by Holly Rayner
“You seem to take our care of patients around here rather personally for someone not attached to the clinic.”
“Yeah, I do. All I can do is give people resources and push paper. I can’t save their lives.” Anymore, at any rate. I still remembered my hands shaking so badly the last time I’d tried that I had dropped a tray of surgical tools. It was another reason I had issues with those who couldn’t do the job and claimed they could.
“But you want to, don’t you?” he asked softly.
I looked away, suddenly embarrassed. Yes, I missed my old job, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. Nobody in the organization knew that I used to be a nurse.
“I’d fix everything if I could,” I said. “But I can’t. Nobody can. And this isn’t about me. It’s about the people we’re here to help.”
I met his gaze again. “All I’m saying is, I hope you’re one hundred percent genuine, because we need a rock-star trauma guy around here who actually lives up to the hype. And I’m sure you’ve got reasons for keeping your past under wraps, and that’s none of my business. Unless you’re hiding something that could lead to patients getting hurt.”
He shifted slightly again, refolding his hands, his agitation showing in those small gestures and in the narrowing of his eyes. “I’m not. You’ll be seeing that for yourself.”
I nodded and stood, sighing. “I’d like for us to get along. But I’m not the sort of person who will let things like this slide when I’ve seen it end so badly. It’s nothing personal.”
“I’m not taking it personally,” he said a little stiffly. “Though I am glad that you explained the reasons behind your sudden interrogation.” That smile. His gaze was oddly soft when it met mine—but he never stopped shifting slightly in his seat, and the muscles across his broad shoulders were tight under his shirt.
I had insulted him. I hated it, but it was necessary.
“Good,” I said. “Because…it’s nothing personal. But if you’re not being truthful about what you can do, please leave. Before another crisis hits.”
He nodded curtly, eyes narrowed slightly. “Your advice is well taken, but not necessary. Thank you.”
I walked away, aware of his tension behind me. I couldn’t let it get to me. and I hoped it wouldn’t get to him. It would be easier on him with the warning, no matter how unwelcome the warning was. If he was as experienced as he had claimed, he had to have run across some doctors that crumbled under the stress. He had to know what it would cost not to check.
It still distracted me more than it should have as I went back to my makeshift cubicle and sat down to catch up on the afternoon’s paperwork. I wanted us to be on good terms, and not just because it would smooth out our life and work here. It felt bad to think of him feeling negatively about me.
I hate it when someone attracts and annoys me at the same time, I thought with a sigh as I checked to see if telephone service was back. The woman whose file was in front of me was looking for her son, who was looking for her as well. One phone call to his new cellular would reunite them.
Some fights are easier to win than others, I thought as I dialed.
I had just barely given out the news that his mother was in our clinic with a broken foot after being dug from the wreckage of her home when I heard a dull thump outside. The ground shook.
I froze, then ducked under my sturdy steel desk as screams broke out throughout the lobby. The ground shook again—and then the building shook violently and we heard a dull boom from upstairs. Ceiling tiles rained down on us; one of the inner walls, already weakened by cracks, crumbled, nearly taking out the beams bracing the roof next to it. Dust exploded through the space; I pulled my dress up over my nose and mouth and squinted, praying it was just one rocket and not a whole barrage.
Chapter 3
Rose
We were lucky. There was only the one rocket this time. Probably another misfire. We had never been intentionally targeted, but like many others in this city, we still had to deal with what happened when half-trained insurgents missed their real targets.
I had no doubt that the rocket had taken out the rest of the roof. I had no idea what the damage from the building shaking would look like on the other floors. But as I came out from under my dusty desk and looked around, I saw that the center’s main floor was in rubble.
Damn it. I better do a head count to make sure nobody was injured. I started calling out names as the dust settled. “Carrie? Omar? David? Marie? Yvonne?”
No answer from Yvonne. I called for her again and then kept going, moving around the room, looking for obvious wounded. It mostly looked like the tiles had come down, making a giant mess and forcing people to dive under desks and worktables. Some of the screens were down or damaged. Barely more than a messy, slightly damaging work disruption for eighty percent of the room; we could clean up and move on.
“Malik? Yusuf? Alia? Yvonne?”
Between my calling-out of people’s names and their answers, I could hear a man’s deep, British-accented voice authoritatively calling out orders, but he was too far off in the clinic to make out the words.
“Is anyone hurt?” I asked.
“Malik’s been struck on the head!” his sister Alia called out worriedly. “I have pressure on the wound and will watch him.”
“No, honey, a head injury means the infirmary. He could have a concussion. Walk him over there, don’t worry about imposing.” Malik and Alia were locals, and too unassuming and kind for their own good, Alia especially.
A pause. “We will go.” Lower, to her brother, “Can you walk?”
I heard a grunt, and then the sound of feet shuffling slowly toward the infirmary. When the door opened, I heard that deep voice more clearly.
“Clear off that table. Get things as cleaned up as possible. We’re about to get slammed. I need to go out and check for injured.”
Whose voice is that?
Nobody else was injured. But Yvonne wasn’t answering, and I knew she had been on this floor under a minute before the rocket had hit.
My gaze slid reluctantly toward the pile of rubble where the wall had crumbled. It wasn’t a big pile of wreckage, but definitely large enough to hurt someone—and then hide them—when it fell.
I hurried over to it. “I need hands over here, I think we’ve got someone hurt!”
My blood burned inside me, a combination of adrenaline high and deep focus making me forget that I was the greeter, the paper-pusher. Not a nurse who had led a whole ER staff in more than one emergency. Not in charge.
I heard people running to help me as I rushed over to the pile of debris. I have to clear this fast, or she’ll suffocate. The old timbers and chunks of plaster and stone were heavy enough to knock someone flat—and out.
“Yvonne?” I called out. “Yvonne? Can you hear me?”
Several of my coworkers reached me and helped me clear aside the wreckage—and stabilize one of the bracing beams, which had been knocked askew by the fall. I knew we were right to rush when I saw a pale, delicate hand sticking out from beneath the rubble.
I grabbed it and squeezed gently; after a moment, the fingers twitched slightly. Yvonne was alive, and at least semiconscious.
“I’ve got her! Over here!”
There was a rush as everyone crowded round and we worked together to pull hundreds of pounds of wreckage from on top of Yvonne. Suddenly I heard a deep wheeze from beneath the remaining pile. As we clawed her free, she started coughing.
I reassured her as we worked. “Hold on, it’s okay. We’ve got you.”
I heard mumbling in French, and another cough.
“I couldn’t breathe,” she gasped, so covered in dust that for a moment, I had trouble assessing her injuries. “Oh, mon Dieu, I was praying.”
“We weren’t gonna let you down, honey, and neither was God. Try to relax,” I said, but she was already sitting up, rubble sliding off into her lap.
Some more chunks of plaster dropped on us from above; Yvonne cried out
in a panic, and I grabbed her under the arms and pulled her loose from the pile before anything else could fall on her. As I did, I saw that her leg was covered in blood.
Oh, crap.
I looked up into Marie’s deep brown eyes. “Infirmary. We need a doctor and supplies.”
She nodded and ran for it. I grabbed a water bottle off a nearby desk and rinsed the grime away from the wound; the blood flow itself had helped some, but bacteria on the wound could work its way inward. And worse, the blood wasn’t stopping by itself.
Something in my brain switched into nursing mode while I was too full of adrenaline and purpose to hesitate. My hands didn’t shake. I tore a clean strip of cloth from the underside of my skirt, where the dust hadn’t dirtied it, and folded it into a pad, applying pressure to the wound.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” I looked up to see Yvonne staring down in horror at her bleeding leg. Her lips trembled.
“No, no, it’s not that bad. You’re going to be okay. You just need stitches.” Badly. She wasn’t gushing, but a torn vein would kill as surely as a torn artery if not seen to.
“I can still wiggle my toes. But it’s bleeding so much.” There was a tiny, panicked sob in her voice.
“It’s going to be okay, Yvonne. The bombing stopped—we survived—you just have a gashed leg. There are five doctors less than a block away from here. You’re gonna get fixed up. Everything will be fine.”
I kept my voice even, and the pressure on her leg steady. I could already tell that if I backed off to check the wound, it would start bleeding again right away. All I could do was keep her calm and keep her from passing out from the blood loss.
Suddenly, a tall figure moved up beside me and crouched down.
“How is she?” a familiar deep voice asked as he pulled on a fresh pair of surgical gloves. It was Dr. Marino.
“Four-inch gash in her outer right thigh, muscle involvement, heavy bleeding, looks like the accessory saphenous vein.” The nurse-patter came out of me before I could stop it. “I can assist.”
He set his gear bag down next to us and crouched down to open it. “You’re administration. Kindly move back and don’t get in the way.” His voice was all business, no unkindness to it, but he wouldn’t tolerate a refusal.
“You’ll need assistance to get that wound stitched with nothing but local anesthetic,” I insisted, even as I let him take over putting pressure on the wound. “I have years of experience as an emergency room nurse. I’m not offering out of nowhere.”
Somehow, his challenging me made me want to try even more than Yvonne needing me. As he blinked back at me, Yvonne gasped out her two cents: “Please, I want her to stay.”
Dr. Marino looked between the two of us and then nodded once. “You can help me steady her leg and keep the wound lavaged while I stitch. Yvonne, all I have available is a local and a sedative.” He pulled a syringe from his bag. “It’s probably best that you do not look at your leg.”
And just like that, I was a nurse again—at least for as long as it took to save Yvonne. I let her squeeze my shoulder until it hurt while I helped keep her leg still and spoke reassurances to her. Stitching up a vein was tricky work, and I knew that if she panicked or twitched at the wrong moment, the doctor would have to start all over.
I kept Yvonne awake and focused on me while handing Dr. Marino things out of his bag, steadying the leg, keeping an eye on his work while directing Yvonne’s eyes away from it.
I watched our new doctor’s long-fingered hands work quickly, but without rushing or losing focus. Carefully, delicately as an embroiderer, he stitched, until finally it was time to bandage Yvonne and help her to an infirmary bed.
“It happened so fast,” she murmured as Dr. Marino carried her, and I trailed after them. “I didn’t realize I had gone so close to the damaged wall.”
“The room was in a panic,” I reassured her gently. “You were disoriented. You’ll be all right.”
Dr. Marino nodded his agreement but kept his eyes on me as we went over to the clinic.
My heart sank as I walked. He knows, I thought, and felt a rush of shame. He knows I’ve got the skills of a nurse but can’t work as one. But a moment later, I found myself suffused with wonder. Wait a second. I didn’t choke. I didn’t freeze. I just did lifesaving nursing again.
The sense of doom and helplessness that had dogged me for two years evaporated like smoke. I looked down at my hands briefly as I moved; they were spattered with Yvonne’s blood, but they didn’t shake at all.
Am I back?
Chapter 4
Rose
By some miracle, our section of the city had not been attacked at all; the rocket had come from miles away, probably fired by accident, or thoughtlessness. Not part of a larger attack. It was so ridiculous that if I hadn’t been focused on making Yvonne comfortable after her brush with death, I would have laughed—and cried.
The expected flood of wounded did not come. The only people injured were in our building—and then, mostly bruises and gashes. Dr. Marino pressed me into triage. Searchers on the upper floors brought a few more people down, one an unconscious woman with glass in her arm. Once she was patched up and put in a bed for observation, Dr. Marino took me aside.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine. I had an old metal office desk, I hid under it. I just have plaster in my hair.” I reached up to check in a ridiculous attack of self-consciousness and sighed. “I probably look awful.”
He shrugged. “Aside from having just gone through a rocket attack, you’re as lovely as usual.” He noticed my shock at the compliment and the corner of his mouth tucked up. “You weren’t fishing for reassurance.”
“I have part of the ceiling in my hair,” I said, deadpan as his eyes danced. “It’s an educated guess, nothing more. Anyway, you really are pretty good, I have to admit. I stand corrected.”
“Not quite yet you haven’t,” he said with cool amusement. “But it’s still nice to hear you admit it so readily.” He leaned against the dusty wall of the hall outside the infirmary, arms folded. “You’re the only one around here who was willing to bring a potential problem doctor back down to earth. I should have guessed that you’re a nurse.”
“I’m not,” I corrected at once, then blushed when he lifted an eyebrow. “Anymore. I used to be, but I needed to get away from the job for a few years.”
He stared at me, seeming both amused and slightly annoyed with me. “Interesting. So why choose pushing paper in a war zone over some other means of getting away from it all?”
I looked down, wondering how much I wanted to tell this arrogant but clearly competent doctor about my unhappy past. I had a friend. She was the only real family I have ever had. I didn’t really know what it was like to have someone care about me that much before then. And then one day…she was gone. Just…destroyed, taken away. I couldn’t stay in Miami after that.
I couldn’t tell him any of that. It all sounded way too much like whining. I had never been a complainer. “I’m doing this in my best friend’s honor,” I said simply. “It’s meaningful to me.”
He nodded once, taking this in, his gaze thoughtful as it swept over me. I tried to remember to breathe. Every time I was around him, I felt just a little off-balance and dizzy. Right now, coming down from a massive adrenaline high to realize that I could function as a nurse again when the rubber hit the road, it was even worse.
I had never talked about my past because I was convinced I was done as a nurse. Now, faced with the fact that I wasn’t, I didn’t know what to say.
“Do you still have your license?” he asked quietly. “You weren’t dismissed?”
“It wasn’t like that at all. A close coworker died violently, and I was unable to stay.” My voice had grown stilted. Stop prying, I thought, even as I knew that wasn’t it at all. He had asked a professional question, and I had leaked out the personal information behind it without even blinking.
He was quiet for a while.
He called over our tea guy and handed me a chipped mug filled with the heavily sweetened brew. I sipped it, feeling strength flow back into me from it.
“Thank you for stepping up now, and breaking your secrecy,” he said quietly.
It sounded absolutely sincere, and after having endured bouts of his sarcasm for days, it startled me, left me feeling warm, just like his brief compliment.
He continued, “I wasn’t going to say this to Yvonne, but you may well have saved her life.”
“I’m…surprised that I managed,” I said. “It was a problem for a while.” The admission made me blush again.
He paused, gaze searching my face. “Problem?”
“It’s a long story.” I didn’t want to get that personal with him yet. I was still half waiting for him to take a jab at me.
A moment later, he justified my worries, that superior smirk returning to his beautiful lips.
“Is something the matter?” I asked, bracing myself.
“Only that I have an experienced trauma nurse here pushing papers when she should be working under me. Don’t you think it’s a bit hypocritical to find me suspicious when you’re not only hiding something like that, but wasting talents we need in abundance?” His mocking tone and smirk didn’t change the dead seriousness in his eyes.
I froze, cheeks heating dangerously, shamed down to my toes—and then caught myself. “You have no idea what I have been through, or what led me to make that decision. You’re really in no position to criticize me,” I said with deep irritation.
His smirk only deepened. “No need to get defensive,” he purred. “You’re right, I don’t know your reasons, or what has hindered you from offering your nursing skills here when you obviously care so much about the job. But unfortunately, however understandable your reasons may be, they don’t matter.”
“I’m sorry?” I felt my blood pressure rise. How dare he!
“I’m saying that they don’t matter,” he replied with slightly exaggerated patience, “because the end result still has you wasting your skills in the office when you should be in the clinic. You can’t tell me that you can save more lives pushing paper than you can by leading a trauma team. It’s just not possible.”
