Chased

by Hazel James

  “A patient of mine. Self-inflicted GSW to the head. There was nothing we could do for him.”

  He grabs the remote and pauses the previews, and the light from the TV allows me to see the panic wash over his face. “Was he a big guy? Blond hair? Moustache?”

  How does he know that? The liquid in my mouth evaporates, leaving a sandpaper tongue that makes it hard to form words. I nod instead.

  “Shit!” Springing off the couch, DH runs to the kitchen where he left his cell phone. He taps the screen and hits the speakerphone button, but the call goes straight to voicemail. “Fuck!” He tosses his phone back on the counter and runs to the computer. I walk up behind him as he pulls up the obituaries on the Moore American website. “Please don’t be there. Please don’t be there.”

  But it is, halfway down the page.

  My patient from Sunday night.

  Robert Jensen. 1988-2016.

  THE HEAVY RAINDROPS SPLATTERING ACROSS my windshield match my mood for the last twenty-four hours. Losing a patient is always hard, but once I learned more about John Doe, it made his loss even more heartbreaking.

  Marine Corporal Robbie Jensen was a decorated combat veteran who came home from his last deployment with a Purple Heart and a scar in his left bicep from a sniper’s bullet. He spent a week recovering in a military hospital in Afghanistan, then rejoined his unit. They finished their mission and returned to Twentynine Palms, California. Robbie left the Marines later that year and moved back to Oklahoma.

  After four surgeries on his arm, Robbie became addicted to prescription pain pills. When those ran out, DH said he turned to heroin—a common problem among injured veterans who struggle to get proper treatment at VA facilities. Robbie ended up at Battles after an accidental overdose on New Year’s Eve, but he stopped coming a couple of months ago. DH never found out why.

  I thought that after his trip to San Antonio, DH was in the clear. It turns out that his sea of guilt was merely at low tide. News of Robbie’s suicide unleashed another flood, and I spent the better part of last night trying to keep DH’s head above water. Watching him have a panic attack was beyond frightening. Not because of his body’s physical reaction—I’ve seen enough vomit in my medical career that it doesn’t bother me anymore—but because I know how close to suicide he was just one year ago. I don’t want a new wave of fresh guilt over not helping Robbie to drown him so soon after he started swimming on his own again.

  My GPS instructs me to turn left into the hospital, and when I pull into a space in the employee parking lot, I realize my cheeks are as wet as my windshield. I don’t bother drying my face. I can use the rain as an excuse. On the short walk, I clear my head of the thoughts that accompanied me on the drive to work. There’s no sense in worrying about things I can’t change right before a twelve-hour shift.

  “Paige!” Diane, the charge nurse, greets me with a stiff smile as I enter the staff break room. “Can I speak with you in private for a moment?”

  “Um, sure? Just let me put my stuff down.” I step toward my locker, but she holds up a hand and shakes her head.

  “Actually, you won’t need to do that.” She turns and walks into a small office across the room, and I follow, confused by the expression on her face. The medical field is filled with hundreds of fields and thousands of specialties, but one thing is exactly the same: the look a person gets when they have something they don’t want to tell you. “Go ahead and shut the door,” she instructs from behind worn wooden desk.

  I obey and glance at the manila folder underneath Diane’s tiny clasped hands, which are resting right beneath the word CONFIDENTIAL. The paperwork I signed when I was hired here came from a blue folder, not one with giant capital letters that screams, “Bad news!” Beads of sweat spring up along my hairline, and I swallow several times. What could I have possibly done?

  “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called you in here, so I’ll get right to it.” She opens the folder and slides a packet of paper toward me. “This notification is to inform you that you are hereby placed on administrative leave pending an investigation for violations of the Barton Memorial Hospital Employee Code of Conduct.”

  “What?” I shout, my heart beating in triple time. I snatch the papers off the desk and scan the writing, trying to figure out what in the actual fuck is going on. “Sexual activity with a patient? Seriously?”

  “Human Resources received an anonymous report that you engaged in sexual behavior with a patient on hospital grounds while you were on duty last weekend.” The corners of Diane’s mouth point down, but I have no idea if it’s in pity or disappointment.

  “I didn’t have sex with a patient!” I slam the papers on the desk and shove the chair so far backward it hits the door with a loud thud. “With all due respect, Diane, this is horseshit.”

  “I admit, I was equally surprised when I read the report.” She flips the packet to the last page and removes a pen from the metal can beside the computer. “You need to sign here and initial here. Human Resources will begin their investigation and will contact you for your official statement.”

  “And you actually believe this?” I yank the pen out of her hand and lean down to scribble a poor version of my signature in the spot marked with a cheerful yellow tab.

  Fucking yellow. What a stupid motherfucking color.

  “I’m not allowed to discuss my personal feelings about this investigation, but off the record, I’ll say this. You’ve been an outstanding nurse since you started here. Try to not worry about this too much.” She offers a small smile, but all I can do is snort and grab my bag. I keep my head down all the way to my car and drive home the same way I drove to work.

  In tears.

  The only upside to not working last night is that I got a few hours of sleep, which means I can get Ali’s take on this bullshit investigation and get a pedicure before we head over to Maggie’s house.

  “I racked my brain last night trying to figure out what patient they’re talking about, but none of them come close to making sense. Most of my patients last weekend were either old or female.” I bite into my bismark from Daylight Donuts. I woke up early, so I made a quick trip for carbs and iced coffee to take the sting out the conversation. Everything is better—or at least more bearable—with a custard-filled pastry.

  “Something’s not adding up,” Ali replies. Her donut of choice is a pinecone, a fried cinnamon roll that will make even the strictest calorie counters forget their diet. “But like Diane said, don’t think about it this weekend. Worrying won’t change anything. Besides, we have to get through a whole afternoon with Whitney, and that’s going to require one hundred and ten percent effort.”

  Ali’s reminder steals the joy from my bismark. Leave it to Whitney to ruin everything. “May the force be with us,” I groan. “What time is she getting there?”

  “Who knows. She likes making an entrance, so I wouldn’t put it past her to show up thirty minutes before it starts, then tell everyone how hard she worked to get everything done.”

  “I feel like we need a code word. Something to make us laugh and help us remember that violence is frowned upon.”

  Her face sprouts a wicked grin. “That’s not a bad idea. We need something that can be used in a normal conversation, though.”

  We finish our donuts in silence as we contemplate the perfect reference to Whitney. On the outside, she’s gorgeous—flawless golden skin and legs a mile long—but the inside is another story. She looks like something you’d bite into expecting it to taste like a million bucks, only to discover you’ve just eaten a giant pile of shit.

  “That’s it!” I slam my palm on the dinette. “She’s a corndog!”

  “What?” Ali laughs as her brows draw together over her iced coffee straw. “Explain.”

  “It’s perfect! She’s all show and no substance. If you scrape the outer layers off of her, she’s nothing but a shriveled up hot dog playing dress up. Also, she’s vile, and so are corndogs.” I lean back in my chair
with a renewed sense of satisfaction while Ali slow-claps.

  “Well played, grasshopper. Well played.” She clears our plates and reaches for the Daylight Donuts bag on the counter, but pauses and holds up a folded strip of yellow paper lying next to it. “Hey, what’s this?”

  “Oh, that’s my homeless fortune,” I laugh. “Some chick was standing on the corner outside the donut shop. I gave her a couple of bucks from my purse and she gave me a fortune. I never read it though. What’s it say?” Ali opens the paper and bursts out laughing, then holds it out to me.

  The small script says Fuck you.

  Three hours later, Ali and I have transformed Maggie’s house into a gray and yellow bumblebee paradise. Whitney surprised us by showing up in time to help, minus the actual help part because she was too busy directing the furniture movers she brought with her. Never one to be outdone, she bought Maggie and Eric not one, but two plush glider rockers.

  “One for the nursery and one for the living room!” she’d said while prancing around in her gold stilettos and gray maxi dress, her take on the baby shower colors she originally grumbled about. I’ll never admit it out loud, but she looks breathtaking.

  “Is it wrong that I hope those chairs are the first two things the baby pukes on?” Ali whispers, as she fills our glasses with peach sangria. Now that we’re done setting up, it’s time to enjoy the fermented fruits of our labor. “I mean really, who in the hell does something as asinine as that?”

  “A girl with loaded parents. It’s too bad Maggie and Eric don’t have a dog to chew on them or a cat to scratch them up,” I snicker, clinking my glass against hers.

  “What are you two over here gossiping about?” DH slips his hands around my waist from behind and dips his head to nuzzle my cheek, sending tingles all the way down to my freshly polished toes. I love it when he does that.

  “Just how much we hate corndogs.” Ali winks and walks away, giving me a moment of privacy with DH. She knows I haven’t told him about the investigation yet, and although I don’t want to dwell on it, I do want to let him know.

  “Corndogs, huh? Maybe you should try them with hot sauce.”

  “I didn’t know it was possible to make a revolting food even more gross.” I wrinkle my nose. DH squeezes my hip, then fills his own glass with the sparkling grape juice chilling next to the sangria and leads us to a loveseat in the living room. “You planning on being the DD today?” I tease, pointing at his glass.

  “Nah. The only time I drink is after a tornado chase, and even then it’s only one beer.”

  “Why?” I remember him talking about having a victory beer after our chase, but we never got to that part.

  “Both of my parents were raging addicts, and I refuse to go down that road.”

  “That makes sense. I’m not much of a drinker either, but it’s been a shitty day so far.”

  “What happened?” He sets his glass on the coffee table and faces me, giving me his full attention. I fill him in on what little I know, then take another swig of sangria to erase the bad taste in my mouth.

  “The whole thing is completely unfounded, I promise, but there’s nothing I can do about it. My career is in the hands of some pencil-pusher in HR.”

  “Who the fuck thinks you were screwing around with a patient? Christ, that doesn’t even make sense.” He rubs a frustrated hand over his face. I’d do the same, but I don’t want to smear the “daytime glamour” look Ali gave me before the shower. If she wasn’t a nurse, I’d bet money she could land a job as a cosmetologist in any New York salon.

  “Tell me about it. Anyway, how are you? Did you talk to Clay yesterday?”

  “Yeah, he had an opening yesterday evening so I stopped by the gym after work. I told him how bad I felt for not reaching out to Robbie, and he helped me remember my frame of mind before I tried to kill myself. I knew I had family members who loved me, but at that moment, it wasn’t enough to make me not want to go through with it. It’s hard to describe, but I honestly thought they’d be better off without me here.” He blinks and shakes his head like he’s trying to clear the mental images. “Anyway, the funeral is next weekend in Muskogee, where Robbie’s extended family lives. I already talked to Eric and Uncle Kurt. They’re going with me.”

  “I’m glad you won’t be alone.”

  He nods and brushes his fingers over the back of my hand. “I need to say one more thing, and then I propose we change topics to anything other than depressing shit.”

  “Agreed.” I raise my glass in a mock cheer and finish the rest of my sangria.

  “Thanks for sticking around on Thursday night. I hate that you saw me like that, but on the other hand, I’m really glad it was you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He lifts a shoulder and offers a sheepish smile. “Because you make things better.” I glance at my empty glass wishing I had more. I could use the distraction to keep me from tearing up. I’m not wearing waterproof mascara, and I don’t want to co-host Maggie’s shower with raccoon eyes.

  “You’re welcome,” I whisper, leaning in to place a gentle kiss on his mouth. This distraction is infinitely better than sangria.

  “Hey, since you’re not working tomorrow, do you want to be my date for the charity auction? I’m hoping that having you with me will make me look more desirable.” He grins wiggles his eyebrows.

  “That depends. Do I get to dress up and bid on you?”

  “I expect no less.” He nips at my bottom lip, then angles my head for a deeper kiss. I love that our conversations come easy, no matter if they’re serious or playful. For a guy who purposely eschewed relationships, he’s damn good at the non-sex stuff.

  “Excuse me, love birds.” Eric clears his throat over the back of the loveseat, and DH and I reluctantly separate. “Paige, Allison said she needs your help. Something about corndogs?”

  The doorbell rings, signaling the arrival of my fairy godmothers. When the women in the Rhoads and Wilson families found out I was going to the bachelor auction with DH, they squealed with excitement—literally—and started talking about which dresses from Maggie’s closet would look best on me since we’re about the same size when she’s not pregnant. Allison and Mrs. Wilson are prepping for their trip to China tomorrow, so Aunt Helen and Maggie volunteered to come over and help me get ready.

  “Good Lord,” I exclaim, opening the door. A pile of dresses with legs waddles inside and heads straight for my bedroom, and Aunt Helen brings up the caboose with a grocery sack full of clutch purses and a giant makeup bag. “I thought y’all said you were bringing over a couple of dresses for me to try on. I didn’t know you were bringing the entire closet!” By the time I reach my room, Maggie is arranging the gowns by color, and from the looks of it, she’s got one for every shade of the rainbow, plus black, white, and gold.

  “Please, this is only a third of my collection,” Maggie jokes, slightly breathless from her growing belly. “My mom grew up in a house full of brothers, so when she had me and Ali, she spared no expense in the girl department.”

  “And I never had any daughters, so I’m always up for interaction that doesn’t involve burps, farts, and stinky feet.” Aunt Helen laughs and sets the bags on the floor next to the bed. Meeting her yesterday went much better than I thought it would. I tried calling her Mrs. Rhoads, but she immediately corrected me, saying she was perfectly fine with Aunt Helen. Maggie just calls her “Mom,” which fits their history and easy relationship.

  “I can only imagine what it was like growing up with Eric and DH under one roof. Girls calling all hours of the night. The boys getting greasy in the auto shop…”

  “Don’t let DH fool you—that boy was better behaved than Eric most days. Or maybe he was just more scared of me.” She laughs, and the way her eyes sparkle tells me she’s only teasing. Aside from drilling manners into each of the Rhoads boys, I don’t think there’s a strict bone in Aunt Helen’s body. Yesterday, she kept supplying Austin with yellow M&Ms even after Maggie cut him off.
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  “Can I ask you something? How come everyone still calls him DH? Why does he want everyone thinking he’s… umm… a dickhead?” Saying the long version of his nickname sounds absurd, especially in front of his pseudo-mother.

  “Well,” she says, sitting on a clear spot on the bed, “for his entire childhood, he was known as the son of two drugged-out parents. We all went into counseling when DH came to live with us, and one of the things we learned was to expect that one day he’d want to create a new identity. He went by Drew until he joined the Air Force, and then he was Rhoads. But when Patch gave him his nickname, it was like watching a piece of DH come alive. Not only had he found a family in us, he found it with his team, too. I’ll call him whatever he wants me to, as long as it makes him feel better about himself.”

  “Oh,” I whisper. “That’s really sad, but sort of beautiful at the same time.”

  “And now the pregnant girl is crying.” Maggie laughs and wipes at her eyes. “Okay, time’s a-wasting! Start with these.” Maggie passes two dresses to me and shoos me off to the bathroom.

  Seven trips later, they declare I’ve found the one—a white, knee-length halter dress straight out of Marilyn Monroe’s dressing room. Maggie breaks into the pregnant version of an end-zone dance and shimmies over to the makeup bag, only pausing to squat down and pick it up.

  “How in the hell can she move like that?” I mutter to Aunt Helen out of the corner of my mouth.

  “Because I got mad skills!” Maggie shouts, dancing over to the bathroom. “Now come on! It’s time to make you look like a movie star.”

  Surprisingly, they do. From the hair right down to Marilyn’s signature red lips, I feel like a 1950s pinup goddess. I went to junior and senior prom in high school, and I’ve attended a couple of formal events since then, but I’ve never felt as beautiful as I do right now.

  Or as God-awful nervous.

  “What if I trip and fall on my face? Or spill something on the dress? I don’t think I should eat or drink anything unless it’s bread or water, and even that’s iffy.” I press a hand to my stomach just to make sure it’s still there, and not actually in my throat. Why did I agree to this?