Off Duty(3)
“Oh, and Dr. Reynolds?” the nurse calls again. I turn to face her and try to put a cheery look on my face.
“Don’t forget about the suspected metacarpal fracture in Room Two. It’s a pediatrics case,” she says with a stern look as she hands the chart over to me.
“Shit,” I mutter as I take the file. I had completely forgotten, having got wrapped up in a stabilizing a fractured C5 on a drunk driver who decided to take on a telephone pole. Glancing through the chart, I hand it back to her. “Let’s go ahead and send him down to x-ray and get a two-view lateral and oblique, but first start an IV and give him two mgs of morphine for pain relief. I’ll be in as soon as I examine the femur fracture coming in.”
For the next thirty minutes, I work to examine the man brought in with the broken leg. Of course, he was high on some type of drugs and combative. All of my tender ministrations only earned me his fist to the side of my temple while I was trying to probe the wound. More of my precious time was wasted as I waited for security to put him in restraints so I could finish my exam. It was with much joy that I handed him off to Dr. Falter.
Before I’m able to turn my attention to the little boy in ER Room Two, I make a quick stop in the bathroom because I’m pretty sure it has been going on five hours since I’d last peed. After my bladder sighs with relief, I wash my hands and give a disgusted look at myself in the mirror as I dry my hands. My face is pale with blue shadows under my eyes… testament to the fact I haven’t slept in going on twenty-seven hours. My blond hair is falling out of the loose braid that hangs down my back, so I give it a quick swipe of my fingers to tuck the loose ends behind my ear, and then I quickly exit the bathroom.
Just as the swinging door closes behind me, my phone rings. Slipping it from my white lab coat, I suppress a grimace before answering.
“Mother… I’m on my way in to see a patient. I don’t have a lot of time to talk,” I say quietly as I navigate the halls.
“You know I don’t call you unless it’s important, Holly.” She sighs dramatically, causing me to pinch the bridge of my nose to stave off the beginnings of a stress headache.
Because just like that, my mother can make a crappy day supremely crappier.
“Your father has been selected as the Franklin R. Murray award winner this year,” she says proudly.
“That’s wonderful,” I say flatly, because I stopped caring about my father’s medical accomplishments years ago. The man went from being my hero and inspiration to become a doctor to being nothing but a big, fat disappointment to me.
She ignores my lack of enthusiasm and continues. “We’d like you to attend the award dinner. It’s next month on the twenty-sixth.”
I reach ER Room Two, which is nothing more than a curtained-off section of the emergency room treatment bay. I can see two large shadows moving behind the curtain and the raised voice of one very irate male, who isn’t speaking loudly but is very clearly pissed.
“This is ridiculous that we’re still waiting to see the doctor. My son is fucking five years old, and he’s scared,” I hear the man say.
I hear the soothing voice of Amy, one of our more seasoned nurses, in there. “She’s on her way, Mr. Davis. And I promise Sam isn’t in any pain.”
“I know that,” he retorts. “He’s just scared and tired. We need to get this taken care of so I can take him home.”
Turning my attention back to my phone call, I quickly tell my mother, “I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to make it. Give my congratulations to Father. I have to go now.”
Before my mother can even take in an indignant breath, I disconnect the call and slip my phone back in my pocket.
I push back the curtain to enter Room Two just as I hear Mr. Davis say, “I want a doctor in here immediately, or I want to see the hospital administrator.”
Glancing down to grab the medical chart clipped to the end of the bed, and in my most professional yet conciliatory voice, I say, “I’m truly sorry for your wait, Mr. Davis.”
I paste a warm smile on my face and look up to meet the gaze of the irate father.
And my world pitches, rolls, and then tilts precariously on its axis.
Standing before me is a ghost from the past.
A beautiful ghost standing just over six feet with skin the color of mocha and eyes so light brown they might as well be orbs of amber.
“Tim?” I say hesitantly, almost not believing that he’s standing right there in front of me. The last time I saw him was ten years ago when my father broke my heart and I, in turn, broke Tim’s.
He’s still the same, yet different. He now has a thin mustache and goatee surrounding those beautiful lips and the strong chin I remember so well. His eyes carry a wisdom within them that makes me wonder what he’s been through over the last decade.