Page 28 of A Noble Affair
They pushed the gurney through another set of doors, and one of the nurses finally turned to Chastity, kindly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait in the waiting room over there. You’re not allowed in this section, but we’ll give you news as soon as we have some.” The nursepressed Chastity’s arm and went through the swinging doors. Chastity nodded dumbly but remained rooted to the spot.
The doctor examinedthe screensas the inert patient was pulled through the hollow white tunnel. “We’ll need to relieve that cranial pressure,” he said, shaking his head.“I’d be more comfortable getting a pediatric neurologist in here since he’s so young.” Then, speaking decisively,“Page Docteur Toussaint.”
The triage nurse replied, “Docteur Toussaint is at a conference this whole week. There’s another doctor who’s covering for him while he’s away. He’s normally on leave—”
“Has he retained his hospital privileges?” Upon being assured that he had, the doctor barked, “Get him in here.”
Chastity walked numblyover to where the waiting room was indicated and searched for a seat. The floor was blue, and the chairs were orange plastic. The fluorescent lighting was garish and made a soft buzzing sound. An older couple sat across from her, the wife’s hand tucked into the husband’s arm. She gave Chastity a sympathetic glance but didn’t say anything. A teenagerbounced his knee up and down, absorbed in a video game. Chastity sat stiffly on thechair nearest to the door.
She couldn’t cry. It wasn’t the lack of privacy that prevented her. It was the horror. She was conscious of a sensation of icy cold in her limbs while her chest was burning hot. A lump in her throat prevented her from swallowing or speaking. She raced through the scene, again and again.
Here, kitty, kitty…
Mom, if I thought a kid was in trouble…
Hold on, sweetie.
Oh, if only I could go back and get his attention away from the cat. He wouldn’t have run into the street.Over and over her thoughts turned. The cat. Tommy,no!The screech. His lifeless form.
The winter sun began to set outside, making the fluorescent lights seem even more harsh. The short wait was already interminable.
Early in the morning,Charles strode through the corridorson hisway to the pediatric ward. He stopped at the nurse’s station to pull the chart and ran his finger down the notes from yesterday’s surgery, taking in the patient’s post-operative condition.
“Bonjour, docteur.” An attractive nurse smiled up at him, and he frowned at her, muttering a reply before walking over to the ICU recovery area. The progress for his young patient was far from certain, and not all the cranial pressure had been alleviated.
“Ah. You’re here. Bonjour, docteur.” He looked up at the sound of Martine Garcia’s voice, a dynamic, middle-aged woman, and his favorite nurse in the hospital.
“Hello, Martine,” he replied, his eyes twinkling. “I see everyone is keeping you busy.”
“Aw, now that my own children are grown and out of the house, I need some other ones to look after.” She flashed him a grin.
“On top of the pediatric cases,” he teased. She had a reputation for being no-nonsense with the more belligerent patients, and theywere always the older ones.
“Right you are.” She laughed heartily. “When will we have you back full-time at the hospital?”
“I’m halfway through my year-and-a-half sabbatical, so not for another nine months.”
“We sure miss you around here. Docteur Toussaint is great, of course, but you know he’s married. And old,” she added with a glimmer of a smile.
Charles couldn’t help but laugh. Martine was only fifteen years his senior, but she treated him to just enough informality to put him at ease, and nothing missed her sharp observation. It was impossible to escape the lures cast out at him with—as Martine would say—his inebriating combination of looks, wealth, medical degree, anda title.
“I’ve been meaning to stop by to ask how my intern is doing,” Charles said.
Martine smiled and sighed as she reached for the boxes she had pulled from the supply closet. “I wish there were more like him. He doesn’t put on any airs, and you can tell his concern for the patients is genuine. Too bad he’s only here for a few months.”
“Hm. I’m glad to hear he’s doing well. If he continues to be a good fit, perhaps he’ll apply here.” Charles spoke briskly, ready to move on. “Now, for our young patient in Room A. I see your notes here. I’ll take a look at the ICP and see if we need to schedule a decompressive craniotomy. Who’s been with him?”
“His mother hasn’t left his side. I don’t have the sense she gets much support. One visitor, no family.”
“I’m on my way there now.” He closed the chart with a snap and walked down the corridor past two open rooms, one of which was empty, before reaching the correct room. He entered it, his eyes on his young patient’s still form.
A slender woman, with long auburn curls that hid her face, leaned on the bed, her forehead resting on hands clasped in prayer. Almost immediately she turned towards him, lifting a tear-stained face, and wiping her nose on her sleeve. He stopped short in surprise, but she was the first to speak.
“You.” She leapedto her feet, her voice incredulous. He was unable to reply for a moment.
Of course.Thomas Whitmore was this woman’s son. How did he not make the connection as soon as he saw the name? There couldn’t be that many Whitmores in the suburbs of Paris. She looked different than she did at the school, though—vulnerable, young. In themorningsunlight that filtered through thehalf-closed blinds, he could see that,though her nose was an unattractive red from crying, her eyes were a brilliant green.
He collected himself. “Good morning, Mademoiselle Whitmore. I apologize for being unable to brief you on your son’s progress last night, but I was called into another emergency. Did you understand everything Docteur Bellamy said?”
