by Lucy Kerr
“Costello’s never going to let me live this down, is he?” Neither Alejandro nor Esme answered, which only confirmed it. It was one thing for a patient to discharge against medical advice; to let one slip away on my watch was another. The only thing more amateur would have been to faint at the sight of blood.
“You said he was off,” Esme pointed out. “You were right about that, anyway.”
Cold comfort, especially since I’d never gotten around to calling security. “Yeah, but I should have …”
“What? Stayed with him while the rest of us worked on Katherine Tibbs? We needed you in there, the way that NICU nurse freaked out,” Esme said firmly. Then she caught sight of Eileen making her way down the hall toward us. “Exam Three did a runner.”
“Expected as much. John Mueller, my Irish behind. What some people do to get out of paying a bill …” She shook her head, then peered over the tops of her glasses at us. “Katherine Tibbs’s husband is here, along with a whole crew of people. Where’s Dr. Costello?”
“I took Mueller,” I said to Esme. “Your turn.”
“You lost Mueller,” she replied. “Besides, you’re the one who said Costello was fine.”
I sighed and shoved the clipboard at her.
The door to the staff lounge was closed. On any other night, I would have strolled right in, but this wasn’t any other night. Even Esme had admitted as much, with her quiet questions about Costello and her gentle reminder about his own loss. Pride still smarting from my runaway patient, I steeled myself and knocked on the door. “Dr. Costello?”
No response. I tried again.
“Dr. Costello, Katherine Tibbs’s husband is here.”
Silence.
Gingerly, I opened the door. Costello sat on the edge of the ugly plaid couch, head bent, elbows braced on knees, hands loosely clasped. “Doctor—”
“I heard you the first time. They probably heard you back in Chicago.”
I bit back my annoyance. “Do you want Garima to—”
Before I could finish, he shoved off the couch and brushed past me, dragging on his white doctor’s coat.
I shook my head and followed him. It was almost unheard of for nurses to deliver the news of a patient’s death, but considering Costello’s temperament, I thought it best if someone else was close by.
He stalked down the hallway, an abrupt, graceless stride that belied the barest hint of a limp. I’d never noticed it before, but it wasn’t as if we’d spent a lot of time hanging out.
Someone in an adjoining corridor was shouting. The husband, I assumed, and I quickened my pace.
“Where’s my wife?” the man roared. “Why can’t I see her? Why won’t you people tell me anything?”
Costello stopped short before he turned the corner, tugging his white coat straight and running a hand over his shaved head. The line of his shoulders turned less aggressive, and when he started off again, his gait had smoothed out, measured and patient. By the time he rounded the corner, his transformation was complete.
“Mr. Tibbs? I’m Paul Costello, the attending physician.” The contempt in his voice had given way to compassion. “I treated your wife tonight.”
A whole crew, Eileen had said, and I’d assumed she meant a throng of anxious family members. Instead, Costello was speaking to a man surrounded by what could only be described as an entourage—a cluster of men in tuxedos and women in cocktail dresses, all of them wearing identical expressions of shock and dismay.
The man in front, however, with red-rimmed eyes and bow tie hanging askew, was clearly the husband.
“I want to see her,” he demanded, raking his fingers through his dripping-wet hair. “You take me to her right now or so help me—”
The man next to him, similarly clad but with silver-gray hair and a florid complexion, put a hand on his shoulder, restraining him with a firm grip and a few low-pitched words. With an effort, the husband took a breath, released it, and tried again. “Please,” he said, voice unsteady. “Where’s Kate?”
Recognition buzzed along the nape of my neck. He looked to be about my age, with the blandly attractive features of a newscaster and the sort of build that came from semiregular workouts, not working outside. I squinted, trying to place him.
“Did you catch the husband’s name?” I asked the orderly hovering at my elbow.
“Sean, maybe? Stuart?”
The pieces in my mind clicked into place. “Steven.”
“That’s right,” the orderly agreed. “Steven Tibbs. You know him?”
“Kind of,” I said. “He was a year behind me in high school.” Steven Tibbs, savior of Stillwater. The boy who’d stopped a fire from destroying half the business district and saved a half a dozen lives in the process. I’d left town before it happened, but I’d heard plenty of stories about it over the years, each retelling more dramatic than the last.
A few feet away, Costello said, “Let’s step into the family lounge, please. For privacy.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me where my wife is!” Steven shouted.
“Alejandro, clear the hallway,” Costello said, not taking his eyes off Steven. Minutes later, the crowd had been ushered to the lobby, leaving only Steven and the silver-haired man.
“Mr. Tibbs,” Costello began again, and Steven’s entire body drooped under the weight of everything those two words contained.
Costello paused, and when he finally spoke, the words were precise and terrible. I’d witnessed this sort of scene hundreds of times, but familiarity never diminished the awfulness of it.
“Your wife was in a car accident. The storm meant Flight for Life couldn’t safely transport her to the regional trauma center, so she was brought here to be stabilized. She suffered massive head trauma, as well as significant internal injuries. We did everything we could to stabilize her and maintain organ function, but in the end, her injuries were too severe and she passed away.” He paused. “I am very sorry for—”
“Kate’s dead? No.” Steven looked around wildly as if he might find someone to tell him otherwise. “No! That’s not possible.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Costello said again, and only then did I notice the way his hands were balled to fists. “The baby—”
Steven, eyes wet and horrified, reared back. The other man gripped his shoulder, trying to steady him.
“Your son was delivered safely,” Costello assured him. “He’s upstairs in our neonatal intensive care unit. I can have a nurse take you to him right now, if you’d like.” He glanced over at me, then back to Steven. “Or you can see your wife.”
“You said—”
“If you wanted to say good-bye to her,” Costello continued, more gently than I’d have thought him capable. “I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.”
Steven looked at him blankly. The other man’s grip tightened on his shoulder, and with a great effort, Steven’s stricken features hardened into resolve. “Yes. Please.”
“The chaplain’s on his way,” Costello added as they made their way to the trauma room. I trailed after them, unaccustomed to feeling so helpless. “We’ll send him in, if you’d like.”
“No!”
Costello’s eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing.
“Not right now,” Steven said hoarsely. “I just … not now. Please.” He twisted to look at the man keeping pace with me. Until that moment, my attention had been riveted on Steven and Costello, one man’s loss unexpectedly illuminating the other’s character. Now I studied the silver-haired man—built like an aging football player, a big man gone soft from too many hours behind a desk and too many three-martini lunches, judging from the broken capillaries in his nose and cheeks.
That was the only soft thing about him, though—his receding hairline was still immaculate despite the hour, the storm, and the situation. His rain-spattered trench coat and the tuxedo beneath were expensive without being showy. And while his blunt features were arranged into something resembling sympathy, i
t didn’t reach his eyes.
“Go ahead,” the man said as if granting permission. “I’ll handle everything.”
An instant later, Costello and Steven disappeared around the corner, and the stranger pulled his phone from his pocket, turning his back on all of us and keeping his voice low.
Alejandro returned. “Chaplain’s here. Should I send him in?”
I shook my head. “Have him hang in the staff lounge until Steven’s ready.” I followed him back to the nurses’ station, where Esme had started in on the reams of paperwork awaiting us.
“I’ll wrap up the charting for the Tibbs case,” she offered. “You make sure we’ve documented everything on the shoulder patient, make sure Costello signs off on it.”
“Ugh,” I said but sat down at the other computer and pulled up John Mueller’s chart. “Is Costello always so kind during notifications?”
Alejandro shrugged. “More than he is to us, sure. But this time … he’s practically human.”
It hit home, as Esme had said—and with the force of an F5 tornado.
Before I could ask more, the silver-haired stranger returned, looking annoyed. He pointed at me. “You there. Nurse. The short one.”
I pasted on a smile while Esme stifled a laugh. At five two, I’ve heard all the short jokes, even the “clever” ones, and they’re never as funny as the teller thinks. But this wasn’t a joke; it was a summons, and I bristled at it. “Frankie Stapleton. Can I help you, sir?”
“Call security down here and make sure that no one from the press gets in. Nobody on staff should be commenting on the matter, either on or off the record. I want to talk to someone in hospital administration and the public relations department. Get them out of bed, if you have to. Mr. Tibbs will need to make a statement, and I’m thinking the lobby would be best unless you’ve got a decently sized meeting room. Get the custodial staff to set up an area just inside the front doors to corral the press, maybe put up a podium, and make sure the lighting—”
“The press?” I asked, not bothering to hide my skepticism. Turning back to my computer, I added, “The only press we have in town is the Standard, and I guarantee the editor won’t be coming down to ask for a statement tonight.”
The editor of the Stillwater Journal-Standard was my uncle Marshall, and he was asleep by nine on the dot every night. The only story that could get him out of bed between the hours of nine PM and four AM was a presidential assassination, as he frequently reminded us.
The man stared at me like I was a not-very-bright toddler. “Every newspaper in the state, not to mention the major networks, will be covering this story. The first wave will be here within hours, so it’s essential that we get ahead of this. Control the narrative.”
“The narrative,” I snapped, swiveling to face him, “is that a man just lost his wife and a baby lost his mother. The last thing we need to do is call a press conference. Let Steven grieve privately.”
“Mr. Tibbs doesn’t have the luxury of grieving privately,” the man replied. “We are three weeks out from Election Day, and as a public figure, this is more than a human interest story—it’s national news.”
“A public figure?” I echoed. “Steven?”
“Mr. Tibbs is running for Congress,” the man said. “The nineteenth district?”
“‘Tibbs for a Stronger Tomorrow,’” Esme added from her side of the nurses’ station, and he gifted her with a smile.
I stared at both of them, trying to wrap my head around the idea of Steven as a congressman. Sure, he’d been a local hero, but had he really managed to parlay that into a national political career?
I tried to remember the details—I’d already left for college, but according to my mother’s breathless recounting, Steven had been working at his father’s convenience store. It was the kind of place that stocked chips and beer, magazines and nail polish, ice cream from a chest freezer and wine from a box. The kind of place you stopped in when you ran out of milk or dishwasher detergent midweek. He’d gone in early and discovered a fire raging through the building—the wood-frame building, surrounded by the rest of the wood-framed buildings that made up Stillwater’s quaintly charming and optimistically named business district. Not only had he alerted the fire department, he’d also braved the flames to warn the residents of the second-floor apartments. Without his quick thinking, the mayor had proclaimed, the entire downtown would have burnt to the ground, along with a number of senior citizens and the historical society’s archives.
When I tried to remember teenaged Steven, the only impression I could call up was an average kid—not particularly popular, smart, or athletic. He’d been amiable but not particularly memorable. Then again, my own interests in high school had been focused on two things: Noah MacLean and getting out of Stillwater. Steven had barely registered in my peripheral vision back then—and now his very personal tragedy was playing out directly in front of me.
“I take it we don’t have your vote,” the silver-haired man said dryly. “Yet.”
“Yes. I mean, no. I mean … I don’t live here. I’m … Congress? Of the United States?” I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to focus. “Who are you, exactly?”
“Ted Sullivan. His campaign manager,” he said. “As I said, this story is about to make the national news. So. Podium. Lights. Cordons. Security.” He ticked the items off on his fingers and was gearing up to rattle off more directions when he realized neither Esme nor I were scurrying to obey. His expression darkened. “Are you two deaf or just incompetent?” He snapped his fingers at Alejandro. “You there. Get me someone who actually knows what’s going on around here.”
Tragedy or not, arranging press conferences wasn’t my job. “You’re the manager,” I shot back. “Manage it yourself. We’re working, and you need to wait in the lobby.”
I nodded to Alejandro, who took a sputtering Ted Sullivan by the arm and guided him forcefully into the lobby.
“Steven Tibbs is running for Congress?” I asked Esme.
She nodded. “Haven’t you noticed the eight zillion yard signs in town?”
Between working at the hospital, helping at Stapleton and Sons Hardware, and keeping my niece Riley out of trouble, I hadn’t exactly had time to catch up on local politics.
“Is that moron with the shoulder ready for his sutures?” Costello asked, returning to the nurses’ station.
Wordlessly, Esme slipped away from the desk.
I stood. If Costello was going to lord this over me, I’d rather not be sitting. “He left.”
“AMA? Figures.” He shook his head in disgust. “Where’s the form?”
Typically when someone leaves the hospital against medical advice, they have to fill out a liability waiver. I have no idea if they actually hold up in court, but hospitals—and hospital lawyers—love documentation.
“No form,” I said and dragged in a breath. “He took off while—”
“He left? He—” Costello made a choked sound, but it wasn’t anger. It was laughter. “He snuck off? On the great Frankie Stapleton’s watch? Aren’t you supposed to be the observant one? That’s what Fisher told me when she hired you. ‘Good instincts and a sharp eye,’ she said.”
“Mueller took off while we were working on Katherine Tibbs,” I said hotly. “Would you have preferred I left before the C-section, or after?”
“I would’ve preferred you stayed in Chicago,” he said with a snort, “but since you seem determined to stick around, I’d rather keep an eye on you. Less dangerous that way.”
I blinked.
“Be good if you could keep an eye on your patients, though,” he added over his shoulder as he walked away. “Even the morons.”
Esme reappeared an instant later. “That went better than I expected.”
“Yeah.” But I had a feeling it wasn’t done. Costello would file this away, ammunition for a later battle. The knowledge I’d handed that ammunition to him only deepened the blow to my pride.
Esme must have realized wh
ere my thoughts were going. She elbowed me, saying, “Storm’s about blown itself out. Better brace yourself for the aftermath.”
She was right. Over the next hour, fresh cases flooded the ER. I admitted a broken hip from the county nursing home, wrapped a sprained ankle, and handled a pediatric trifecta—double ear infection, pinkeye, and strep. My least acute case, a factory worker with a wrenched back, took the most time. Due to the opioid addiction crisis, treating soft-tissue injuries was no longer as simple as requesting a prescription from the doctor on duty. There were forms to fill out and databases to check. I could have complained about jumping through so many hoops, but I’d dealt with enough overdoses to know that paperwork was preferable to a body bag. Meanwhile, a subdued Esme took Steven upstairs to the NICU and supervised the transfer of Katherine Tibbs’s body to the morgue.
I might have been busier, but she’d had the tougher jobs by far.
“I’m grabbing dinner upstairs,” I told her once we’d hit another lull. Dinner was a misnomer, but in twelve years, I hadn’t figured out what else to call a meal eaten at four in the morning. “Call the NICU if things pick up.”
“Sounds good. How’s Rowan doing?”
“Fantastic. Putting on weight, breathing strong.” I was veering into braggy-aunt territory and didn’t mind a bit. “She’s a fighter.”
Rowan was a Stapleton girl, after all. How could my tiny niece be anything else?
I checked my cell: three calls from my other niece, eight-year-old Riley, each a breathless report on some crucial detail of her day that couldn’t keep until morning; one from my soon-to-be tenant; and the last from my ex-fiancé, Peter Lee.
No matter what people say, nobody ever stays friends after a breakup—especially if the breakup involves the return of a diamond ring. But since my return to Stillwater, Peter had continued to stay in touch. Nothing stalker-like, just a friendly voice mail every few days, leaving me baffled, a little suspicious, and a lot guilty, which is why I had yet to return any of his calls.
Peter, a pediatric surgeon at Chicago Memorial, had been the one to call off our wedding. He’d been convinced that I didn’t actually want to get married, and he’d been absolutely right. I was most assuredly not the marrying type, as evidenced by not one, not two, but three failed engagements. I was grateful to Peter, not only for recognizing what I wouldn’t admit to myself and saving both of us from a terrible mistake, but for handling the fallout. Less than twenty-four hours after we’d ended our engagement, I’d come home to Stillwater, leaving him to explain the situation to our friends and coworkers.
