The Doctor's Secret

by Heidi Cullinan

  Hong-Wei captured Simon’s hand and pressed it over his own beating heart. “Feel this, Simon. I’m not a fantasy. I’m standing right here in front of you. Begging you.”

  Simon was going to cry. In fact, his eyes were full of tears. “Stop.”

  “I won’t. I’ve tried to woo you slowly, to figure out the way to court you and win you over, to be the best. I’ve always had to be the best. It was the only way I’ve survived. Then today you looked at me, you smiled, you flirted, not hesitating, and it was as if everything shattered. I finally had a place I belonged. I didn’t want to be the best anymore. I only wanted to be me.”

  Simon’s breath hitched on a sob. “Don’t do this to me.”

  Hong-Wei’s laughter was bitter, sad. “What, you think I should be the only one to suffer?”

  “I can’t believe I did all this. You found this in yourself by getting away.”

  “By getting away I made things so quiet I felt panic pressing in around me everywhere I turned. Then you showed up and took me furniture shopping in the middle of the night, accepted me into your circle of friends, let me borrow your car, blushed when I bought you lunch, loved how it was my home country’s food. You proved to be the most competent nurse I’ve ever partnered with—”

  “—that’s simply me doing my job—”

  “—and then you got all flustered when Owen and Jared teased you, came to my defense when they teased me.” His thumb grazed Simon’s neck. “You kissed me back when I kissed you.”

  If Simon stayed here a second longer, he was going to give in. “I have to get home. It’s late, and I have work in the morning.”

  “Dammit, Simon, all I’m asking is you give this a chance. Give me a chance.”

  Yes, and that was the most dangerous thing Simon could do. He turned away from Hong-Wei, intending to walk to the car.

  Hong-Wei blocked him with his arms, trapping Simon between them, pressing his forehead to Simon’s own.

  If Simon tipped his face up, their lips would meet. If he let out the right sigh, Hong-Wei would kiss him. If he stayed still long enough, Hong-Wei would grow tired of waiting and take possession of his mouth, his body, his soul. He was convinced of it.

  Why don’t you let him, then?

  Because it wasn’t so simple. Because Simon had nowhere to go if this relationship didn’t work out and he lost his job. Because he didn’t want to face the humiliation of being fired.

  Because he was scared of his fantasy coming true. Dreams were meant for the other side of the television screen. Pretending they’d work out in real life would only leave him disappointed.

  Simon steeled himself and took a deep breath, letting it out with as much determination as he could. “I need to go.”

  He told himself it was a good thing when Hong-Wei’s arms fell away and he stepped back, saying nothing more.

  HONG-WEI STOOD in the entryway of his apartment and stared at the empty space, trying to calm the raging emotions inside him. He resisted the urge to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t felt like this since college when he’d given up music. He was an adult now. He could handle this.

  He couldn’t handle this.

  His phone was in his hand, but he didn’t know who to call. Owen and Jared were out. Completely out. Were they out forever now? Had he lost the friends he’d made here as well as Simon? Had he ever had them, or were they extensions of Simon?

  Should he call his sister? No. He wasn’t ready. She’d either be annoying, or she’d be too helpful—he’d want to shout at her, or he’d miss her so much he’d crumble. Who was left?

  That he went so far as to open his email, seeking the messages from his father, was a sign of his desperation. There were seven. Gut twisting, he opened the most recent one.

  Hello, son. I hope you are well. We are thinking of you and hoping you are happy. Please remember if things don’t work out, we’ll help you find somewhere else to practice. Here are some of the most recent places who have offered for you. These are only a sampling.

  We hope you are doing well. Please contact us soon. We miss you.

  Love, Dad.

  Hong-Wei ignored the plea to contact his family. He tried not to read the list of hospitals. He didn’t make it.

  You could run away….

  He dropped his phone with a shaking hand.

  When he left the house, he went without his mobile or his coat, but he went back, limbs stiff and heavy, and retrieved both. The coat was because it was stupidly cold in Wisconsin, and he was never getting used to it. He didn’t want the phone. He wanted to flush it. But he was on call. Someone might need him.

  Someone might need his hands and his degree, that is.

  He supposed it wasn’t surprising he ended up at China Garden. They were just starting to close, but when they saw him, they opened up and welcomed him as they always did, ushering him to the booth in the back nearest the kitchen, and within five minutes Mrs. Zhang was out with a pot of tea and a piping hot bowl of noodles.

  “You’re sad tonight. What happened?”

  Hong-Wei shook his head and sipped at the tea. “Good evening, Auntie. I won’t burden you with my troubles.”

  She clucked her tongue and swiped a scolding pat at his arm. “I’m asking to be burdened. You’ve brought us so much business. You come so much I should make you a bed.”

  That made him laugh a little, though he couldn’t shake the sorrow on his heart. “It’s an old, boring story. I’m unlucky in love and unsatisfied with my life. And selfish, I know. You don’t need to tell me. My family has told me often enough.”

  “You’re not selfish. You work long hours at the hospital. You ask us to make special meals to please your friends. You let my silly staff ask you so many medical questions when they aren’t sick, and you charge them nothing. And you always ask after my husband.”

  Hong-Wei glanced around, realizing at last what was out of place in the restaurant. “Where is he?”

  “He’s tired tonight. A small fever from working too hard.” When Hong-Wei rose, she waved him down. “Sit, sit, and eat your noodles. It’s nothing. I’ve given him herbs.”

  Hong-Wei didn’t sit. He felt sick with dread and guilt, because he’d stopped coming to ask about the owner. “Is his wound still not healed?”

  “It’s being fussy, but it will improve with time. I prayed for him this morning.”

  Prayers. Hong-Wei stood, made his body rigid, then bent in half in a bow, keeping his body in the submissive pose as he spoke. “Please, Auntie, please let me examine your husband.”

  He had to beg for almost a minute, but she eventually relented. He thought it might have been because he was attracting attention from the rest of the restaurant. He didn’t care. His heart pounded at the top of his throat as he followed her up the stairs to the apartment where the workers slept.

  Please let me be overreacting. Please let me be overreacting.

  He wove past boxes, stepped over a line of sleeping mats, and pushed past a curtain leading to Zhang and his wife’s private compartment, and there on a double mattress on the floor was Mr. Zhang.

  Hong-Wei was not overreacting.

  Mrs. Zhang was stunned by the sight of her husband. She crouched beside him. “He wasn’t like this an hour ago.” Touching his forehead, she gasped. “He’s so hot!”

  The man wasn’t only hot, he was pale. Hong-Wei flipped on the light beside the bed and knelt beside his patient, assessing him visually as he took vitals. Elevated pulse, but stable. Fever was definitely not in a comfortable range. Breathing was erratic. “Uncle?” No response. “Uncle? Mr. Zhang?” he called out louder, but still, nothing.

  Mrs. Zhang began to weep. “Yi Fu, Yi Fu!” Mr. Zhang didn’t answer her either.

  Hong-Wei lifted one of Mr. Zhang’s eyelids, then swore and fumbled for his phone.

  “911, what’s your emergency?”

  “This is Dr. Jack Wu of St. Ann’s Medical Center. I’m currently in the upstairs apartment of the China Garden
with an adult male, approximately age sixty-five, in need of immediate medical transport. Patient is unresponsive with a high fever and sepsis from an infection, and his left hand is oozing purulent, puslike fluid.” He rubbed soothing circles on the back of the now-weeping Mrs. Zhang and added, “Likely progressing to septic shock and organ failure.”

  Chapter Seven

  SIMON WAS lying in bed, staring out the window and trying to sleep despite the hollow pit of guilt in his stomach, when the door to his room opened and Owen stuck his head inside. One look at him told Simon something was wrong.

  He sat up, tossing his covers aside. “What is it? Code Orange?”

  Owen already had on his coat, and as he spoke, he tossed scrubs at Simon. “No mass casualties, but Jack’s calling some kind of four-alarm fire. Ran roughshod over the ER and is setting up his own team. He wants you on it.”

  “What?” Simon stumbled into his pants, his legs nothing but jelly.

  “He said to pass on a message. ‘Tell Simon we’ll be working off the contingency plan.’”

  Simon sat on the bed, his pants trapped at his knees. “Oh my God. Code Violet.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but you can explain in the car. Jared’s coming too. I don’t know what good a pediatrician will do, but I have the feeling Jack’s going to need all the friends he can round up tonight.”

  Simon left the house with his shoes untied, his coat unzipped. He did his best to explain Code Violet in the car, but his voice shook, and he stumbled over words. “Hong-Wei’s thorough about his OR, but he has all these rules about patients too. I… I didn’t ask questions because it’s not my place. Except I didn’t understand one section. It was as if he expected our surgery patients to end up in the ICU and we wouldn’t have any ICU staff. I asked him what the section was for. He looked strange as he replied, like someone coming home from war, and he told me it was our contingency plan. When I asked him contingency for what, he told me it was just in case. So I laughed it off and gave it a nickname. I called it Code Violet, since we didn’t have a code by that color, then said I certainly doubted we’d ever need this.” Simon’s stomach hurt. “Now here we are. What’s going on?”

  Owen stared grimly at the road and wiped his mouth. “I think your boyfriend has some serious secrets to share tonight.”

  Jared leaned forward from the back seat. “Why would he do this, though? Why not send whatever this is on to a bigger hospital? I mean, if this is a surgical case and he’s on call, fine, but what’s with calling Simon in and barging around like a bull?”

  Owen shook his head. “They said he brought the patient in himself. I didn’t get much more. Everybody was bananas. He’s got the whole fucking place on fire. I swear, I will beat that boy’s ass.”

  When they got to the hospital, Owen parked in the fire lane, tossed Jared the keys, and Simon rushed inside, Owen hot on his heels.

  The ER was complete chaos, and at the center of it were Hong-Wei and Mr. Zhang.

  Simon didn’t get a chance to speak before he was swept up in the madness. “Dr. Wu, Simon Lane is here,” someone shouted, and even before Hong-Wei barked, “Get him scrubbed,” Simon was whisked toward a sink.

  Susan, one of the CNAs, smiled nervously at Simon. She helped him into gloves and spoke over the din. “Patient is a sixty-five-year-old male with a high fever and probable infection of the hand. Breathing is unstable, as are blood pressure and heart rate, despite a norepinephrine drip. Liver and kidneys are in jeopardy. Dr. Wu is monitoring his vital signs and organ function. He hopes to take the patient to surgery to flush the infection once he’s stable, but we’re currently having difficulty.”

  Simon’s breath caught, and he sagged against the sink as Susan tucked his fingers into the latex. “We aren’t equipped to handle this.”

  “I wouldn’t advise saying that to Dr. Wu.” Susan helped Simon into the last glove. “We have the OR ready, and Rita has checked it to make sure it’s the way Dr. Wu wants it, but if you end up in surgery, you might want to double-check because we’re all a bit nervous. Dr. Wu got angry at pretty much every doctor in the hospital, and everyone is terrified of him right now. He yelled at Rita too, but she managed to keep from crying until she was out of the room. We were hoping you could handle him, since you seem to know him best.”

  Simon wanted to let out a long, black laugh. Yes, he did know Hong-Wei best. So well the man had spilled his guts to him and then he’d sent him away. To China Garden, apparently, where he’d discovered some sort of strange medical mystery in a man he had great affection for. The man who spoke no English and whose wife was weeping in the lobby with only one of the waitstaff to comfort her. Had anyone attempted to convey what was going on to them?

  Too early for that. Far too early. He understood, though, why Hong-Wei had kept Mr. Zhang here, from an emotional perspective. But could they give him what he needed at St. Ann’s?

  Not your job to make that call, nurse. Your task is to follow your doctor.

  “I’ll do my best,” Simon told Susan, and went to face the beast.

  There were three exam areas in the St. Ann’s ER, and Mr. Zhang was in the center one. Two nurses, three techs, and four angry doctors flanked Hong-Wei. As Simon approached, the nurses stepped back, the doctors glared, and Hong-Wei continued to stare at the monitor.

  Simon went to his side. “Dr. Wu, I’m sorry I’m late. How can I help you?”

  Hong-Wei didn’t so much as glance at him, laser-focused on Zhang’s vitals. “Have you been briefed on the patient’s situation?”

  “I have, Doctor.”

  “I’ve dispatched a courier to Ironwood for supplies and called for ambulances from Duluth and Eau Claire to bring specific medications we’re missing. If you could appoint someone to be in charge of monitoring those transports, I would appreciate it.” His lips thinned. “Everyone here has lost their heads.”

  “If I can make a suggestion, Dr. Kumpel is here.”

  Some of the tension bled off his shoulders. “Bring me Kumpel, STAT.”

  “Jesus, Jack, read a room.” Owen’s tone was light, but Simon knew him well enough to understand he was all business, suited up surgery-ready with his mask down, studying the monitor. His expression was as grim as Hong-Wei’s. “Christ. What the hell happened? Do we know?”

  “Fucking home remedies. Tried to treat an infection with grass, called it Eastern medicine when it damn well wasn’t, wouldn’t let me see it, and I didn’t push hard enough to override him.”

  “Not your fault, man. Guy’s still got free will.”

  “Yeah, and it landed him at the edge of organ failure and septic shock.”

  The monitors began to go crazy, and so did the ER. Hong-Wei called for the defibrillator, Simon prepped the machine, and the doctors who had lingered on the sides began murmuring. Everyone backed up as Hong-Wei shouted “Clear,” and gave Zhang a shock to the chest. Once the patient’s heart rate was under control, the doctors stepped forward, brows knit and chests puffed up.

  “Now hold on, young man.” This was Dr. Stallman, a general practitioner at St. Ann’s since Simon was little. “You’ve done enough. This patient isn’t going to make it if we don’t send him to—”

  Hong-Wei turned on the doctors, teeth bared, eyes lit with a fury that startled even Simon, and when he spoke, his voice was whispered ice. “I’m just getting started, and I’m not sending my patient anywhere. I’m a board-certified intensivist who had job offers from every hospital you had wet dreams of in medical school. If you’re not going to assist, get out of my ED.”

  Owen drew back, eyes wide. For a moment he was as stunned as the others, though whereas they seemed confused—as was Simon—Owen apparently understood something the rest of them didn’t. Owen swore under his breath as he wiped a hand over his mouth. “You heard the man. Suit up or go home. Oy. Jared, any word on those meds yet? Something tells me we’re in for a ride. Get on the horn and put some fire in the couriers’ bellies.”


  “Got it.” Jared’s voice was light, but Simon could tell he was shaken too. So Jared also understood what Hong-Wei had just said. It was only Simon, the other nurses, and old men who didn’t get it.

  Simon frowned as he put the paddles away, trying to figure it out, but he honestly had no idea. What in the world was an intensivist? What was going on here?

  The doctors were still in the room, but they were grumbling in the corner now, whispering to one another in confusion. Hong-Wei called for a phenylephrine infusion, and as Simon changed the bag, Owen tilted his head at Hong-Wei in some kind of silent question. When Hong-Wei nodded, Owen cleared his throat, then began to speak, addressing the entire ER.

  “All right. Since nobody here reads a journal anymore, apparently, let me update you on what goes on in the big wide world beyond our teeny-tiny hospital. As you’re aware, when you specialize in surgery, you pick an area of specialization. General surgery is an area of specialization. But there are further specializations for those who board certify, and they’ve come up with some new specialties recently, especially for larger, more progressive hospitals. One of those new specialties is a critical care surgeon, also known as an intensivist.” He cast a side glance at Hong-Wei, who was watching the monitor like a hawk as Simon hooked up the new bag. “Dr. Wu isn’t supposed to remove gallbladders and appendixes and all our piddly nonsense at St. Ann’s. He’s trained to make quick decisions during high-stakes situations with little information. He’s supposed to be bossing the bigwigs around in intensive care units and solving crises in ERs in major hospitals. Probably there’s nobody outside of Mayo Clinic in our area who outranks him, and it sounds as if they’d be happy to hire him.”