to the technician there. “This is Mr. Stoltz,” she said. “His nephew is in surgery and he wants to give blood.”
“As much as you’re allowed,” Caleb said. “My blood type is O negative.”
She was surprised he knew. Most people didn’t know their blood type.
“You’re a universal donor. Excellent,” said the technician, a laid-back type named Klaus with a ponytail and a small hoop earring. “Right this way, Mr. Stoltz.”
He was calm and compliant as he took a seat in a one-armed lounge chair.
Klaus handed him a clipboard. “Some standard screening questions.”
Reese’s phone vibrated with a message from Mel: Get yr ass back down here and detox this drunk pls.
Lovely. “I have to go,” she said. “Can you find your way back to the surgical waiting area?”
“I can, yes.”
She wished she could stay with him. Or at least say something comforting. He looked so lost and confused and scared. “Uh, okay. I wish you and Jonah the best.” Lame. So fricking lame. The best what? The best outcome of an amputation? The best way to deal with a little boy who now had to go through life with one arm? She tried to think of something more to say, but nothing came to mind, no words of comfort or reassurance.
He didn’t reply, simply nodded and started filling out the screening form.
And with that, their association ended. It was the way things worked in the emergency department—once the emergency had been passed on to the next team, the patient and his family were history. The residents and attendings who worked in the department liked that aspect of the job. Sometimes Reese wasn’t so sure. Sometimes she wanted the story to continue.
As she stood in the elevator, she looked down at her hand and realized she was holding the bag with Caleb’s soiled clothes. And she’d never been so pleased to be stuck with someone else’s dirty laundry.
“C’mon with me, baby. I’ll drive you all the way to heaven,” roared the drunk, clinging to Reese’s hand. “You’re one red-hot babe, that’s just what you are.”
Reese breathed in the scent of Mastisol. She’d popped an ampule and put a few drops on her surgical mask as an odor blocker, a trick she’d learned from a helpful floor nurse. “You’ll be fine, Mr. James. Get some rest. Here are your discharge instructions. The program we talked about can work, but you have to show up. I’ll make sure you have a ride later.”
He serenaded her with “Ride Sally Ride” while she washed at the sink.
“You’re good with him,” commented the nurse who had assisted her. “He’s not everyone’s fave.”
“And his vomit looks so attractive on me.” Reese peeled off the mask, gloves, and disposable paper gown and added them to the waste bin. Actually, she didn’t hate the ER, even in moments like this. She didn’t even hate treating patients like Mr. James—frequent fliers who had a way of drawing compassion from her even as they destroyed themselves. Perversely, she found herself nurturing the hope that a guy like that might actually get clean one day. There were things she loved about primary care, and sometimes she couldn’t help comparing those moments to tedious hours in surgery—a rotation she secretly did not love.
She hurried away to the staff room and went to her locker. Inside was a jumble of textbooks, binders and clipboards crammed with notes, a tangle of charging cords, a makeup bag, and a change of clothes. She glanced at herself in the small mirror on the back of the door. Her dark, short hair lay in random wisps around her face, and the ever-present bruised circles under her eyes marked her as someone who had been on call for too many hours. Shit. She wished she had time to go home and shower before dinner—her parents were meeting her at Urban Farmer, one of the city’s best restaurants. But as usual, she was running late and would have to make do with a quick once-over in the ladies’ room.
There, she fluffed out her hair and applied makeup so old she couldn’t even remember buying it. She wadded up her lab coat, now soiled from her encounter with Mr. James, and added it to the bag with Caleb’s clothing. Something pinged on the tile floor—the coin she’d found in the trauma room.
With a quick motion, she stuck it in her pocket, smoothed her hands down the front of her skirt, then faced the mirror and took a deep breath. She wondered if other people got nervous at the prospect of having dinner with their parents. She wondered if others felt the burden of family expectations pressing like a weight on their chests. It’s just dinner, she told herself.
Except with Hector and Joanna Powell, it was never just dinner. Tonight’s elegant meal at the trendy spot was more than that. They wanted to discuss her prospects for several elite residency program matches. The stakes were sky high, and her parents wanted to make sure she landed right where they were aiming her. She couldn’t remember if they’d ever asked her whether she was on board with the plan.
On her way out, she encountered Mel and his young son greeting each other in the foyer. With a grin of delight, Mel offered the kid a high five, their hands slapping together in friendly fashion.
“Look who got sprung from day care,” Reese said. “How was your day, Frankie?”
“Good,” said the little boy. He was four years old and adorable in his Phillies T-shirt—as if there was any other way for a four-year-old to be. “I fed the hamster. It was my turn.”
“Cool. What do hamsters eat?”
“Carrots and alfalfa kibbles.”
“Yum. And I’m impressed that you know the word ‘alfalfa.’” They walked outside together. The air was gritty from the heat of the day, and redolent of exhaust from the traffic surging along the boulevard between the hospital and the river.
“Big plans for the night?” she asked.
“The biggest,” said Mel. “Backyard wiener roast.”
“Yay!” Frankie danced a little jig.
Reese said goodbye and went into the laundry service she always used. She dropped off her lab coat along with Caleb Stoltz’s clothes, asking for a rush job. Outside again, she hesitated. Stuck her hand into her skirt pocket. Her fingers brushed the little token she’d picked up in the trauma room. She took it out, turned it over in her hand. Blakeslee Sawmill. It probably belonged to Jonah Stoltz. The image of a precision saw popped into her mind. She’d never observed an amputation. Christ, that poor little kid.
On impulse, she went back into the hospital and pressed the elevator button.
Compared to the mayhem of the ER, the surgical intensive care unit was an oasis of ominous quiet, punctuated by the artificial hiss and thump of ventilators, monitoring equipment, and life support gear. The waiting area was empty. She approached the nursing station and asked about Jonah Stoltz.
He’d made it through surgery and was recovering in the SICU. She found him in a high-tech suite there, his small form looking even smaller in the steel cocoon of the hospital bed. A nurse stood at a computer terminal on a rolling cart, keeping track of all the monitors; she
