Page 2 of Saint of the Shadows

A weak smile crept across her pale face, perhaps holding on to Marisol’s promise that she would not die. But it did not last long. Señora’s shoulders heaved with another cough attack.

Dr. Foster, who looked like a princess but was definitely the ogre of the ER, popped through thepartition curtain with her laptop precariously balanced on one forearm. She already tapped her foot as she clicked through the standard questionnaire. Maybe tonight her microaggressions would become full-on macro. Trading in “You speak English so well!” for “Those people always exaggerate their symptoms.”

The patient’s daughter explained that her mother had recurring bronchitis but insisted her recent cough was the worst yet. On top of that, a bad hip limited Señora’s mobility, and she always ached. The patient’s stark white hair, in contrast to her crepey brown skin, reminded Marisol of her abuelita, so Marisol lingered in the treatment room. Dr. Foster needed to be careful with a too-quick diagnosis. The cough and sedentary lifestyle could mean deep-vein thrombosis developing into a pulmonary embolism. Though it had been a few years since dropping out of med school, Marisol never shut off her wanna-be doctor. Dr. Foster would probably order a CT scan and put Señora on a blood thinner.

Dr. Foster wiggled her upturned nose like a bunny while staring at her laptop. “Bronchitis. We’ll prescribe a nebulized steroid,” she announced without looking up.

The daughter whispered to herself. She appeared to be translating the words before she said, “Mamá, necesitas un inhalador.”

Marisol’s tightly drawn brow wasn’t going to stand much against a patient’s wrongful death,so she opted for her own professional suicide. “Steroid? Are you sure, Dr. Foster? Señora’s daughter said her cough is worse than before. Might be good to rule out a blood clot traveling to her lungs and—”

“And?!” Dr. Foster finally looked up from the screen.

“If we are wrong, it could be deadly.”

The daughter translated Marisol’s words to her mother.

“Are you questioning me in front of a patient? Nurse?”

Marisol swallowed. “I’m pointing out information important to her diagnosis, Doctor.”

Dr. Foster wiggled her nose again. “Go get me the steroid.”

“No!” Then a flood of words rushed from the elderly patient. Her daughter patted her shoulder and repeated, “Yo sé,” only when the patient took a breath between her sentences. Both actions seemed to be feeble attempts to calm Señora.

The daughter asked, “Can we please check if it’s a blood clot?” She looked at Marisol as if she was the one in charge.

Dr. Foster sighed. “Very well. We’ll order the CT scan and give her an infusion of heparin.” She shut her laptop close with a clap. “If the scan is clear, it’s off the blood thinner and home with an inhaler.”

Marisol pursed her lips together, holding back her smile, which she couldn’t hold for long as Dr. Foster snatched her into the hallway. The doctor guided Marisol around the corner, away from patients’ prying ears. “Are you trying to make me look bad?”

“I’m just advocating for my patient–”

“My patient. You are aware that we follow a chain of command here.”

“Yes, Dr. Foster.”

“If every nurse made diagnoses, there would be chaos. For the safety of our patients, if you can’t contribute to the order of my ER, I will have you removed. You’ll be taking nothing but blood pressure and temperatures in the clinics!”

Marisol stared past a tendril of Dr. Foster’s blonde hair, focusing on the wall. There was nothing worse than the predictable routine of the clinics.

“If you wanted to be in charge, you should’ve received the proper education like the rest of us.” Dr. Foster stormed down the hallway.

And beliefs like that chafed Marisol’s butt raw. She had received the proper education: college, a couple years of nursing, the MCAT, a year-and-change of medical school, and throughout, jerks would ask, “How did you know that?” or any other loaded but superficially innocuous expression that said Marisol had no business knowing what she knew because she didn’t go to the best schools... because Momwas a first-generation immigrant... because Dad lost his stevedore job... because she grew up on the Westside in row housing... because her brother, Caz, wound up in prison.

She wrongly figured entering a third decade would get her the respect she deserved. Nope. More time on the planet meant she knew more jerks, but dammit if she didn’t hold on to the fantasy of one day calling the shots.

Marisol ducked into the linen closet to release a string of curse words, only to find Nurse Rossi there with an armload of sheets. Rossi greeted her with, “Want a good laugh?”

Not now. Marisol grunted, straining the tendons of her neck. “What’s up?”

“Check out the thread count on these bed sheets.”

The tag read 1000 count, a little fancy for absorbing a third of the city’s mucus, sweat, blood, vomit, urine, feces, and whatever else the human body squeezed or spurted out.

“The man posed for photos during the first shift to promote his fundraiser. Apparently, he brought a set decorator and left behind an ample supply of these.”

The man was Vincent Varian, Shadowhaven’s golden boy. If he wasn’t on some exotic adventure, with or without his companion of the month, he’d make brief appearances at the hospital with cameras in tow. Luckily with working the night shift, Marisol never had to be sickened from witnessing the pageantry. Instead, she experiencedit secondhand, happily recycling worn magazines and tabloids scattered all over the cafeteria, waiting room, and treatment areas. Cover after cover displayed his square jaw, dusky blue eyes, and stylish dark golden coif. Occasionally, he’d pose with a sick child to “raise awareness.” Awareness ofwhatwas beyond her. In Shadowhaven, children still got sick, and their parents still struggled to pay the bills. The only thing people remained aware of was Vincent.

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