It's Nothing Personal (7 page)

“Good morning, Mr. Reiner,” Jenna purred.
 
She peeled off her panties and guided
Tom inside her.

“Good morning, sexy,” Tom whispered into her
ear.

Jenna’s breathing became erratic as Tom’s
thrusts grew more forceful and aggressive.
 
Within minutes, they cried out into the silent house as they both
climaxed.
 

She giggled as she pulled away from her
husband.
 
“We better learn to keep
it down.
 
One of these days, we’re
going to wake Mia.”

The morning sun was beginning to rise,
filling their bedroom with a soft glow.
 
Jenna could just make out the contour of Tom’s muscles.
 
Looking at him, with his blonde hair and
light blue eyes, she started to get aroused again.

Jenna forced herself to check the time and
groaned.
 
Ginger, their Golden
Retriever, interpreted Jenna’s sound as an invitation.
 
Without hesitation, the dog jumped on
the bed and snuggled up to Jenna.

Tom laughed.
 
“Looks like, at the very least, we
piqued our dog’s interest.”

Unenthusiastically, Jenna climbed out of
bed.
 
The sweet scent of sex lingered
on her body.
 
She pulled on her
fluffy, pink robe and sauntered barefoot down the cool, travertine tile hallway
into the kitchen.
 
Jenna let Ginger
outside to do her business and made coffee.
 
With two warm mugs in her hands, she
returned to their bedroom and handed a cup to Tom.
 

“Thanks, babe,” Tom replied, propping
himself up in bed.

Jenna grinned as she leaned over her husband
and kissed him hungrily.
 
He
attempted to pull her back into bed, but Jenna shook her head seductively and
walked into the bathroom.
 
She
turned on the shower, waited for steam to rise from the glass walls, and
stepped inside.
 
Closing her eyes,
Jenna relaxed under the stream of hot water.
 
From the bedroom, she heard Tom turn the
television on.
 

Jenna was scrubbing her hair when Tom began
shouting.
 
She could not understand
what her husband was saying, but he kept calling her name.
 
With her head still covered with
shampoo, Jenna threw a towel around her body and ran into the bedroom, dripping
a trail of water and suds along the way.

Tom was sitting upright in bed, pointing at
the television.
 
He turned up the
volume.
 
The tail end of a
commercial blared from the TV.

Jenna was perplexed and mildly annoyed.
 
“Tom, what the hell is going on?”

Tom hushed his wife and stared at the
TV.
 
The broadcast returned to the
morning newscast.
 
A petite, blonde reporter
from Channel 8 was standing outside of St. Augustine Hospital with a microphone
in her hand.

Jenna fell silent as she watched the report.

“Channel 8 News has just learned that a
surgical scrub technician who, up until recently, worked at St. Augustine
Hospital, may have put thousands of patients at risk for acquiring hepatitis
C.
 
The scrub tech’s name is Hillary
Martin, and she is infected with the hepatitis C virus.
 
In a videotaped police interview, Martin
admitted to stealing syringes filled with Fentanyl, an extremely powerful and
addictive narcotic.
 
Martin also confessed
to injecting herself with the drug.
 
She would swap the stolen syringes with used
ones filled with saline and remnants of her own virus-laden blood.
 
Anesthesiologists, unaware of the theft, may
have used the contaminated syringes on surgical patients during their
procedures.

“Representatives from St. Augustine hospital
have yet to confirm Martin’s alleged actions, stating that the investigation is
ongoing.
 
Standing here, we have
Keith Jones, the CEO of St. Augustine Hospital.
 
Mr. Jones, what can you tell us?”
 

The cameraman zoomed in on Mr. Jones, an
attractive, middle-aged man, with short, gray hair and an athletic build.
 
Jenna was immediately drawn to his
eyes.
 
They were small, dark, beady,
and ominous.
 
Something about Keith
Jones intimidated her.
 

A man of power and control, Mr. Jones
demonstrated nothing less as he spoke to the camera in a commanding voice.
 
“St. Augustine strives to provide the
very best in patient care.
 
Our
patients’ health and safety have always been, and continue to be, our highest
priority.
 
We urge all patients who
had surgery at St. Augustine between November 2009 and April 2010 to come to
our hospital for free, confidential hepatitis testing.
 
We are shocked at the allegations that
have come to surface and are diligently trying to work out the best plan of action
to make sure our patients receive the care they deserve.
 
Thank you.”

Mr. Jones turned and walked away before the
reporter could attempt another question.

Tom turned down the volume and looked
directly at Jenna.
 

“Do you know the tech?” he asked nervously.

Jenna thought for a minute and then shook
her head.
 
“I don’t think so.
 
I mean, I suppose I may have worked with
her.”

Jenna nibbled at her thumbnail.
 
Tom reached up and pulled her hand away
from her mouth.
 
He knew his wife
was deeply troubled.

“Jenna, what are you thinking?”

“Things are only going to get worse,” she
said glumly.
 
Jenna left her husband
alone on the bed and returned to the shower.

Between her interlude with Tom and the news
story, Jenna was running late.
 
She
rushed to get dressed.
   

Mia came down from her room to kiss her
mother goodbye for the day.
 
Jenna
buried her head in Mia’s long blonde curls and hugged her tightly.
 
Before letting go of her daughter, Jenna
she sneaked a glance at the television.
 

It was a few minutes after 7 a.m., and the
local news had switched over to the national affiliate.
 
To Jenna’s horror, the lead story was
St. Augustine Hospital and the hepatitis C outbreak.
 
The event was officially
big
news.

Jenna smiled when she kissed Mia, careful to
protect her daughter from her own mounting anxiety.
 
Glancing at Tom, Jenna sensed his
apprehension.

Tom moved closer to Jenna and whispered in
her ear, “Call me if you hear anything new.”

Jenna nodded solemnly.
 

“Have a good day at work and school,” Jenna
said to Tom and Mia as she left the house.
 
“I love you both.”

On the drive in, Jenna listened to the story
being recapped on the radio.
 
After
the third iteration, she had enough.
 
She turned the radio off and drove the rest of the way in silence.

Approaching the street in front of St.
Augustine Hospital, Jenna was astonished by the amount of chaos.
 
Every major local news affiliate had a
van stationed directly in front of the hospital, and a sea of satellite dishes
extended into the air.
 
A number of
police cars were present with officers standing outside the entrance.
 

Jenna pulled into the parking lot.
 
Before getting out of her car, she
sighed heavily, hoping the release would prepare her for things to come.
 
Hastily, she made her way through a side
door into the lobby of the hospital.

Inside, there was complete pandemonium.
 
Tables, staffed by nurses and hospital
administrators, had been set up across the entire length of the lobby.
 
Hand-printed posters were taped to the
walls that read “Hepatitis Testing/Information.”
 
Hundreds of horrified people, presumably
patients, descended upon the tables, searching for answers.
 

Suddenly, Jenna felt conspicuous in her
surgical scrubs.
 
Afraid of being
accosted by an angry or frightened patient, she quickened her pace and
disappeared into the safety of a back stairwell that led up to the operating
rooms.

Jenna walked directly to the doctors’
lounge.
 
The room was crowded with
other anesthesiologists, all of whom were speaking at once.
 
She moved toward the back of the room,
catching portions of conversations along her way.

“Do you leave your drugs sitting out?”

“How could this have happened, right here,
in our ORs?”

“I wonder who she stole from.”

Dr. Rob Wilson strode into the lounge
looking deeply troubled.
 
His
already ruddy complexion took on a deeper hue of red, and his wrinkles were
accentuated by his frown.
 
Rob
Wilson, standing at 6 feet, 4 inches and weighing over 250 pounds, was a man
who, on physical stature alone, was difficult to ignore.
 
His professional accomplishments also
demanded respect.
 
Dr. Wilson was
both Chief of the Anesthesia Department at St. Augustine and President of
Jenna’s group.
 
Her colleagues took
note of his presence, and their conversations began to die down.
 
Eventually, the sound of multiple
doctors shushing one another overpowered the last conversations, and the room
became silent.

“All right,” Rob said, “I know you all have
a lot of questions.
 
Let me just
start by telling you what I know.
 
There has been a cluster of patients testing positive for hepatitis C
who lack the traditional risk factors.
 
The common thread among these patients is that they all had surgery at
our hospital between November of last year and April of this year.

“Coincidentally, at the same time that these
cases were being investigated by the State Health Department, one of the
surgical scrub techs from the main OR was caught using Fentanyl.
 
Her name, as many of you now probably
know, is Hillary Martin, and she worked here during the time period in
question.
 
She was known to be
positive for hepatitis C at the time she was hired.

“About ten days ago, Ms. Martin turned
herself in to authorities.
 
Martin
has admitted to stealing syringes of Fentanyl from our anesthesia carts.
 
She would inject herself with the drug
and replace the dirty syringe, refilled with saline, back on our carts before
any of us noticed the theft.
 
Unfortunately, if what she says is true, then at least some of us
unknowingly injected hepatitis C virus directly into our patients’ bloodstream
while they were under our care.”

The doctors were speechless, and the
collective body heat was causing the room to become stuffy.

Rob caught his breath and continued, “At
this point, ten patients have tested positive for hepatitis C.
 
We have no idea how many more will turn
up as we proceed with mass testing.

“We will try to get more news to you as it
becomes available.
 
At this point, I
must discourage all of you from discussing this matter with other members of
the OR staff or other anesthesiologists who are not part of our group.
 
The potential legal implications of this
debacle are nothing short of epic.
 
As such, I must also ask that all of you refrain from engaging in any
discussions with the media.
 
For
now, that’s all I know.
 
I suggest
that the best thing we can do is get back to work and continue to take
excellent care of our patients.”

Once Dr. Wilson had concluded his speech,
the noise in the room quickly escalated as Jenna’s colleagues pelted him with
questions.
 
Jenna, unable to
tolerate the frenzy, quietly slipped away.

Despite having been warned about discussing
the scandal, it was the main topic of conversation throughout the operating
rooms.
 
By the end of the day, the
speculations and rumors only made Jenna more upset and uncertain.

Shortly after 3:30 p.m., Jenna’s cases were
over, and she was mentally exhausted.
 
Slipping out one of the back doors of the hospital, she made it to her
car undetected, and drove home in silence.
 

Pulling into her driveway, Jenna whispered
to herself, “Please, God, don’t let this involve me.”

CHAPTER 8

June 15, 2010

At 3 a.m. Jenna lay in bed, wide-awake with
a pounding headache and a profound sense of dread.
 
The racket from the chirping of crickets
outside her open window sliced through her.
 
Jenna had hoped that the Ambien she
consumed the night before would have allowed her to sleep.
 
Unfortunately, the sedative was unable
to conquer her racing mind.
 
Giving
up on any hope of rest, Jenna grabbed her glasses, quietly rolled out of bed,
and tiptoed down the hallway.
 
Ginger’s
paws clicked against the tile as the dog trailed behind her.
 
When Jenna reached the kitchen, she
could hear Tom snoring.
 
In the
early morning stillness, she swallowed four tablets of Advil and made a cup of
tea.