“Did this kiss involve Jell-O?” I ask. “Or perhaps melted chocolate?”
“Oh, my God, Kyle. No. It was a dare. But I got the idea she liked it way more than I did. She stalked me for weeks after. It was humiliating. Rumors started. Apparently, I was the only one in tenth grade who didn’t know she liked girls.”
“Was she blonde or brunette?”
“What?” she asks, scrunching her nose. “What does that matter?”
“I have a thing for brunettes,” I say. “Was she blonde or brunette?”
“Oh, I’m . . . I mean, uh . . . she was brunette.”
I can’t help my smile. She was about to tell me she’s a brunette.
“My turn again,” she says. “Never have I ever stolen anything.”
“Doesn’t that kind of go along with being arrested?” I ask.
“No, not necessarily,” she says.
“You’re right, it doesn’t.” I pick up a spoon and take a bite of the orange goo.
She’s raising her eyebrows at me, waiting for an explanation.
“I was fifteen. We had recently moved to L.A. and I was going through a rebellious phase. We were in the mall and I swiped a pair of sunglasses. Funny story, it’s actually how my brother, Chad, got discovered as an actor.”
She looks vaguely embarrassed. “I know, Mallory told me.”
“Told you my brother was an actor, or told you I stole something?”
“Both. I just wanted to see if you were an honest thief,” she says. She nods to the two remaining cups. “You only have one left to try and I have two.”
“Better choose our questions wisely then,” I say with a smirk.
“Do your worst,” she says.
“Never have I ever cheated on a test,” I say.
She shakes her head. “Nope, sorry, me neither. Um, never have I ever played strip poker.”
I don’t touch the Jell-O cups. “Sorry, but no. Never have I ever gotten a tattoo,” I say.
She looks down at the ground and huffs out an unhappy sigh. Then she holds out her hand. “Let me try the lime-green one.”
“Wait,” I say, holding it back from her. “That’s not how this game works.”
She looks apprehensive and she nervously twists the thick bracelet around her wrist. “I’d show you,” she says. “But then I’d have to kill you.”
“Oh, it’s one of those, is it?” I say, handing her the cup as I wonder just where she has a tattoo. Her inner thigh, maybe. Or perhaps low on her back near the globes of her ass. I find myself shifting around in my seat thinking about it.
Maybe I’ll get to see it if I assist on her surgery. Surely Dr. Redman will let me do that after looking out for her all this time.
“This is it,” she says, giving me back the container. “Only one last flavor for us to try.”
“You’re up,” I say. “Make it a good one.”
She looks around the courtyard in thought. I follow her eyes. She stares at an older couple strolling hand-in-hand, the woman in a hospital gown. The man stops their progress and kisses the woman chastely on the lips. Then he takes her hand again and brings it to his mouth, kissing it as well before they continue their stroll.
Elizabeth brings her pinky finger to her mouth and starts chewing on the nail. She looks almost scared when her eyes come back to meet mine.
“Never have I ever wanted something I can’t have,” she says, her words hooking me somewhere in my chest.
We share a long look. Not just any look. A deep, powerful, all-encumbering look.
Volumes are spoken between us in these few seconds. Her eyes are more expressive in this moment than I’ve ever seen them. She’s trying to tell me something without actually telling me something. And ethics be damned, I’m all too willing to let her.
She’s not looking at me like I’m her doctor. She’s not even looking at me like I’m her friend. She’s looking at me like the old man was looking at his wife. With sincerity. With reverence. With passion.
“Elizabeth,” I whisper.
I don’t even break our stare when my hand fishes around for the remaining container on the bench. I open it, surely spilling some as I blindly stick my spoon in for a bite. Without any words, I bring the spoon up to my mouth and eat the brightly-colored blue Jell-O. Then I nod my head at her. I nod my head in answer to the silent questions in her eyes. The questions she doesn’t have to ask because I’ve already answered them all with my stare.
“On second thought,” she says, finally breaking eye contact. She grabs the container from me and silently finishes every last bite.
Chapter Twenty-two
We haven’t talked about what happened in the courtyard a few days ago. But something definitely changed between us. And despite the fact that Dr. Redman has started assigning me more cases, I find myself making excuses to spend more time with Elizabeth.
And Elizabeth, she seems . . . happier.
It’s not that she was depressed before. In fact, she’s been a joyful person for the most part. But she just didn’t seem happy. Not until now.
I’m spending my lunch break in her room, catching up on some medical journals while she reads one of her pregnancy books.
“Are you going to deliver the baby?” she asks, looking up from her book.
“I probably won’t be doing the C-section, but I’m hoping to be in the room to assist. Since this is a teaching hospital, the consent forms you’ll sign for surgery will give residents permission to participate in your care. But if you don’t want me to . . .”
“No, it’s not that.” Her pinky finger finds its way into her mouth. “How much, uh . . . how much of me will you see?” She blushes, her eyes not meeting mine.
I try not to laugh. “I’m a doctor, Elizabeth. I’ve pretty much seen it all, you know.”
She nods. “I know that. I’m just not sure I want you seeing me. Not that way. Uh, not that I think we’ll . . . Ugh!” She throws an arm over her head to cover her embarrassment. “Forget I said anything. I’ll just stop talking now.”
I realize we’re in an unusual situation. Most obstetric patients have periodic vaginal exams. But due to her condition, those are contraindicated. The most I’ve ever seen of her is her belly, and maybe a flash of under-boob when I was adjusting her monitor.
I close my magazine and put my hand on top of hers. “It’s okay, Elizabeth. I know what you mean. And just so you know, by the time the doctors get into the operating room, you will have been prepped and draped and pretty much the only thing we’ll see is your abdomen.”
She sighs in relief. “Oh, okay.”
Her hand rests under mine, and I realize we’re dangerously close to holding hands. She senses it too, sharing a look with me like the other day. We both stare at each other wondering who will be the first to pull away.
I hear a noise behind us. We simultaneously pull our hands apart as we turn around to see Charlie standing in the doorway. She has a huge, knowing smile on her face, and I say a silent prayer of thanks that it wasn’t someone else who caught us sharing a moment. Someone like Abby. Or Gina. Or, God forbid, Dr. Redman.
I’ve got to be more careful. I can’t have this—whatever this is—ruining my career or getting in the way of Elizabeth’s care.
“Hi, Charlie,” Elizabeth says, embarrassed that we were caught.
“Hey, guys.” Charlie walks across the room, putting a bag of food in front of Elizabeth.
Elizabeth smiles, thanking Charlie for the meal as she tears into the bag, pulling out a greasy fast food burger. She bites into it as if she’s never tasted food before. I have a hard time pulling my eyes away. I’ve never before wanted to be a piece of meat like I do right now. The noises she’s making. The look on her face. Damn.
“As your doctor, I’d be remiss if I didn’t bring up the amount of cholesterol you are ingesting.”
She rolls her eyes at me and pats her belly. “Baby had a craving,” she says around a mouthful of food.
“Oh,
it’s the baby’s fault,” I say, sarcastically.
“Totally,” she replies.
Charlie laughs. “Don’t even think of arguing with a pregnant woman, Kyle.”
I hold up my hands. “I wouldn’t dare.”
“Are you going to watch the game with us?” Charlie asks.
“Game?”
“The Nighthawks game. I’m here to watch it with Elizabeth.”
“No, I have to get back to work. Dr. Redman has been assigning me more cases lately.”
“Too bad,” Charlie says, turning to Elizabeth. “Guess we’ll just have to drool over Caden Kessler ourselves.”
Elizabeth scrunches her nose in disgust. I guess she doesn’t think I should be drooling over him, either.
“What, you too?” I ask Charlie. “What is it about that guy that makes chicks go wild?”
“Other than the fact that he’s a hot young baseball star?” Charlie asks.
I gather my magazines to leave when I hear pagers going off all over the OB floor. Mine goes off, too. I check it to see it’s an ‘all-hands-on-deck’ page. My adrenaline starts pumping.
“What is it?” Elizabeth asks, looking concerned as people run past her doorway.
“I’m not sure. Everyone’s being paged to the ER. The last time this happened, it was a school shooting.”
Her hand comes up to cover her mouth. “Oh, my God. I hope everything is okay.”
“I might not be able to check on you later,” I say, hooking my pager back onto my pants. “It all depends.”
“Of course,” she says, looking concerned. “Go.”
I run into Gina at the elevator. I can see it on her face, the same expression that I know is on mine. We don’t know whether to be excited or saddened that there has been some kind of mass casualty event. As ER doctors, we live for this shit. The blood. The carnage. The trauma cases that we hope we can help.
But as human beings, we know this page most likely means death and destruction.
A few others pile into the elevator.
“I heard it was a building collapse,” someone says.
“My cousin just texted me about a huge fire,” says another.
When the doors open, we can already hear the commotion coming from the ER. We run around the corner and are met with nurses handing us gowns and gloves. People are pushing gurneys, lining them up along walls in preparation. Nurses are wheeling carts heavy with procedure trays, and techs are bringing massive quantities of blood.
Gina and I are told to join the other residents over by curtain one. Dr. Neill, one of the supervising residents, is already addressing the others when we join in.
“There was a fire in a clothing factory. Early reports from FDNY say chemicals were present that accelerated the spread, causing major structural damage and partial collapse of the building. Prepare yourselves, people. There are a lot of casualties. Some children even. Mostly immigrants. Remember your trauma protocol. Each arrival will have been tagged by EMTs in the field. We’re the closest hospital, so we’re getting the majority of the critical cases.”
Gina grabs my hand in fear and we look at each other knowing what’s about to happen. Knowing we are about to witness people dying in one of the most horrible ways.
“Your first priority as residents is to help clear out existing patients to make room for the incoming ones. After that, it’s all hands on deck. Make yourselves useful wherever you can.”
He throws a couple small vials of Vicks rub to some of the residents. “Put this under your nose. The smell of burnt flesh can be nauseating,” Dr. Neill says, heading for the ambulance bay doors. “Remember your training, doctors. And good luck to us all.”
We silently pass around the container, each putting a dab under our nostrils.
This is going to be bad. This is going to be very bad.
Chapter Twenty-three
We quickly clear the waiting room of non-emergent cases. Then we help the nurses move existing patients into the outpatient and ambulatory wings. Anyone who can be admitted, is done so swiftly, and anyone who can be referred to another hospital or clinic, is asked to leave to make room for the trauma cases headed our way.
Within fifteen minutes, everything is cleared out and ready. We worked like a well-oiled machine. And now we all stand here, gowned and gloved in the calm before the storm. We look at each other, knowing full well we will lose patients today. We look at each other knowing some of us may be changed forever by what we’re about to experience.
Gina grabs my hand again. “We’ll get each other through this,” she says. “We always do.”
I walk out to the ambulance bay expecting to hear sirens. But—nothing. I look around at the other residents and attendings who are all standing at the ready. We quietly wait for the shitstorm we know is coming.
The charge nurse pushes out through the double doors, carrying her emergency radio. She shakes her head. “Many of the injuries were fatal,” she says, clearly feeling emotional pain. “They are still pulling people out, but I was just told not to expect more than two dozen or so.”
Faint sirens in the background get louder and overtake the collective gasps and cries of everyone absorbing the nurse’s words.
“Okay, people,” Dr. Manning says, shouting over the sirens and sad murmurs. “We still have twenty-four people who need our help. Let’s not let this tragedy take any more than necessary. Deal with your emotions later.”
Three ambulances pull up one after the other. “Nelson, Jameson, and Stone, you’re with me,” Dr. Neill says, opening the back of the third one.
There is a rush of acrid smell. Burning hair and flesh that even the Vicks can’t mask.
I’ve smelled minor burns before; and in surgery, they sometimes use electrocautery to cut tissue, but it’s nothing like this. It’s not like burnt pork or beef as most people imagine, it’s a charcoal-like smell with a sulfurous odor that has a fog of humanity to it. And because you know it’s human flesh, it’s haunting. The smell is so overwhelming I know it will be burned into my memory forever.
Craig Nelson, a first-year intern, runs to the outer wall of the ambulance bay, bracing himself with his hands as he vomits onto the concrete.
My own stomach turns due to the vile smell, not to mention the horror of what we’re seeing. I can’t even tell if our patient is a man or a woman due to the extensive burns. But as we wheel the gurney through the doors, I can see long hair matted against the shoulder of what I assume is a woman’s body. The other half of her hair is gone, burned off along with much of the skin on her scalp.
The entire left side of her body is charred, her clothes having melted right into her flesh. She’s conscious and in pain, but probably not in excruciating pain. Not from the burns anyway. Her nerve endings are mostly likely deadened.
She reaches up with her good arm and grabs onto me, her eyes filled with fear.
One of the EMTs briefs us on her condition as the charge nurse directs us to an open room. As I listen to the EMT describe her injuries, I once again feel ill. He estimates third-degree burns over seventy percent of her body. He shakes his head at us.
It’s a death sentence.
“What’s her name?” Neill asks.
“I think it’s Rosita,” the EMT says.
Neill looks at the commotion behind us as more critical cases are being wheeled into the ER. People are starting to arrive to look for loved ones. Many are crying, some screaming, patients are yelling out in pain, hospital staff are scrambling about. It’s a scene from a war zone.
He looks at our patient and then at me. “Dr. Stone, Rosita is your patient now.” He pulls me to the side. “I need to be out there helping those who might survive. There is nothing we can do but make her comfortable. Start her on oxygen. Give her morphine and cover the burns with towels soaked in saline. Debridement of the wounds would just cause her unnecessary pain, and an IV would simply lead to more swelling. It’s possible you’ll have to perform a fasciotomy, but we’ll play th
at by ear. Keep her warm—she’ll feel chilled. And contact family if you can.”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
He takes Nelson and Jameson with him. Probably to find the next dying victim to assign them to. He closes the door behind him, closing us off from the mayhem beyond.
Rosita is crying, rattling off words in Spanish that I fail to understand.
“Do you speak English, Rosita?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been badly burned, but we need to see if you have other injuries. Can you tell me where it hurts?”
“Here,” she says, putting her hand over her lower right-side ribs where a large bruise is forming.
“I’ll give you something for the pain. Is there anyone we can call?”
“Sí, my husband, Raul,” she says in a heavy accent muffled by the oxygen mask I put on her. Her voice is hoarse as her throat is most likely swelling from smoke inhalation.
I write down the number she gives me and hand it to the nurse who comes in.
We get busy cutting off what clothing we can so we can get Rosita into a gown. Then I give her morphine to take the edge off her pain.
“See if we can get an ultrasound machine,” I ask Sandra. “And call her husband, please.”
I remove the mask and look down Rosita’s throat. It’s bad, but not bad enough to intubate her yet. She needs to be able to speak to her husband. Once she gets intubated, that’s it, there’s no going back.
I make her as comfortable as I can. She looks down at her burned arm. Then her good arm comes across her body to feel the horribly disfigured left side of her head.
She gasps. “¡Dios mío!” She grabs my hand and looks at me. “How much is burned?”
“Don’t worry about that, Rosita. Let us take care of you.”
She squeezes my hand. “How much, doctor?”
I blow out a deep sigh, trying to keep the awful truth out of my eyes. “Over seventy percent.”
She nods, failing to fight back her tears. “I don’t have much time, especially if my liver is damaged.”
I stare at her, confused. She was working in a garment factory. “Are you a doctor?”
Stone Vows (A Stone Brothers Novel) Page 12
