heels, Roxie had torn through dozens of stores, had spent hours looking. Did he have any idea how difficult it’d been to find a pair of hot-pink glossy patent-leather peep-toe platform pumps? In a size thirteen? When would she ever have another opportunity to wear them?
“Hey, Rox,” one of the night nurses called out from room 504. “Would you help me out? I need to get home on time today.”
“Sure thing.” Roxie glanced at the schedule board across from the nurses’ station to confirm her assignment. District one. As usual. Even-numbered rooms 502–508. Eight beds. Two empty, awaiting new admission post-ops. One pre-op due in the operating room at 7:30 a.m. She glanced at the clock, 6:45, then turned to Fig. “When Victoria’s done would you tell her I need to speak with her? It’s important.”
“My first official unit-clerk task.” He lifted his pad and pen and wrote something down. “I’m on it.”
Then Roxie got to work, assisted her colleague, took a quick report and sent her pre-op patient off to the O.R. On her morning round each of her patients had a problem. Pain. High blood pressure. Low blood pressure. Hypoglycemia. Constipation. Fever. An infiltrated IV. And two saturated dressings.
Finally, by 11:00 a.m. she had everyone settled and could take a quick break for some much-needed sustenance. Only, on her way to the nurses’ lounge she met up with a recovery room nurse pushing a sleeping patient in her direction. “You’re supposed to call first,” Roxie said.
“I did,” the plump nurse at the head of the stretcher said. “The guy who answered said to come on up.”
Roxie glared at Fig. “The floor nurse gives approval to accept patients from the recovery room. Not you,” she told him.
“Oops. Duly noted,” Fig answered, making a note on his stupid pad. “It won’t happen again.”
She eyed the girth of her new patient and looked back over to Fig. “Make yourself useful. Come help us transfer this patient to her bed.” May as well see if those muscles worked as good as they looked.
Fig stood, something strangely uncertain in his expression.
“No,” Victoria said from behind him. “He’s here as a unit clerk. The only contact he’s to have with patients is from behind this desk.”
What the …?
Roxie’s stomach growled. She didn’t have time for this nonsense. “All available hands to 502A,” she called out. “Chop-chop, ladies. My blood sugar is starting to drop.” That was sure to get their attention. No one wanted a cranky Roxie around.
With the recovery room nurse’s help Roxie lined the stretcher up next to the bed and locked the wheels on both. “Welcome to 5E, Mrs. Flynn,” she said to her new patient. “My name is Roxie Morano and I’ll be your nurse until seven o’clock this evening.” She raised the bed so it was the same height as the stretcher, transferred the bag of IV fluid to the bed pole and placed the catheter drainage bag by the patient’s feet so it didn’t pull during transfer. As the recovery room nurse gave report, Roxie checked the patient’s right-sided chest dressing, which was covered by a surgical bra, and inspected the drains and tubing.
“Fifty-nine-year-old, morbidly obese female. Status post right-sided modified radical mastectomy.”
Roxie noted the drainage in each of the two bulbs, labeled R1 and R2, to establish a baseline and pulled her report sheet—which contained pertinent information on each of her patients—from her pocket. She unfolded the paper and set it on the over-the-bed table. In the blank box reserved for room 502A she wrote in the patient’s name and diagnosis, last set of vitals and time of last dose of pain medication. Then she jotted down her observations. Patient arousable to verbal stimuli. Catheter draining clear yellow urine. Dressing clean, dry and intact. Drains to self-suction with scant red drainage in each. IV infusing to left forearm.
When Victoria and Ali—her other best friend and the nurse working in the district next to hers—arrived to help, Roxie directed, “One on the stretcher side, one over here by me.” She stood on the side of the bed, at the patient’s upper body, so she’d be responsible for pulling the heaviest part of her. As her colleagues got into position Roxie spoke to her patient. “We’re going to slide you onto the bed, Mrs. Flynn.”
The groggy woman nodded in understanding.
“Keep your hands at your sides and let us do all the work,” Roxie instructed.
Each staff member grabbed a hunk of the bottom sheet.
“Everyone ready?” Roxie locked eyes with each woman. Just last week a patient on 4B fell between the stretcher and the bed during a transfer, suffering a severe hip fracture as a result. Not on Roxie’s watch. “On my count of three. One. Two. Three.”
Using every bit of strength she possessed, Roxie pulled. If the grunts around her meant anything, her coworkers were giving it all they had, too. Yet the patient barely budged.
Fig entered the room.
Victoria told him to leave.
“What kind of man would I be if I let four lovely ladies struggle when I could help?”
“Are you sure?” Victoria asked, handing him a pair of latex gloves from the box on the wall.
“Scoot over.” He squeezed between Roxie and Ali, bumping Roxie’s hip with his as he did. “Now tell me what to do,” he said as he put on the gloves.
“Ball the sheet like this.” Roxie showed him her hands. “Tight.”
He took the sheet in his large hands. She remembered how they’d felt on her body, holding her just a few hours earlier, and realized how much she’d like to feel them again—and in more places. She shook her head to clear her thoughts.
“And on the count of three,” she continued, “we pull and they—” she motioned to the women on the other side of the stretcher with her chin “—push.”
“Got it,” Fig said, testing his grip on the sheet, looking so cute in his concentration.
“Everyone ready?” Roxie asked again and waited for each woman and Fig to respond in the affirmative. “On my count of three. One. Two. Three.”
Again Roxie pulled as hard as she could, and this time the patient slid toward her like she was on plastic liner slick with baby oil.
“Wow. You are a strong one,” Roxie said to Fig.
He smiled, a genuinely pleased smile, and winked. “Remember that.” He moved closer on his way to discard his gloves in the trash can and whispered, “Dream about it.”
“As if any part of you registers with my subconscious.” Especially not his head—in the dream where she was a cat sleeping curled around it. Or his fair skin—in the dream where they’d lounged by a pool and she’d rubbed him with suntan lotion—repeatedly—to protect him from the harsh rays of the sun. Or his laugh, or the teasing twinkle in his green eyes, or the contagious smile that brightened his handsome face.
Something about him had made her feel safe, like she could let her guard down. Thank goodness she hadn’t. He also made her want…things she didn’t usually crave without a couple of beers on board. Was it his slow,
