Page 20 of Holiday Love
A stab of guilt. Lindsey’s been nothing but kind to me since she arrived a few months ago. She’s the only nurse who actuallytalksto me outside of patient discussions. She tries with me in a way most people don’t, and I just snapped at her.
Heat creeps up my neck.
Fix it. Fix it. Fix it.
Lindsey stares at the floor. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “I just thought it might be fun.”
Without waiting for me to respond, she tucks her hands into her scrub pockets and hurries down the hall, away from me.
I should say something. Call her back. Apologize. My mouth opens, then closes. My hand reaches out only to fall back by my side, useless.
I stand there, alone.
“Helen…Helen…”
Dr. Reynolds is saying my name, repeating it since I’m distracted by what just happened with Lindsey.
“Oh!” Startled, I turn to my boss and the head of the Emergency Department. “Sorry, did you need me?”
She gives a curt nod. “In my office. Are you free now?”
I glance at the round clock high on the wall with its black ticking hands telling me it’s one a.m. “Yeah, I was just about to take my lunch break.” It always seems weird to call it lunch when it’s so late at night, but since it’s in the middle of our shift that’s how most of us refer to it.
“Good. Let’s talk.” She spins and heads to her office, which is right around the corner.
I follow with a stirring of unease in my belly.
What could she want?
Dr. Reynolds usually likes me, and why wouldn’t she? I have the lowest complication rate of any ER doctor in the hospital. I never complain about my schedule, never show up late, never slack off.I don’t gossip, I don’t waste time in break rooms, and I don’t miss deadlines. Plus, I always agree to cover extra shifts, not because I need the money, although I appreciate the extra cash. No, I take the extra shifts because I like to stay busy. Because it proves I’m someone the department can count on.
Extra work can’t be why she’s calling me into her office, though. That could be easily handled by email.
I follow her inside, and she waves me to a chair in front of her imposing solid oak desk. Dr. Reynolds sits, her black-rimmed glasses low on her nose, salt-and-pepper hair tucked neatly behind her ears. She’s always loud, always commanding. Sometimes I want to cover my ears with my hands when her voice booms across the department.
Which is why my dread turns to full-fledged terror when she softens her voice and asks, quietly, “Do you know why I called you in here?”
I shake my head, my knee jiggling so badly I slap a hand on it and press down, hoping to still the movement. I’ve been so tense recently, worried about my mom. I’m not sure I can handle more bad news.
She heaves a sigh like she’s dissatisfied with my answer. “Do you remember a patient by the name of Theodore Wright? A drowning from a few weeks ago?”
Teddy.
I can feel my eyes widen. Not trusting my voice, I nod silently.
She folds her hands together on the table and leans forward. “What,exactly, is your relationship with this patient?”
Oh no.
My stomach drops. The room shrinks and becomes smaller, the air too thick.
I’m in so much trouble.
I swallow, my throat clicking. “He’s the brother of my friend.”
Dr. Reynolds already knows that, of course.
“And your relationship with him?” she prompts.
