you're full of— “

  “Vinnie! Spare me! I already know what I'm full of. You've told me on numerous memorable occasions.”

  There was a ringing in his ears, his own words became muffled. He looked at the nurse's mouth as she talked; the hum grew deafening, blotting out all other sound. He clamped his hands over his ears. The ringing halted as abruptly as it started, leaving him with an instant sense of relief, then an overwhelming sadness. A voice he barely recognized as his own spoke from some far off place

  “I'm so tired, Gina ... tired of feeling weak ... tired of being sick ... tired of every little ... or big ... thing ... making my life so ... difficult.”

  She pressed a cool cloth to his head. “You're just worn out, kid. For almost a month you've spent every day fighting with everyone, everything, including your own body. You've got to let yourself rest if you're going to heal.”

  “You keep forgetting,” he said, slowly shaking his head,” it's not the first time you've pumped your poisons into me.” Words caught in his throat, he croaked out the rest: “I know that if I let myself relax, let my guard down, even for a second ... I'll die here.”

  Gina touched his cheek then took his hand. “No one told you it would be easy. It's tough. I know that. But it takes a tough person like you to stand up to it.”

  “You call it tough. Well, maybe it's not tough ... maybe it's just stupid ... stupid to try to hang on.”

  “Vinnie,” she said, squeezing his hand,” you're in the home stretch. Get through this one and the odds are in your favor of beating this thing.”

  His chest constricted, he had to force his muscles to breathe in, and then relax them to breathe out. “You call it a thing. Apples are things; oranges are things. This isn't just a thing it's leukemia. Acute Myelogenus Leukemia.”

  “True, that's what it is. But does it really matter what you call it?”

  “It matters to me.”

  “Whatever it's called, it doesn't change what you have to do to get rid of it.”

  He reached over and took his well-worn Giants baseball cap from the bed table and pulled it down over his head until his eyes were barely visible beneath the brim.

  “Yeah, that's the way you see it. But you don't know what it's like lying in this bed.” He paused, waiting for his heart to stop pounding.

  “I do understand, Vinnie.”

  He shook his head from side to side. “When they make their rounds ... all those people—students, doctors, nurses—they surround me, talk about me and my god dam AML ... like I'm not even here. Shit!”

  “Vinnie, I think you're just tired.”

  He studied her, as he had on numerous occasions. She was pretty; the same kind of flashing eyes as Angie. Even had his girlfriend's—ex-girlfriend’s—temper; explosive, then forgiving. It hurt every time he looked at the nurse because she reminded him so much of Angie. He glanced again at the calendar: only two days. He'd planned for so long to take Angie to the senior prom, now it wasn't going to happen.

  Other bits and pieces, filaments of thoughts, meandered through his head; his eyelids grew heavy.

  He tried to remember the last time he'd slept through an entire night; slept dreamlessly; slept without wondering if he'd ever wake up again.

  Gina held his hand tightly. His thoughts began to drift away.

  “Just don't call me kid, anymore,” he murmured.

  “No promises, kid.”

  “You'll be sorry, Bronx,” he mumbled, drifting off.

  “I already am,” she whispered with a smile.

  * * * *

  Gina was in deep thought when she returned to the nurses' station. Helen was in the midst of taking off a patient gown she'd been wearing to protect her clothes during a procedure. Gina watched her flip off her gloves, wash her hands. Helen looked up.

  How's Capello doing?”

  “I'm worried about him.”

  “I'd be more worried about me if he were my patient.”

  Gina smiled distractedly as she pulled Vinnie Capello's chart from the rack. She turned directly to the Nursing Care Plan she'd written for him; studied it for a moment. “You know, this is his second admission. He's already completed one round of chemo.”

  “Nine months into remission when they harvested his marrow, wasn't he?” Helen asked.

  Gina nodded. “He'll be all right when he gets his marrow back.”

  Helen rested a hand on her shoulder. “So who are you reassuring, me or yourself?”

  Gina stared off into space.

  “Earth to Gina, come in please,” Helen taunted, waving a hand in front of Gina's eyes.

  “Sorry! Can't help thinking about that kid. He's really depressed.”

  “Yeah, well I've been worried about him from the moment he arrived,” Helen said. “What a terror! I hope he gets along better with his family than he does with us.”

  “They're very close. They would have sold everything they owned if Kessler hadn't gotten the Ulrich Foundation to cover the cost of Vinnie's treatment, particularly after their insurance refused to cover the autologous marrow procedure.”

  “He's very lucky.”

  Gina studied the notes on Vinnie, finally turned to the psychosocial evaluation, and then abruptly shut the chart. “He doesn't feel lucky. Besides, there's something else bothering that kid, and it hasn't anything to do with AML.”

  “Beats me what's going on in Capello's head at any time,” Helen said.

  Gina began gathering supplies for Tracy Bernstein's scheduled procedure. She'd only picked up a couple of items when Helen reached out and stopped her.

  “You won't need any of that today,” Helen said.

  She looked at her watch. “But it's almost time for Tracy's engraftment.”

  “Huh, uh! Kessler was here while you were with the Capello kid.”

  “So?”

  “He postponed Bernstein.”

  Gina snatched up Tracy's chart and quickly turned to the pink physician's orders.

  DC orders for engraftment

  Withhold for 24 hrs.

  “Did he say why?”

  “Only muttered something about Chapman's preliminary autopsy report.”

  “That's it?”

  “Believe me, I tried to pump him for details, but all he did was mumble, grumble, and moan.”

  “Does Tracy know yet?”

  “I assume he told her.”

  “God, I hate to think what that did to her.” Gina slumped down on one of the stools and leaned her elbows on the counter. “She was already in such an agitated state that I damn near ordered a sitter for her. I'm really worried about leaving her alone.”

  Helen walked up behind Gina and began to lightly massage her shoulders. “Listen, girl, maybe you ought to worry about yourself for a change, you know?” She found a couple of polarity points and applied pressure. “Everybody's talking about your disastrous trip to the lab.”

  “What a grapevine this hospital has.”

  “Eh, in a couple of days they'll forget all about it. But I thought you ought to know the word is out.” When Gina didn't respond, she added,” And I guess you also ought to know, Vasquez called. He wants to see you at two-thirty.”

  “Oh, shit!”

  * * * *

  Gina was within a few feet of the elevator, headed for Tracy's room, when the satin-finish steel doors slid open. A man stepped out, glanced briefly at her, then turned away and limped down the corridor. He stopped, looked around, and made a helpless gesture, as if he were lost.

  “May I help?” Gina called out to him.

  He looked back over his shoulder and frowned at her. “I'm looking for Tracy Bernstein's room.”

  Gina walked up to him, then backed off a co
uple of steps—his clothes were torn and disheveled, a sour aroma filled the air around him, making her think for a moment that he might have been drinking, possibly even been in a drunken scuffle of some kind.

  “Excuse me, visiting in this unit is limited to the immediate family.”

  “Oh, sorry. I'm not thinking too clearly. I'm Gary Bernstein, Tracy's, uh, ex-husband.”

  “I see.” She wasn't sure how to handle the situation, particularly after all the negative things Tracy had told her about her ex. “I'm Gina Mazzio, Tracy's nurse. Is she expecting you?”

  He stood there, arms limp at his sides, looking back and forth between her and the row of rooms. He had stains all over the front of his suit; his shirt collar was crumpled, the top button missing; dark circles outlined the armpits of his coat. His eyes were red, the surrounding flesh puffy. He reached out with one arm and rested against the wall.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Bernstein? Can I get you something?” Closer now, she had no trouble identifying the reek of stale vomit.

  “Got to see Tracy ... it's getting late.”

  She took him gently by the arm. “She's okay; there's no need to rush.”

  “But you don't understand, he’s....” Suddenly, he focused on her. He took a deep breath and looked up and down the corridor. “She's expecting me,” he said.

  Gina nodded, still uncertain whether she should allow this man to go to Tracy's room without checking first. Maybe she should just call security to be on the safe side.

  “Why don't you go down to the men's room and freshen up a bit,” she suggested, tentatively turning him in that direction. “I'm going in to see Tracy myself. I'll tell her you're here and that you'll see her in a few minutes. Okay?”

  He started to object, then glanced down at the front of his soiled suit. “Maybe you're right,” he said, still using the wall for support. “Will you be long?”

  “What?”

  “With Tracy, will you be in there with her very long? I need to talk to her alone.”

  “No,” Gina said with a shrug. “I only want to see how she's doing.”