by Lori Avocato
Since today was Friday, my mother was making potato pancakes. Not exactly a sensual gourmet aphrodisiac.
I looked up toward the window between the cab and the back of the ambulance and noticed Dano’s hair just about touching his neckline. Damn. He looked hot even from the back.
I really wished he wasn’t involved in the fraud or…gulp…the stabbings.
Relying on gut instinct had gotten me through years of nursing and saving lives. Right now my gut said Dano wasn’t involved. I decided I’d be looking for evidence to clear his name instead of convicting him.
And besides my gut-I had Jagger.
If he’d thought Dano was guilty or a threat, he wouldn’t let me go in alone. I’d convinced myself of that.
So, if he thought so, it would be revealed tonight, if Jagger showed up.
Dano had joined me in the back of the ambulance, since the patient really did appear to be in labor. Her husband was at work, so before we left, I had called him to tell him to meet us at Saint Greg’s while Dano and Buzz worked on Angie in her living room. We’d called the ER, gotten orders from Dr. Pringle and were now following them as best we could.
However, I knew these little ones could have a mind of their own.
Dano adjusted the IV while Buzz pulled the ambulance out of the parking lot of the condo complex where the woman, Angie, lived.
Her eyes glistened with tears as she looked up at Dano and asked, “Is my baby…my baby going to-”
Dano touched her arm. “Naw. I’m taking over. This kid is going to stop running the show and let us pros call the shots from now on.”
Tears formed in my eyes. Not only did the gruff, burned-out paramedic do his medical treatments to perfection, but also, when push came to shove, his bedside manner adjusted to meet the needs of, and to calm and relax, the patients. I could still hear the ER nurses fawning over how he always put in the IV with a saline lock, his paperwork was always in order and he taped the IV with a “V” shaped piece of tape-all of which made their jobs easier.
What a guy.
He couldn’t be involved. Just couldn’t be.
Angie smiled, and then grimaced. “Oh. Oh. Oh, God.”
“What?” Dano asked, feeling her abdomen and listening to the fetal heartbeat. He turned his head to the side, so she couldn’t hear, and cursed. “What is it, Angie?”
“I think, well, I’ve never had a baby before, but I think my water broke.”
Dano and I looked at each other. I’m sure a similar curse word came to both of our minds, but we held back.
Dano banged on the window to Buzz. “Step on it!”
“Right, boss,” he said, and swerved so hard, I toppled into Dano’s shoulder.
But neither of us could say a thing because, with Dano’s hand still on Angie’s abdomen, and with her facial expression, I knew she was heavily contracting.
Just like I knew this baby was going to be born today-soon.
“Hold on, honey.” Dano assured Angie.
She looked from him to me and said, “I can’t.”
Dano kept talking softly to her, getting her to pant through contractions so she wouldn’t push, and checking the fetal heartbeat.
I examined her to see if there was any sign of the baby and looked up at Dano.
“Black hair,” I said so only he could hear. “I see a bit of head crowning.”
“Shit,” he mouthed and before I knew it, he was banging on the window ordering Buzz Lightyear to pull over to the side of the road.
And then the fun began.
Buzz hurried to the back of the ambulance, but it proved to be too close quarters for him to get near Angie too. Besides, Dano said there wasn’t anything for him to do other than radio the hospital and be the go-between.
At first Buzz looked pissed. I guessed he wanted in on the excitement of a delivery, but since I’d worked OB for many years, Dano kept me assisting.
I followed his instructions of what to grab from where. Although I’d been in delivery for hundreds of babies, I didn’t know the setup of the ambulance well enough yet, and this little one might be way too little without any NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) equipment or staff here.
The only thing going for us was that Angie’s abdomen was a good size, so I silently prayed her calculated date wasn’t correct, and the baby would have already developed lungs enough to survive.
Please, Saint Theresa.
“Angie,” I asked, “who is your doctor?”
“Greenberg,” she managed through heavy breaths.
I wrinkled my forehead and looked at Dano. Dr. Greenberg was a general practitioner and not even in a family practice business. “I mean your OB doctor, hon. Who has been seeing you since you became pregnant?”
Angie’s eyes spilled over. “My husband lost his job and we didn’t have any insurance. We couldn’t afford it. So-”
I patted her hand. “No problem. This little one is going to be fine,” I lied. Geez. She didn’t have any prenatal care, went into premature labor (maybe) and couldn’t afford the impending hospital bills or this ambulance ride to boot.
Damn insurance again.
Buzz had stayed outside the back door to direct traffic away and prevent rubbernecking. He’d pulled the ambulance into a scenic overlook off the highway, but cars still slowed when they noticed us. Every once in a while he’d come to the door and ask how things were going until Dano growled at him that we’d let him know when we needed to.
Angie began to scream.
Dano lifted the blankets from her, and we both looked to see the black hair very obvious now. I thought the head looked much bigger than a preemie’s and again hoped Angie had been wrong on her due date.
“It looks a decent size,” I whispered to him, close to his ear as a matter of fact, since Angie was now in such pain and yelling.
“Let’s hope,” he added.
Dano explained to Angie that we couldn’t give her anything for pain and instructed her again on breathing. I stuck on a pair of rubber gloves and assisted Dano as he told me what to do.
Even though I handled emergencies very well, he had a way of calming me, and thank goodness it also worked on Angie. Her hysteria turned into compliance and she followed his instructions.
“I want my baby to live,” she repeated several times.
I winked at her. “It will. Don’t worry. Just do as we say and things will be fine.”
I looked down to see Dano grimace and wondered if his head hurt. Then I noticed the baby’s head was out-and the cord wrapped tightly around its neck.
Damn!
“Don’t push,” he ordered, and the seriousness in his voice had Angie panting instead.
“Good girl. That’s right. Don’t push right now,” I kept saying until Dano had the cord eased off from around the baby’s neck after several tugs.
“It has lots of black hair, Angie.” I smiled at her. “Does your husband have black hair?” I asked, to keep her mind off of things.
Dano gave some information to Buzz to tell the ER while I made small talk with Angie to keep her from listening.
“Push!” Dano ordered.
I got close to her ear and guided her through every step. ER Dano, Angie and I worked as a well-oiled machine (he just couldn’t be involved in the fraud or stabbings) until the pain became too much for Angie.
“I can’t!” she cried out several times.
Dano leaned over and looked her in the eye. “Stop that!” he ordered, like a verbal slap.
And Angie stopped.
Then he told her what to do, and I placed her hand on the railing of the stretcher so she could squeeze. I’d remembered from my nursing days that you never let a patient hold your hand when they were in pain because they could break your fingers.
By the grip Angie had on the railing, I was glad I’d remembered that.
Dano told her when to push and when to stop.
“You’re doing great,” I’d add and I looked to see Dano, pulling and
tugging one shoulder and then the other until the baby came out in a whoosh of amniotic fluid.
He wasn’t any preemie was my first thought, and Thank you, God, my second.
“It’s a boy,” Dano said in a very matter-of-fact tone.
At first I was disappointed that he wasn’t more excited, but-the baby hadn’t made a sound.
Dano was yelling at Buzz to tell the ER things.
I kept talking to Angie so she wouldn’t hear, but I heard.
Cyanotic. That dusky bluish-gray color. Dano had said the baby was cyanotic. By now he should have taken a few breaths and pinked up. “Apgar, four,” he said as he grabbed the blue bulb syringe and started to suction out the baby’s mouth.
Four. Not good, with ten being the best on the scale that measured a newborn’s condition at birth, but it was only the first scoring, at the one-minute point.
I held an oxygen mask near the baby’s face as Dano worked on him. It seemed like hours although it was only a few minutes. He suctioned so much amniotic fluid out of the baby’s mouth that I wondered if this little one really would make it.
Angie started screaming that she didn’t hear the baby.
I kept trying to reassure her, and Dano suctioned the baby, held him downward and ran his finger along the baby’s foot until he let out a sound.
A sound!
The baby started to make occasional whimpers, although still a bit weak, but with the oxygen and Dano’s treatments, the little boy soon really started to cry.
Angie broke out into tears and Dano wrapped the baby up and held him out to his mother. She took him and held him while the placenta was delivered, and before we knew it, we were on our way after informing the ER that the baby now had an Apgar of seven.
Dano and I sat next to Angie and son, exhausted and exhilarated.
“Birth is just amazing,” came out of my mouth before I realized that I’d spoken my thoughts out loud.
Dano reached over and took my hand into his. “You did good, Nightingale. Real good.”
I turned and saw something in his eyes that I really couldn’t identify, yet in that instant I knew, just knew-that ER Dano was not guilty of anything except being a super grouch-but a hot, sexy one.
And being a grouch was not illegal.
Twenty
We dropped Angie and baby off at the ER, had baby pronounced healthy and met the proud daddy. As we got ready to restock and head back out, I noticed ER Dano standing at the nurses’ station, where he’d been filling out the paperwork on Angie.
When he talked to the father and heard that they wouldn’t have insurance for several more months since he was new at his job, Dano tore up some paperwork and threw it in the trash.
He’d just given Angie and family a free ride.
Speechless, I robotically moved into the back of the ambulance and sat there staring.
He better not be a criminal, was all I could think. He was too damn nice for that.
We pulled into TLC’s driveway and I took a deep breath. For some reason-maybe what we’d just been through-I felt as if I were betraying Dan. Even though I’d found those papers in his cabinet, it still felt wrong to accuse him of anything.
The guy was a fantastic paramedic and understandably burned out of a high-emotion, high-stress and physically demanding job that I surmised he lived for.
ER Dano was not a nine to fiver.
The back door opened, and Buzz stood there. I turned and saw Dano still in his seat up front.
I looked at Buzz. “Is he all right?”
Buzz shrugged. “Told me to get the hell out and not to ask questions. He said he’d do all the paperwork. Guess he’s fine. Himself.”
I patted Buzz on the arm. Dano didn’t want anyone to know that he’d broken some TLC rule that patients pay for their services, and I had to agree with him on this one.
The day dragged on, as we didn’t get any more exciting calls. Twice we had to move patients from the hospital back to the nursing home, but none were emergencies. Now I sat in the lounge sipping the rotten tea and occasionally looking at ER Dano on the couch, his eyes shut and oh-so relaxed.
In a short time, we’d be dining together at his house, and then I was somehow going to manage to snoop around.
I felt sick to my stomach.
Jeremy had asked me to play a game of cards to pass the time, so he, Jennifer, Marty-another EMT-and I played Texas Hold ’em poker, with me winning the fake jackpot.
Soon the shift ended, everyone said their goodbyes and I walked out the back door.
“See you in a few, Nightingale,” Dano said from behind.
Exhausted, I waved my hand in the air. “Be there around sixish.” I wanted to turn around and see him, but told myself I needed to go home, unwind and get the food or else die of embarrassment when I arrived empty-handed.
I should have arrived at Dano’s empty-handed. Dying of embarrassment in front of a hunk would have been a welcome relief, as opposed to sitting in Stella Sokol’s kitchen-and getting the maternal third degree.
And no one, no one, did the maternal third degree like my mother.
“So, Pauline, why two dinners?” My mother turned away from the frying pan, which held the fantastic potato delicacies, and waved the spatula at me as if ready to use it. “And I still don’t understand why you can’t stay and eat with us. The family that eats together stays together.”
“That’s prays together,” I mumbled, and then shook my head, sipped my tea to buy time (mom’s tea bags were so fresh, I think she grew the herb and made them herself). “I’m…I’ll need them for leftovers. You know how I love the pancakes with eggs the next morning. So does Goldie.”
She spun around and turned the golden brown potato pancakes over. “Goldie. What kind of name is that, and where are my boys?”
“Both working, Ma.” She hated when I called her that but now I was so tired and crabby from her questions that I did it on purpose. I did have to smile at the way she called my roommates “her boys.” I’d grown very protective of the two of them, and was always thankful that someone like my mother could be so accepting of them.
“Working. Like you should be,” she said, taking the first batch of pancakes out and setting them on a paper-towel-covered dish, which she then stuck in the oven.
“You don’t have to keep mine warm.” I got up and made myself another cup of tea. I’d be in the bathroom all night, but that might be just the excuse I’d need to get away from Dano in his own house. “I won’t be eating them right away.”
She shut the oven door and looked at me. “Yes, they need to be kept warm anyway, and you ignored my statement about working. You should be working at Saint Gregory’s Hospital, like Miles. There is a nursing shortage, Pauline.”
“There’s been a nursing shortage, Ma, since the days of Clara Barton.”
She clucked her tongue at me.
I had to say, watching Stella Sokol work her magic around the kitchen was like watching Donna Reed in color. Stella even wore the button-down housedresses, aprons, and sensible shoes that were so popular in the fifties. She seemed to draw the line at pearls though, which she only wore on special occasions, like weddings and funerals.
Why anyone tied those two together, I never knew.
I shook my head as I stuck my mug into the microwave and realized I’d never seen my mother in pants. “Do you own a pair of pants, Mother?”
“Women should dress like women. And who makes tea in a microwave? Use the stove to boil the water.”
“I hate my tea so hot, and I do work, Ma.”
“Stop calling me that.” She ladled spoonfuls of pancake batter into the hot oil. A crackling and sizzling sound filled the kitchen, along with the delicious scent of the potatoes and onions to which she always added just the correct amount of salt.
Now the nostalgic aroma had me leaning against the peacock-blue Formica countertop and remembering my childhood, which was damn good considering Stella Sokol raised us kids. As a matter
of fact, when she wielded the spatula at me, I had another déjà vu kinda moment. Mom always waved some kind of kitchen utensil at us kids to make her point, but she never actually hit us. She left that up to the wooden-ruler-wielding nuns. I figured mom’s weapon of choice always came from the kitchen because that’s where she spent her entire life.
“Okay, Pauline, we are back to my original question. Why two meals, and don’t give me any malarkey about leftovers. You never liked leftovers. Even as a child you were finicky about eating something that was made on a different day.”
I felt myself shrink down to the age of five. No, make that seven. The age of reason, when I realized there was no reasoning with my mother. “That was before the dawn of the microwave. Now I love leftovers,” I lied.
“Baloney. Why two meals?”
“I have a date!” flew out of my mouth in the most childish voice.
Mother swung around, sending a drip of grease flying onto the sparkling black-and-white-checked linoleum flooring. While she vigorously wiped it up, she said, “A date. A date? A date!”
I shook my head at her excitement. Or, was that her amazement? Damn. “Don’t sound so surprised, Maaaaa.”
Once again she waved the spatula at me, but this time she quickly wiped it with the paper towel first. “Stop that, or I won’t feed you.”
My favorite uncle, Uncle Walt, walked in. “Not feed her? Yowza, Pauline. What the hell did you do?” He and I chuckled.
Mother gave him a stern look. “Don’t use such language in front of her, Walter.”
He shrugged. “Maybe I won’t get fed tonight.” Then he winked at me, kissed me on the cheek and hurried out.
I guess he figured he’d better get the hell out of Dodge, or she really wouldn’t let him eat.
“Ma, Uncle Walt’s language is fine.” I wanted to say she should hear the guys I hung around with curse, but thought better than to share that. I really wanted my food soon. She finished taking out the rest of the pancakes from the frying pan, and I went to her and put my arm around her shoulder. “I do work, Mother. You know I’m doing very well as an insurance investigator. We’re needed too. People cheat the companies out of millions and that makes the premiums go up for everyone.”
