Winter Solstice. Michelle Garren Flye

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      Mindful of patient confidentiality, she stayed discreetly behind the curtained alcove containing the weary mother and her injured son as John informed her they would be keeping the boy overnight “for observation.” During the course of the discussion, John discovered there was another baby at home with the father, something Becky noticed didn’t make him happy, but he dealt with it admirably. A few minutes later, as a nurse guided the mother and son to the pediatric ward, John seized his phone to call the Social Services Department. Becky heard him reporting a probable case of child abuse treated in the emergency room with a younger sibling at home.

      When he hung up, Becky started forward to ask him what would happen to the baby, but stopped when John lowered his head for a moment, looking like a bull knowing his next charge at the matador might be his last. Startled, she realized he didn’t skip with ease from one case to the next. He felt the pain of his patients more than he let on, and that empathy had reached Dee Martin when her sister had been hurt. “Dr. Grant?”

      Tentative as her voice had been, he swung around. “Oh. You.” He picked up another chart and brushed past her.

      “It’s not always easy, is it?” She stood her ground, determined not to let the moment pass. John Grant, after all, was her assignment.

      He froze. “What’s that?”

      “Moving on to the next patient when the last one still needs help.” She bit her lip, hearing more sympathy in her voice than she’d intended.

      “No.” His voice was soft, almost lost in the continuous activity of the room. “It’s not always easy. And there are no easy answers, either. You get used to it.”

      “Do you?” She took a step closer to him.

      He glanced over his shoulder and smiled a little. “You do. Now let’s get going.”

      She followed, standing aside as he checked the setting of a broken finger. More patients flooded in, and John was called on to check the diagnosis of several, including a pregnant woman with abdominal cramps and spotting, a baby with a high fever and an elderly man with chest pains.

      Even as she tried to keep up, Becky wondered where she’d gotten the idea that all ER patients were car accidents or crime sufferers. She soon found out how wrong a mass media-fed person can be. In the ER, pathos mixed freely with comedy. Becky followed John from the car-wreck victims to the man who tried out his new water skis by hooking himself up behind a four-wheeler driven down a shallow creek. He’d escaped with a few bruises, abrasions on his face and a pair of broken skis, but the entire staff of the ER was shaking their heads and hiding smiles before he left.

      There were also the sad cases, like the HIV patient with pneumonia and the young teenager who overdosed. Without distinction given to race, creed or sexual orientation, they were treated, stabilized and either returned to the streets, shuttled off to a ward for observation or sent downstairs to the morgue.

      Around three o’clock there was a lull, and Becky noticed a lot of people disappearing into the break room. John, who seemed to have forgotten Becky, escorted a couple of nurses, joking and talking. Feeling more depressed every moment, Becky followed, but when she got into the break room, John handed her a cup of black coffee again and motioned to a couch. “St. Mercy.” When she stared at him, uncomprehending, he added, “Our soap. It’s always good for a laugh.”

      The staff on break gathered around the television, laughing at the oxygen masks taped onto the faces of comatose patients, the upside down X-rays and the other various procedural mistakes committed by innocent actors playing doctors. There were hoots and laughs during the love scenes, and Becky was intensely aware of John next to her during one hot and heavy scene in a call room.

      In the midst of this, a nurse stuck her head into the room and yelled, “GSW coming in. It’s a head shot.”

      Her words produced an unexplained flurry of activity. John jumped up, then hesitated and looked at Becky, his face serious. “You might want to sit this one out, ace.”

      Of course she ignored his warning, following him as he scrubbed up and pulled on latex gloves. She wasn’t totally sure what a GSW was but a head shot sounded serious, and John’s suggestion that she “sit this one out” made her determined to do the exact opposite. She took her spot in the corner, watching the arrangements going on around her.

      Nothing could have prepared her for what they rolled in on a stretcher. Maybe it had once been a man, though what was left didn’t really resemble one. The face was a bloody pulp and at least a part of the skull had been ripped away, leaving the spongy gray tissue of the brain exposed.

      For the first time that day, Becky felt nauseous. She turned away, trying to find a safe spot away from the destruction on the stretcher. She concentrated on John as he worked over the near-dead man, calling instructions to residents and nurses. When at last John stood back and said, “He’s stabilized, get him to surgery,” her respect for him tripled.

      He turned and frowned when he caught sight of Becky sitting in the corner. “Bet you wish you’d taken my advice and stayed in the break room.” Pulling off his gloves and chucking them into a red trashcan in the corner, he turned as if to leave the room but paused, looking at his own shirtfront. A large bloodstain marred the scrub top, and after a moment he yanked it off and disposed of it.

      “You saved his life.” She breathed the words, unable to speak above a whisper. “That was incredible.”

      “Might’ve been better if I hadn’t.” John sounded grim. “It’s hard to reconcile myself to saving someone who could do that to themselves. I doubt he’ll ever have a face again.” He turned to a sink in the corner, turning on the faucet.

      Becky gasped. “It was self-inflicted? How do you know?”

      “Bullet entered at an angle from under the chin.” He spoke as if by rote, reaching for paper towels before turning. “I can’t swear nobody would shoot him with a shotgun from that angle, but most likely he’s the one that pulled the trigger.” He looked as if he wanted to say more, but when he saw her face, he hesitated.

      “Look,” he said in a gentler voice than she’d heard him use all day. “The shift ended a half hour ago. I’m heading for a shower and a change. I suggest you do the same. Then go home and get some rest. Today was bad, but tomorrow will probably be more of the same.”

      Unable to summon the strength to argue, Becky nodded and dragged herself into the locker room. As the door shut behind her, the nausea hit full force. Determined not to get sick, at least not until she could make it home, she sank onto the concrete floor, her back against the cool tile of the wall, and let her head hang between her knees. Her brain fast-forwarded through the day, pausing on the most grotesque and anguishing scenes she’d witnessed. Like the worst nightmare she’d ever had, she couldn’t get away from the vision of the man with half his head blown away.

      After several long minutes, she felt strong enough to stumble to the sink and splash water on her face. She rinsed her mouth and stood with her head bowed as she waited for the last of the weakness to dissipate.

      “Feel better?”

      Startled, Becky raised her head to meet John’s gaze in the mirror. He shrugged and smiled at her reflection. “You didn’t look too good, and when you weren’t out by the time I finished my shower, I decided I’d better check on you.”

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