Between You and Me. Susan Wiggs

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СКАЧАТЬ “He asked me special.”

      Before he could reply, the kitchen door slapped open with a violent bang. Levi Hauber’s face was the color of old snow, and his shoulders shook visibly. Even before he spoke, the sheer horror in his eyes froze Caleb’s blood.

      “Come quick,” Levi said. “It’s Jonah. There’s been an accident.”

       2

      “Oh, fuck me sideways,” muttered Reese Powell as her work phone buzzed rudely against her side like a small electric shock. God. She’d just closed her eyes for a much-needed nap. Checking the screen, she saw that it was a summons from Mel, her supervising resident, in the ER. With brisk, mechanical movements, she put on her short white lab coat, looped a stethoscope around her neck, and headed out of the break room.

      The long, gleaming corridor was littered with equipment and gurneys, the occasional patient slumped in a wheelchair, a rolling biohazard bin or two. Nurses and orderlies swished past, hurrying to their next call.

      Reese blinked away the last of the foiled nap and took a deep breath. I will do right by my patients. This was her mantra, the one she’d adopted as a fourth-year medical student. I will do right by my patients. She had spent three years studying, cramming her head full of knowledge, memorizing, observing, but this year, the year she would earn the title of doctor, she set one simple, powerful task for herself: do the right thing.

      One of the things she liked about working in the ER was the element of surprise. You never knew what was coming through the door next. Her parents had been appalled when she’d informed them of her interest in the ER. They had been pushing her toward pediatric surgery, and they expected her to explore something closer to that field. But for once, she had dared to inch a little to the left of their proposed path. She wanted more experience in emergency medicine. And Mercy Heights had a level-one trauma center, the best in Philadelphia.

      Patients, family members, and personnel were clustered around the admittance center, the nucleus of the ER. As she scanned the area for Mel, a nurse stuck her head out of an exam room.

      “Oh, good, you’re here,” she said. “We need someone who speaks Spanish. We’ve got a one-woman shitstorm.”

      Reese hurried into the small room. “What have you got—oh.” For a second, she just stood there, trying to take in the scene. The patient was a young dark-haired woman in a stained dress, crouched on the bed, her posture defensive and her eyes cloudy with fear and distrust. Someone was asking her what she took, when she took it, but she recoiled from the questions.

      “They found her wandering on the street,” said the nurse. “All we know so far is that she’s pregnant. And probably altered. She told the EMTs she was intoxicated. We’re trying to find out what she took.”

      A security guard stood ready, restraints in hand. Mel shook his head. Reese knew he feared things would escalate if they tried to restrain her.

      “This is not a place of healing,” the woman said in rapid-fire Spanish. “This is a place of death, a place of eternal curses.” Then she lapsed into a muttered prayer.

      Reese’s Spanish kicked in. She spoke the colloquial version she’d learned from Juanita, her childhood nanny. Growing up, she’d spent more time with Juanita than she had with her busy, ubersuccessful parents. Putting on a warm, professional smile, she slowly walked toward the woman. “Hola, señora,” she said softly. “¿Qué pasa?”

      At the sound of her native tongue, the woman stopped speaking and glared at Reese. “I’m Reese Powell,” Reese continued in Spanish, never losing eye contact. “My colleagues and I would like to examine you, and make sure you’re all right.”

      “Get away from me. These are bad people.”

      “We want to help you,” Reese said. “Do you understand English?”

      “No. No English.”

      “Please, may I ask you some questions?”

      “My secrets are mine to keep.”

      “Sometimes it is best to share a secret. Is this your first baby?”

      “Yes.” The woman unfurled a little, dropping her arms from her drawn-up knees.

      “What is your name, ma’am?”

      “My name is Lena Garza.”

      “How old are you, Lena?”

      She hesitated. “Nineteen.”

      “Ask her what she took,” someone said. “We heard her say she’s intoxicated.”

      Reese studied the drawn, olive-toned face. The girl looked older than nineteen, her deep brown eyes haunted and scared.

      “You were wandering around in traffic,” Reese said, rapidly translating for one of the EMTs. “Why were you doing that? Did you take something?” She had been taught to practice empathy—direct eye contact, a physical touch—and at first, reaching out to a stranger in this way had felt strange to her. Now that she’d been at it for a while, the gestures felt natural. It was gratifying to see the woman relax slightly, taking a deep breath before she spoke.

      Lena Garza twisted the band of silver she wore on her forefinger. “Estoy intoxicada.”

      “Ask her what—”

      “Wait,” Reese said. “Intoxicada just means that she ingested something. Could be food, a drug, anything that makes a person sick.” She turned to Lena. “Can you tell me what you took?”

      “My mother told me I will burn in hell,” she whispered. “I am not married. That is why I took the herbs.”

      Reese’s heart skipped a beat. “She took something,” she told Mel in English. “What did you take, Lena?”

      The girl reached into the pocket of her faded dress and drew out a crinkly cellophane bag. “She said this would cause my period to start.”

      Reese grabbed the bag and showed it to Mel. “Angelica. Said to have abortifacient properties.”

      Mel sniffed the yellowish-brown herb. “Also called dong quai. When did she take it? Was it within the last four hours? How much did she take?”

      Reese asked the patient.

      “I don’t remember. I will burn in hell,” she moaned.

      “Only if you die,” Reese said in Spanish. “And we are not going to let that happen, not today.”

      Mel said, “We’re going to need a gastric lavage, stat.”

      While the techs prepared the lavage tray and measured activated charcoal into a beaker, Reese coaxed a bit more information from the patient—When did she have her last period? Had she seen a doctor? Where did she live?

      Reese reported the answers, then convinced the woman to lie back and be connected to monitors. “I’m going to have a listen to your baby, all right?” She gently СКАЧАТЬ