floor of the twin towers.
POLLY HAD SPENT the entire subway ride home seething over Dr. Griffin’s sour attitude. What had she done to turn him against her? After a little cajoling he’d smiled and agreed to go to the bar with his staff. They’d had a brisk and energizing walk to the pub, enjoying the late afternoon sun and moderate June weather. He’d allowed her to buy him a drink, and he’d even made a grand gesture of buying the next round for everyone else.
All had seemed to go according to plan in the people-pleasing biz.
Then she’d asked about his family and the vault door had clanged shut. It hadn’t been mere irritation she’d seen flash in his dark, brooding eyes, it had been fury. Plain and simple.
As she prepared for bed in her tiny rented room on the Lower East Side, where the shared bathroom and kitchen were considered privileges in the five-story walk-up, she couldn’t stop thinking how she’d messed up that night. Clearly, she’d overstepped her bounds with Dr. Griffin. But how? Didn’t everyone love to talk about themselves and their families? That was, everyone except people like her who had miserable memories of feeling unwanted and unloved, like she’d had since her mother had died when Polly had been only six.
She put her head on the thin pillow and adjusted to the lumpy mattress. Of course! How could she be so blind? The man was miserable with his staff. He didn’t like to socialize. She’d dragged him out of his comfort zone and asked him about something very personal—his family—then everything had backfired. Something horrible had happened to that man to make him the way he was. Surely, no one wanted to be that miserable without a good reason.
She had to quit assuming that she was the only person in the world with family issues and that everyone else lived hunky-dory lives. Obviously, Dr. Griffin wasn’t happy about his family situation and she’d hit a nerve with her line of questioning. Maybe he’d gone through a messy divorce. Maybe his wife had cheated on him. Who knew? But he’d attacked with vengeance when she’d dared to get too personal.
She’d let down her guard, let him skewer her with his angry retort, then, wounded and hurt, she’d brushed him off and moved on. In her world it was called survival, but he’d seen a flash of her true self the instant before she’d covered it up, just as she’d seen his. Well, touché, Dr. Griffin.
Polly folded her hands behind her head and in the dim light stared at the cracked ceiling and chipped paint—what could she expect from an apartment built before World War I?—and thought harder. Maybe she’d inadvertently hurt him as much as he’d hurt her, and, man, she’d felt his anger slice right through her. John Griffin wasn’t a person to be on the bad side of. Somehow she’d have to make up for it.
Her eyes grew heavy from the two beers she’d enjoyed at the pub, but one last thought held out until she acknowledged it so she could drift off to sleep with a good conscience. She owed Dr. John Griffin an apology, and first thing tomorrow morning she’d give it to him.
* * *
The next morning at work, Dr. Griffin was nowhere to be found. Polly realized during report that Tuesdays and Thursdays were his scheduled surgery days, and felt a mixture of relief and impatience about getting her apology over and done with. She’d never make the mistake of including her boss in any social event again, even though the staff was already talking about another pub night in two weeks. Something else she noticed today was that everyone smiled at her, which made her feel good and far more a part of the team than she had yesterday. At least she’d succeeded in pleasing some people around here.
Her patient assignment was heavy, and although she only had two patients, each needed a great deal of care. Charley was sixteen and in a private room after he’d taken a header on his skateboard, breaking several bones and his pelvis. Her second patient was in surgery and would arrive later in the day after a short stint in the recovery room. Fifteen-year-old Annabelle would also have a private room, having undergone an above-the-knee transfemoral amputation for localized Ewing sarcoma of the lower part of the right femur.
Polly’s heart ached for her patient. She’d already been briefed that a team of social workers, psychologists, occupational and physical therapists, as well as wound-care specialists, would be participating in her recovery. Polly would take care of the nursing portion, and for today it would mostly be post-operative care—basic and important for pain control and maintaining strong vital signs. She’d guard against any post-op complications, such as bleeding or infection, to the best of her ability. Tomorrow the reality of being a teenager with a leg amputation would require help from each and every member of that specially organized medical team.
“Here, Charley.” Polly handed a washcloth lathered with soap to her shattered-pelvis patient. “You wash your face, neck and chest. I’ll help with your back when you’re ready.”
She believed in letting patients do as much for themselves as possible. Fortunately, Charley had one good arm, and with the overhead frame with trapeze he could lift himself enough to allow her to change the sheets and replace the sheepskin beneath his hips.
She kept a doubled sheet over his waist to give him privacy as they progressed with his bed bath. “Do you miss school?”
He gave a wry laugh. “I miss my friends.”
“How are you going to keep up with your studies while you recover?”
He scrubbed his smooth face and chest with the cloth. “They’re going to send out a tutor or something. School’s almost out for summer break anyway. What really sucks is I was supposed to start driver’s training next month.”
“Do people even drive cars in New York?”
“I live in Riverdale.”
Polly didn’t have a clue where Riverdale was but assumed it was a suburb of the city. She’d never, ever want to attempt driving in New York, where being a pedestrian was risky enough.
She washed his back and changed the linen, keeping casual and friendly banter going. “Have you got a girlfriend?”
“Nah. We broke up.”
Uh-oh, here she went again, venturing into personal information that might cause pain. Would she ever learn her lesson? At least he hadn’t bitten her head off like Dr. Griffin had. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s okay. All she ever wanted was for me to buy her stuff, anyway.”
Whew. “Sometimes teenage girls can be very superficial.”
“Dude, tell me about it.”
Polly gathered the soiled linen she’d heaped onto the floor and shoved it into the dirty-linen hamper just as the door swung open. “Well, look here, perfect timing. Lunch!”
The tall, bronze and buff dietary worker brought in Charley’s lunch tray and placed it on the bedside table. Polly washed her hands and checked to make sure they’d delivered the right diet, with extra protein and calories for the growing and healing boy, then left him alone to eat with the TV on while she got his noontime medicine.
When she returned from her own lunch-break the ward clerk informed her that Annabelle was on her way up from Recovery. Polly rushed to the private room to make sure everything was in order then quickly checked up on Charley, who was fine and playing a video game. She explained she’d
