My search turned up nothing. The log showed eight tests submitted that day—none of them mine. Thompson had authorized one. RN Francis Meade had authorized two. The rest came from Dr. Patel. In case someone, somewhere, had mis-entered the dates, I checked the log for two days before and after October 2. Again, nothing.
She’s dead. What do those tests even matter?
It mattered because I hated any kind of mystery. Especially a mystery about someone I considered my patient. I stared at the screen, fiddling with my pen. Four forty-five already. Unless I logged off now, I’d end up skipping dinner, the same way I had skipped lunch. Besides, they had probably archived the results when they marked her as deceased. It was even possible they had deleted the records after her death.
Except the VA never deleted any records. We might all die in Oklahoma, but we’d live on forever in pixels, bits, and bytes.
And Díaz trusted you.
It was a matter of thoroughness, I told myself as I called up the advanced search page. Find out the results and I would find out how we had failed her. And we had to find out, so we would not fail the next patient who came to us with the same symptoms.
I entered Díaz’s military ID and clicked the Find similar option. I added both my employee ID and Thompson’s. I set an impossibly huge date range, in case someone had botched that as well, and I included the option for offline records. When the system demanded the laboratory name and the specific tests, I typed the code for all records. Then I clicked the button to execute the search before I logged off.
Dinner, check. More coffee, check. A pointless argument with another technician about the need for online voting options. Another argument about the war and whether we ought to consider China a threat to our national security. Donnovan said no. Foley said yes. Personally, I suspected Russia was feeding money and arms to our New Confederacy. The rumors fit what I heard over the newsfeeds. The U.S. unbalanced within its borders. Russia aiming to win what were known as the Russian Conflicts—the outright wars in the Ukraine, Crimea, and Syria, as well as their clandestine activities in Serbia and Greece—by demolishing its enemy internally. They’d had success with those tactics before, after all. But what did I know for certain? Not much. At least the debate gave me a badly needed distraction.
At five fifteen p.m., I checked my supplies and signed the inventory sheet. I logged in early for the evening shift. My private dashboard showed a blinking icon at the bottom of the screen. Search still in progress.
Six thirty p.m. The first hour brought us a flood of patients, the ones who came to us between the end of their workday and the start of their evening shift. I tried. Oh, dear lord, I tried to help them. None of them would die before dawn’s break—or at least, I hoped not—but they were, all of them, floundering in a sea of panic. What could I do?
Seven thirty p.m. My regulation fifteen-minute break. And I do mean regulation. Darnell, the senior RN on duty, nagged me when I didn’t leave the interview room fast enough. But even those few patients during the evening hours didn’t want much. They had nightmares. They couldn’t sleep. They only wanted the right pill to help them along. If I could pass along a good word to the doctor . . .
Seven forty-five p.m., back to my station. My next patient had an ulcer. I sent him to the doctor in five minutes, then returned to my search results. Nothing. Not even an error code. I tapped through the menu option to review Díaz’s latest visits, only to discover that her records had been marked Deceased, unavailable.
* * *
Nine p.m. End of shift.
I stared at my screen a very long ten minutes before I realized Thompson would not be along to rag me about the accuracy of my reports. RN Darnell did want to see all my comments and recommendations, but I already knew her standards were much, much lower than my expectations. We discussed a few difficult cases. The rest she ignored.
By nine thirty I had changed into my own comfortable T-shirt and jeans. My scrubs went into the hospital laundry. My black linen suit, hopelessly wrinkled from lying at the bottom of my locker, disappeared into my duffel bag, along with a few paperback books I had stashed there the previous day. The details of my fruitless search pursued me through the doors and onto the sidewalk outside the hospital.
October 15. Wednesday for me. For Díaz, her last day on Earth.
My steps slowed until I came to a halt at the curb.
The cold dank October air clogged my lungs. I had to will myself to drink in the night air, laden with the sharp scent of electronic billboards, the faint, softer scents of mud and autumn leaves from the nearby reservoir.
It’s not my business.
Except it was.
Díaz bothered me. Her death, her useless and inexplicable death, bothered me. The day everything went wrong, she had called it. Days like that happened all the time in war, sure, but for Díaz, her death had been a long slow free fall since June. Too many goddamned things had gone wrong for me to ignore.
I turned around and headed back to the employee common area, where the hospital had installed a few computers for us to use during breaks. One was free. I dropped into the chair and logged in, then clicked through to the internet portal and my private email account. My left hand was jittering as I typed: Dear Saúl, I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. I have no excuse except work and more work. Better than no work, you could say. Anyway, I’m sorry I’ve been invisible these past two months. I promise to do better. Love, Janet.
My finger hesitated over the Send button. Saúl had emailed me twice since I left Decatur. This was my first attempt to answer those emails. He deserved better than this.
P.S., I added. I lost a patient today, and it hurts. Hurts so damned much. Her name was Belinda Díaz. I don’t even know why she died or what I could have done to fix things. (And you know how I love to fix things.) Maybe I couldn’t do anything for her. The doctors in her unit and the ones here gave her drugs. The VA told her to sign up for all the usual rehabilitation programs, but it’s never enough, is it? The war broke her life into pieces, called her a hero, then dropped her into a dark hole when she proved to be only human. And that’s the real reason I’m writing to you. I need to talk about her. I need to figure out what went wrong. So maybe I’ll know how to save the next one. Call me Saturday or Sunday, if you have time.
I added my cell number and sent off the email. I didn’t know how much would make it past the censors, but as long Saúl got the part about talking this weekend, that was good enough for me.
One bus transfer and half an hour later, I disembarked at the corner of Connecticut and Q Street. I set off along Q Street with my duffel bag over one shoulder. The night air was cool and damp. The embassies lining the street were like brilliant jewels set in dark velvet. I crossed the bridge over Rock Creek into an emptier, darker section and picked up my pace.
My route took me past the parkland surrounding the creek, then through a neighborhood of brick houses converted into offices occupied by lawyers and doctors and various political organizations. The sidewalks here were empty and the streetlamps stood far enough apart that I hurried through the dark gaps between them. Twenty-Eighth Street was just ahead, with its series of close-set apartment buildings. I had just slowed down when a shadow hurtled toward me from the alley on my left.
Instincts kicked in, hard and swift. I swung my duffel bag around and caught my assailant in the chest. He grunted and lurched to one side but came after me again. I sidestepped his first punch, missed the second one aimed at my gut. I went down into a heap, breathless and retching. My attacker seized my left arm and twisted.
Electricity burned through my flesh. I shrieked, a wild animal cry that ripped itself from my throat. My assailant landed a blow to my head, then flung my device to one side. I tried to catch my breath, but I was too busy retching up my supper. My ghost arm felt as though it were on fire. My metal one lay some distance away. Above me a knife flashed in the moonlight . . .
The blow never came.
Even as the knife arced toward me, I heard the sound of rapid footsteps. My assailant cursed and swung around. Someone’s fist thudded against someone else. Someone else thudded back. I had the impression of dozens of footsteps dancing around me, quick and light, and a laugh that sounded so like Sara Holmes’s that I wanted to laugh myself, even gripped by agony as I was.
At some point, I realized the noise around me had fallen away. In the distance, a dog barked, but here on this street, all was muffled and quiet, except for my own harsh breathing.
Sara knelt beside me and looped my right arm over her neck. One hand gripped my wrist, one arm circled my waist. Very carefully, she raised me to my feet.
I drew a breath and sobbed in pain.
“Hush, hush,” she said. “Do not cry, my love. You will frighten our oh so respectable neighbors.”
“I wish I could,” I said fiercely. “And I am not your love.”
Holmes laughed, but I could tell, even through my agony, that she was anxious. I gave up the struggle and let her hurry me along to 2809 Q Street, where she urged me up the steps and through the front doors to the elevator. It wasn’t until she had laid me down on my bed that she truly relaxed.
“I disappointed you,” I wheezed.
“Hardly.” She too was breathless from her exertions. “Though I confess I never expected to rescue you from the street on a Wednesday evening. It seems too outré for such a middle-class creature as yourself. How did you attract the attention of this incompetent criminal?”
“I don’t know. Walking home?”
That provoked another laugh. “Reason enough, I suppose. Wait here.”
Not that I had a choice. When I tried to lever myself upright, I doubled over, spewing bile and what little else remained of my supper. Sara returned within moments with a damp cloth for my forehead and a bundle of paper towels for the floor. She returned a second time with a cup of fragrant tea, which she helped me to drink while she supported me with one arm. The tea settled my stomach and its warmth eased a few of my aches.
“How did you know?” I whispered.
“Know what?” she replied.
But she understood what I meant. I could tell by the momentary stillness, the almost imperceptible tension in her arms as she held me. Just as I knew she would not admit to anything.
“You saved my life,” I said instead. “Thank you.”
She made a dismissive gesture. “You’re welcome. You should know better, though. You grew up here.”
“I do.” At least, I thought I said that. My brain was too muddled and my tongue too uncooperative to make much sense. This was not natural, I thought. I was tired, yes, but not this tired, not this confused. I wanted to demand some explanation from Holmes, but I found my head growing heavy. “You drugged me,” I mumbled.
“Of course I did.”
I wanted to say more—much, much more. But my eyes disagreed with me. My entire body did. Damn, damn, damn.
Before I could do more than mutter a curse, I dropped into sleep.
9
From far away the helicopters hummed over the broken land. The enemy had taken our camp early that morning and since then, they had secured the grounds for several miles around us. Now they were hunting down the survivors and throughout the afternoon came the crackle of rifle fire, the hum of electronic weaponry, the strange mix of ancient and modern that had come to represent the New Confederacy.
I glanced around to check my patients. Abruptly, memory and my dreams shifted. No longer did I see a muddy ditch filled with bodies and dying soldiers wrapped in blankets. My patients had thrown off their bandages. Many of them walked to and fro with an abstracted air, as though they were listening to a stream of talk beyond my hearing. It was only when one turned to face me that I realized she was a patient who had died on the operating table, the day before That Day. Another stood behind her—a corporal who had survived his surgery only to die later that night. There were others: the dead from that first day, and those who survived until our rescue only to die in the hospital . . .
A great loud cracking noise yanked me awake. I rolled out of my cot and—
—my legs folded underneath me. I flung out both hands to break my fall, only to plunge through my invisible left arm. My right arm crumpled under my weight. My stump hit the floor. I cried out—just once—and bit through my lip to stop another cry, still thinking the enemy would find me if I made a sound.
I curled over and around myself, breathing hard. Red splashed against my tight-shut eyelids. The thump, thump of explosions echoed inside my skull. The ghostlike tendrils of pain extended from my shoulder down through the fingers I no longer possessed.
Eventually I stopped thrashing around. Eventually the waves of pain receded. I lay there, sweating, my face sticky with drying tears.
It’s over, I told myself. It’s nothing but a dream.
But I could still hear the echo of that explosion, and a whiff of burnt flesh lingered in my brain.
Funny thing, memories. Faith Bellaume said we couldn’t rely on them. Time, and their very strength, distorted our recollections, blurred and altered them in ways that made them useless as a record. What we do, she told me, is trust them as signposts for our emotions.
Records are facts, she said. But so are emotions. People tend to forget that.
Slowly, oh so very slowly, the last traces of my dreams evaporated. I was in DC, in a luxurious apartment in Georgetown. Last night, I had come home late, weary and careless. Sara Holmes had rescued me from a stranger’s attack.
I unfolded my body and levered myself to sitting. Even that little bit left me gasping with sudden stabs of pain. I collapsed against my bed and forced myself to breathe slowly, steadily, until the agony receded and I could take stock of my injuries.
First and easiest. My right hand ached. My wrist, when I rotated it carefully, gave a twinge. That was from this morning. The scrape along my forearm, however, came from my sliding over the pavement when I tried to scramble away from my attacker. It was only now that I realized I no longer wore a T-shirt, but a long-sleeved pajama top, and that my arm was bandaged.
My gut felt tender when I gently probed. That punch I remembered. I drew a deep breath. Another twinge registered, this one around my rib cage. I drew a deeper breath and was relieved when the twinge was no worse. No cracked or broken ribs, then. Only bruises.
My left knee ached when I flexed my leg—I had an image of myself twisting away from my attacker—but again, nothing that would leave me incapacitated. My jaw was a different matter. It was not broken, at least. But I could trace the swelling along the right side of my face, courtesy of another blow I didn’t remember. And my stump . . .
My stump ached ferociously. Sara had bandaged it neatly, an event I did not recall, but even without visual cues, I could detail every bruise and abrasion, from when my attacker had ripped the thing off.
I twisted my shoulder around to see what other damage he’d done. Pain, like a thin sharp blade, lanced through my skull. God, god, god. How could I get through work today?
Work. A sudden panic overtook me. The light from the window—it was far too bright. And the faint noise of traffic seemed too regular for the early morning. I rubbed a hand over my eyes. Carefully maneuvered myself onto my knees and swiveled around until I could see my alarm clock.
Ten fifteen. Shit, shit, shit.
Thompson had drilled us endlessly on the regulations. Call the front desk by eight a.m. if you were sick. If you couldn’t call, send an email. No excuses.
I lurched to my feet and stumbled over to my duffel bag. Even now, if I called Roberta Thompson and told her about the assault, she might put in a word with the hospital management. It wasn’t as if I had spent the night carousing.
My duffel bag lay unzippered and open. I felt a pinch in my gut at the sight. It was possible I had forgotten to fasten the bag before I left the VA. Or that Holmes had opened the bag to check for medical supplies. The pinch turned into a knot, however,
as I searched one-handed through the bag’s contents. All my clothes were there, a paperback from the used-book store, other odds and ends. But no cell. And the text device she had slipped into my pocket at our first meeting, and which she had steadfastly refused to take back, had also disappeared.
I stood up and kicked the bag.
I nearly kicked the bag a second time when I realized I must have heard Sara leaving the apartment just moments ago. That loud crack was the door slamming shut.
Fine. I don’t need her help. I can tell Thompson face-to-face what happened.
I stomped off to the bathroom for a shower. Our rental contract guaranteed an unending supply of hot water, and I tested that guarantee to its limit this morning, twisting the nozzle to needle sharp to sluice away the fear sweat, then ratcheting the dial to what Jenna Hudson called the rainfall setting and letting the heat soak into my bones. I ignored the stings from my cuts and scrubbed myself clean with a nub of soap that smelled of ginger. It was in moments like these that I could forgive myself for succumbing to the seduction of such an apartment.
But once I toweled off and returned to my bedroom, I discovered a few more surprises.
My attacker had ripped off my arm and tossed it aside. I distinctly remembered that. I also remembered Holmes picking up the device and tucking it under one arm, while she half dragged, half carried me through the streets. The device, however, was nowhere in my room, nor the bathroom.
A quick glance around showed me that my device was not the only item gone from the room. My tablet was missing as well. In its place on my desk was a sheet of paper anchored by a glass of water and two large yellow pills.
I phoned your excuses to FB and RT. FB has rescheduled you for next Tuesday. RT expects you back tomorrow at the usual time. I have some errands to run, but I should return by six p.m. Until then—soup in pot on warmer, coffee in thermos, bread in oven. The yellow pills are harmless, I promise. I tried one myself. —S.
A Study in Honor Page 11
