by C. J. Lyons
“Don’t worry, guys, I’ll look into it. Gina will be out on the streets tomorrow if I have to put her in four-point restraints and tie her to a stretcher.”
Both men laughed. “As long as you let us watch.” They continued back out to their ambulance.
The doors swished shut behind them. Lydia knew it wasn’t easy facing the streets again after being shot at, but Gina couldn’t avoid it forever. Although, in her short acquaintance with Gina, Lydia had noticed that avoidance and denial seemed to be the resident’s most enduring qualities.
What the hell is going on with Gina? Lydia wondered as she made her way back to the nurses’ station.
SIX
Thursday, 10:11 A.M.
GINA WAS PROUD SHE’D ACTUALLY GOTTEN HERSELF cleaned up, changed, and functioning. If you could call devouring everything on Eat’n Park’s breakfast menu functioning.
A brainless steam shovel, hauling in all the food she could, that was her. Shame only fueled her cravings. As if food could actually fill any of the emptiness.
She knew better, had fought this battle before and won—but all that just made it worse. As she twisted her fork into a mound of French toast, ignoring the maple syrup and powdered sugar dripping down her chin, her phone rang again.
Not rang. Sang. The opening notes of Bette Midler’s “The Rose”—the pun was so obvious and the song so inappropriate that it made her smile every time. Too bad her mother never heard the ringtone Gina had assigned to her.
LaRose Freeman would never have understood the joke, much less find it amusing. LaRose found very little in this world amusing—though she knew how to smile on cue. When Gina was young, she’d read an Isaac Asimov story about androids and had spent months trying to prove that her mother wasn’t one. Some days she still wasn’t sure. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard her mother actually laugh.
Gina spat out her mouthful into a napkin, swiped the syrup from her mouth, and answered her phone. You did not let LaRose Freeman go to voice mail. Not if you knew what was good for you.
“Good morning,” she sang out, wincing at her artificial cheerfulness. Surely even LaRose wouldn’t buy it?
“Buon giorno, pet,” LaRose’s equally saccharine tones replied. “I think it’s time for a mother-daughter trip to Antonio’s.”
Gina squeezed her eyes shut. Play hooky for a few hours and already Fate was smiting her. Not that she wouldn’t love to spend a few hours being pampered in the exclusive Shadyside salon. But when those hours would also put her under LaRose’s scrutiny, Gina’s every gesture, every word reported back to her father? Fate wasn’t playing fair.
“I do happen to be off today.” She managed to get the words out without sighing.
“Wonderful. I’m here with Antonio already, I’ll tell him you’ll be right over.” LaRose hung up without waiting for confirmation—after all, who could say no to her? Certainly not her daughter.
Gina pocketed the phone, picked up her fork and knife once more, and dove back into the stack of French toast, setting a new world record for speed eating. Her throat hurt from swallowing so fast and furious, she didn’t taste a bite, and her stomach rebelled, contracting like a rubber band stretched too far and snapping back.
None of that mattered. Five minutes later it would all be flushed down a toilet, forgotten. What mattered was that for these miraculous few moments, Gina was in control.
AMANDA’S PAGER WENT OFF BEFORE SHE COULD leave the MRI suite to start collecting information on Becky Sanborn from the pathologists. “It’s the ER. Again.”
“Probably another consult,” Lucas mumbled, focused on the monitor revealing thin slices of Tracey’s neck tissues. “You go ahead; Jim can run to pathology and get those results.”
Jim scowled, and she resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose at him. She turned to leave, then stopped as she glanced at the clock above Lucas’s head. Ten-twenty already?
“Dr. Stone, I have a doctor’s appointment at eleven. Is it okay if I leave as soon as I see what the ER wants?”
Lucas jerked his head up, squinting his blue-gray eyes as if examining a particularly nasty microbe. Those damn eyes of his that saw everything.
Including an embarrassing dizzy spell she’d had during the summer. It was nothing, mere fatigue, a typical med student’s poor diet and lack of sleep, but Lucas had insisted that she get further evaluation—despite the fact that her own doctor, Dr. Nelson, had found nothing wrong with her.
She’d signed up for this neurology elective months ago and had been thankful at the time that Lucas wasn’t assigned to be her attending. No way she could spend a month with him watching, waiting for her to stumble or drop something, diagnosing a devastating disease behind every little tremble or quake. Only she hadn’t counted on his switching with Dr. Campbell.
“Something wrong?” Lucas glanced at Jim, who was listening with undisguised attention. At least he had the decency not to mention her so-called symptoms in front of Jim.
“No, of course not. It’s just a routine checkup with Dr. Nelson. I’m in one of his research studies.”
Lucas frowned, then looked away to turn his concentration on their patient. “Sure, whatever.”
Jim, as usual, took the opportunity to pass off some of his work. “Hey, if you’re headed over to the clinic, stop by pathology on your way. Check out Becky Sanborn’s results.”
She hadn’t intended to go through the tunnels that connected the hospital buildings—the bowels of the hospital, rumbling with strange noises, alternating hot and cold, always muggy with the stench of mildew. She hated them, would much prefer to take the longer path outside around to the research tower.
But Jim was right, it would save time. And she felt possessive of Becky, didn’t like the idea of Jim pawing through her life, even if it was just an examination of her pathology results.
The MRI resumed its scanning, a harsh thrumping noise only partially buffered by the thick walls. Lucas’s attention was fixated on their patient. Amanda wished she could stay, make sure everything was okay with Tracey’s scan, but she couldn’t be in two places at once.
She closed the door behind her and glanced at her watch as her pager went off again, its high-pitched bleep bouncing off the tile walls and into her head. Make that three places at once.
She took off down the hall to the ER, the books and instruments crammed into her pockets thumping against her hips with every step.
LYDIA BANGED THE RECEIVER ONTO THE PHONE base. She couldn’t get anyone to answer their pages today. Nothing more irritating—except maybe Gina going AWOL.
“Someone paged?” Amanda Mason asked, bouncing to the nurses’ station with her sunny blond hair and chipper smile. Usually Lydia could handle Amanda’s terminal cheerfulness, but today wasn’t the day.
“Where’s Gina and why isn’t she answering her phone?”
Amanda did a double take and shoved her hands into the pockets of her short lab coat, threatening to dislodge several books, a reflex hammer, and a sheaf of papers. “She should be riding with Med Seven today. I think. Aren’t you in charge of the EMS ride-alongs, Dr. Fiore?”
Lydia almost smiled at the “Dr. Fiore”—the formal politeness was as close to snippy as she’d ever seen Amanda. “Exactly why I’m trying to find your roommate. She didn’t show for her ride-along.”
Amanda shifted her weight, looking around her at the bustling ER as if searching for an escape. “Maybe Jerry knows. She was at his place last night. Been there a lot lately. You know, since …”
“Since the drive-by. Yeah, I know, I asked him already. Boyle thinks she made it to her ride-along and I’m not going to worry him. Why don’t you try calling her, see if she answers?”
Lydia had hated lying to the detective—even though her mother had taught her that lying by omission and lying to the cops didn’t count. Two of the many life lessons Maria had lived by that Lydia grew to despise. But what could you expect from a woman who could spin a new life story for both
of them faster than a Popsicle melted in the L.A. heat?
Amanda pulled out her cell and dialed. “Gina? Hey, where are you?” Ahhh … the magic touch, or rather the magic Caller ID.
Lydia snatched the phone from Amanda’s hand just in time to hear Gina’s reply. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I would,” Lydia said.
“Lydia, uh—” Gina sputtered into a coughing fit melodramatic enough to warrant a TB quarantine. “Sorry I couldn’t make it to my ride-along today.” Another coughing jag drowned out her words.
“Right,” Lydia interrupted Gina’s performance. “Just like the four shifts you switched last week. Let me make this easy for you, Gina. Either you show up with a note from a physician—a physician I can call and discuss the intricacies of whatever debilitating disease you have—before I finish my shift, or I’m dropping you from the program until you get counseling.”
“You can’t—you have no right—”
“Can and will. I’m off at seven.” Lydia snapped the phone shut without waiting for Gina’s answer. She handed it back to Amanda, who stared at her gape-jawed.
“You hung up on Gina.”
“Yep.” Lydia punched up a patient’s lab results on the computer.
“And you told her what to do—Gina hates that.”
Lydia leaned back in her chair, frustrated by the less-than-helpful lab results as well as her less-than-cooperative emergency medicine resident. “If Gina plans to keep her residency slot, she’d better get used to it.” She glanced up at Amanda again. “Speaking of which—why did you let Jim do that intubation this morning?”
“He asked first. It was the polite thing to do.”
“Polite has no place in the ER. You need to grab every procedure you can.”
“It’s not a competition.”
“It is. Not between you and Jim, between you and experience. I once worked with a medic in L.A. who used to say experience is the best university around—except the tuition is mighty high.”
Amanda’s lips thinned as she rocked back on her heels, considering. “Still, there’s no need to be rude.”
“So that’s all it was? I thought maybe there was something else going on. You didn’t seem so happy when Lucas Stone showed up instead of Dr. Campbell.” Lydia’s instincts were rewarded when Amanda’s face flushed and her fidgeting increased.
“Well now, I don’t know what gave you that impression.”
“Oh, you don’t, do you?” Lydia stared at Amanda, even though the medical student suddenly seemed fascinated by the linoleum.
“Didn’t you ever feel like that around an attending? Wanting so hard to do everything right and instead ending up all thumbs?”
Lydia smiled. She vaguely remembered the feeling—not that she’d ever admit it. “Just calm down and focus on your patients, and you’ll be fine,” she counseled. “Oh, and how’s the baby doing?”
“What baby?”
“The MVA entrapment. Seven-month-old. I started a therapeutic hypothermia protocol on her. Didn’t the PICU call you yet for a neuro consult?”
Amanda’s pager went off. She squinted at the readout. “This is them now. Guess I’d better run.”
Lydia watched as the med student sped away, her long blond hair escaping its barrettes. Amanda was a smart student, very good with patients, but she needed to learn how to prioritize and handle the demands of the job.
“Dr. Fiore,” Nora said, leaning across the counter to get her attention. “We need to talk. Now. In private, please.”
Talk about handling demands. Nora had been in a snit since the trauma this morning. And it never paid to have a charge nurse aggravated with you. Never.
SEVEN
Thursday, 10:34 A.M.
GINA HUNG UP HER PHONE AND SHOVED IT back into her pocket without looking. Normally she’d be fuming about Lydia’s imperative tone and abruptness, but today she had something else to occupy her attention.
Like picking out exactly the right shade of nail polish guaranteed to make her mother twist her face into that look that revealed all of her crinkles and wrinkles. Hmmm … that outrageous blood red from OPI should do the trick.
“That one?” LaRose said. “Really, Regina.” Her voice dripped with disdain, but her face remained placid.
Gina slumped back, splashing water from the whirlpool her feet sat in. Botox had stolen so much of the fun from her life. She sipped at the pomegranate mimosa Antonio had supplied her with as soon as she arrived at the exclusive Shadyside salon. LaRose had a full day planned here; she was dressed in a gold robe that hugged her enviable curves.
People often suggested that Gina looked like a model—but LaRose far outshone Gina’s beauty despite having crested fifty a few years ago. Even though Gina had worn her tightest skinny jeans, an off-the shoulder Vera Wang blouse that accentuated her décolletage, and her favorite Jimmy Choos, she felt like a frumpy suburban housewife next to LaRose.
“So, Mom”—LaRose hated being called “Mom” almost as much as Gina hated being called “Regina”—“what was so urgent?”
“Can’t a mother simply enjoy a morning with her daughter?”
Uh, no. Not unless said mother was getting ready to try to take over said daughter’s life. Again. “Is this about Jerry?”
“Now, Regina, you must understand your father’s view on that. It’s quite out of the question.”
“No, it’s not. I don’t understand what you two have against Jerry.” Her father, the great and mighty Moses Freeman, noted for his genius-level knowledge of the law and his take-no-prisoners approach to trials, had quickly vetoed Jerry’s marriage proposal—which her mother had rushed to tell Gina, absolving herself of any responsibility.
“I would think that would be obvious.” LaRose arched an eyebrow at the manicurist, who had slipped with the cuticle clipper.
“No, it’s not. Not to me.”
“This isn’t the time or place.” LaRose’s tone said the subject was closed.
Gina didn’t try to hide her smile. You’d think her mother would realize by now that Gina’s one joy was in provoking her. Something Gina would never dare to try with Moses—any argument with him was a blood duel to the death, family or no.
“Surely it’s not because Jerry is white,” she blurted out loud enough to draw attention from the blue-haired matrons on either side of them.
“Regina! Lower your voice, please. Of course it has nothing to do with color. Your father doesn’t approve because he feels that man—”
“His name is Jerry. Detective Gerald Boyle of the Pittsburgh Police Bureau’s Major Crimes Squad.”
“Exactly. I rest my case.”
“You don’t like Jerry because he’s a cop? How can you say that?” Gina had spent the last decade of her life bringing home increasingly disreputable boyfriends—the street artist who used feces and trash for his masterpieces, the tattooed and well-pierced songwriter, the paranormal investigator who tried to resurrect a ghost in the family’s Sewickley Heights mansion, and a handful of out-of-work, flat-out bums.
All that changed after she met Jerry. She’d had to swallow her pride, thinking her parents would embrace his all-American respectability. “Jerry’s one of the good guys.”
“I’m sure he is very good at his job,” LaRose allowed, as if it were another strike against Jerry. “However, your father feels—and I agree—that anyone pursuing a career in law enforcement shows an innate lack of ambition. There’s little opportunity for advancement—”
“He doesn’t care about promotions or corner offices. He cares about getting criminals off the streets, about protecting—”
“I’m sure that’s all very altruistic. But seriously, what kind of adult pursues such a low-paying job with long hours, high risk, not to mention the type of people he must associate with on a daily basis? It’s juvenile.”
Gina twisted in her chair, tearing her hand away from the manicurist. “Juvenile? You realize you also just described my job as well.”
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To her surprise, LaRose actually smiled. “That’s exactly the reason why I wanted to speak to you.” Her eyes were as wide as Botoxed lids would allow, sparkling with anticipation. “Your father has devised a wonderful exit strategy for you, Regina. By the end of the year you can leave Angels of Mercy and embark upon a real career, one that will give you the prestige and lifestyle you deserve.”
NORA LED LYDIA INTO AN EMPTY EXAM ROOM and shut the door behind them. Lydia paced to the far end of the room, then whirled around. “If this is about Deon and his grandmother—”
Typical of Lydia, striking first. Best defense and all that.
“It’s not,” Nora said, although she made a mental note to call social services. “It’s about the neuro case from this morning.”
“Tracey Parker?” Lydia’s stride broke. “Why all the cloak-and-dagger about a routine neuro case?”
“Because Elise Avery doesn’t think her case is routine. And, after listening to her, I’m not so sure either.” She couldn’t believe she was even saying this much. It was all coincidental—it had to be. Lucas was an excellent physician. Sure, he’d been a bit moody, maybe even depressed since his divorce, but that was normal—he’d never let his emotions affect patient care.
“Why not?”
“Because Elise found two other cases similar to Tracey’s. Both admitted, both deceased.” She bit down, refusing to tell Lydia the rest of Elise’s suspicions. She wanted Lydia to review the charts with an open mind, draw her own conclusions, not start a witch hunt.
“I don’t remember any cases like Tracey’s.”
“You weren’t the attending. But since you’re in charge of QA this month, I thought I’d pull their charts.”
“Definitely. Tracey’s symptoms didn’t make any sense; maybe with more information we can piece something together.” Lydia’s radio blared; the medics needed orders for a trauma patient. She walked past Nora, then paused before opening the door. “Can you get me copies of everything by the end of the shift?”
