Smolder (6 page)

Chapter Six

Lunch was served daily in the doctor's lounge, and I hoped I would run into Dmitri again. It was the equivalent of any other free buffet. I stayed in a corner by myself and watched small groups come and go. I started people watching as a teenager at the mall, and then I went to school to get paid for it.

If only I had known how long it would take to get here. A doctorate in psychology takes nine years of college and that’s if you don’t take a year off. A bachelor’s degree doesn’t do much, but some of my classmates got their Master’s degrees after the first two years of graduate school and then took time off to work for a while, or start a family.

I went through the entire five years of graduate school without a break and then did my post doctorate fellowship at Emory Healthcare. Twenty-nine years old is a little late to join the workforce, but I loved school and considered a career in teaching before the hospital environment enthralled me.

I knew the afternoon was going to be rough as soon as I got back to the office. In the waiting room sat a small family. A soldier from a local army base in his fatigues, his wife who looked frazzled enough to guzzle an entire keg and still shake, and two children. The children were the patients to be seen, according to the chart Lee handed me when I walked in. She didn't say anything out loud, but rolled her eyes as she walked away.

“I want to play Mommy. How come we have to be here?” one of the children asked.

The mother didn't answer. She looked at me instead. Parents who stopped being parents the second a professional was in the room caused me more headaches than anyone else.

“Why don't we talk in my office,” I said and gestured down the hallway.

I would thank Lee later for closing and locking both the restroom and kitchenette doors as both children tried to get in on their way past.

We settled into chairs, and I asked the first question I always asked when faced with one or more frazzled parents. “Who is in charge at home?”

“I am!” the young girl piped up proudly and stood up with her arm in the air.

She looked about two years old. I glanced at her parents, and they nodded in agreement.

Then the logical follow-up question. “Who decided a toddler should run the house?”

“I did!” Again, the small child answered proudly, and the parents didn't contradict her.

I began my discussion with the “you really are the parents and need to be making and enforcing the rules” speech. It should be required before anyone could take a child home from the hospital. All health professionals, physical and mental, had a version of this speech handy at all times. We all were amazed at how often we needed to give it.

The parents asked for and received a list of chores for the children, and the age appropriate punishments to accompany them. I drove home the need to punish them
every time
they violated a rule because
sometimes
leads to flexibility and chaos. They promised to try and scheduled an appointment for the next week.

After they left, I walked to front to see what the rest of my schedule was for the afternoon.

“How does my afternoon look?” I asked Lee as I found her in the hallway unlocking the kitchenette. “Locking those was a good idea,” I complimented her.

“I only wish I'd thought of it before both kids came running here. I caught them standing in front of the open refrigerator. Like it was their home.” She was amazed. “I asked their parents to come get them and their dad walked up here and stared at them having hissy fits.”

“Ah. It seems Mom will be the disciplinarian at home,” I noted.

“I don't think anyone is in charge. The kids ran through here like they owned the place. Their dad sat there with his eyes closed, and mom was on her cell phone until right before you came in the door.”

“I wonder how long it took their Dad to tune them out,” I wondered.

“He works at the bomb range.” She smiled.

“Ah. So he either has learned to tune them out…”

“…or he is completely deaf,” Lee finished for me.

“Ready for lunch?” That sexy Russian accent turned my head, and Dr. K stood in our doorway.

I could only nod in agreement. He wore a blue sweater with grey slacks and didn't have his lab coat on. Good lord, I would have to remember not to walk behind this man if I wanted to keep my sanity.

He stopped and let me through the door before him, and planted his hand firmly in the small of my back. I didn't have my coat on either as I removed it every time I sat at my desk. His hand was warm, and my back tingled where he touched me. I found myself imaging him running his hands over my back and pulling me into an embrace. As we passed people in the corridor, he pulled closer to me, and I smelled his cologne.

It was a warm, musky smell that reminded me of sandalwood candles after they burnt for a few hours. I found myself leaning into him to get another whiff. He smiled and pulled me closer. We made quite a scene when we entered the doctor's lounge practically arm in arm. I didn't care. We made our way through the buffet line and sat at a table in the back corner.

“How did you find your way to Savannah, Georgia?” I asked as we ate.

“I moved to the United States fifteen years ago with my family.” He looked down at his plate.

My heart dropped. He’d said his family, and suddenly I pictured a wife and children.

“Your family?” I asked, and hoped he didn't hear the disappointment I felt.

“My wife and I are divorced now, Ellie. She left me five years ago for one of my residents.” He kept his gaze locked on his empty plate.

“Had she always been stupid?” I blurted out without thinking.

His head snapped up, and I caught his gaping jaw before he started to laugh. “Yes, I guess you could say that.”

“You have children?” I asked.

“Yes. A son and a daughter, who live with their mother in Atlanta now. I see them once a month, and over the summer, they come here so they can spend time at the beach.”

It was clear from his tone he missed them.

“How old are they?” I hesitated to ask more questions because he seemed hurt by the answers, but my curiosity pushed me forward.

“They are teenagers now. Soon, my son will have his own car, and they can visit more often. I miss them as little ones. I can still remember when they used to be amazed at the simplest things. Now they love everything American. I grew up in Russia, and their mother is Italian. They learned about Italy, but not Russia.”

“They will ask you about Russia, Dr. K. Maybe they felt living with their mother, they needed to be more Italian with her.” I grasped at straws in order to ease some of his pain.

“That is a possibility. Their mother removed all things Russian from the house when we got divorced. Her new boyfriend was American and thought she was exotic and cool.” His face twisted into a smirk.

“I take it their relationship didn't last,” I said it as a statement.

“No. It seems she was tired of me, and his worship of her gave her an out. Is that how you say it?” He looked to me for confirmation.

“Yes. And when a spouse wants out of a marriage, it is quite common an affair be used as the excuse.” My heart was heavy in my chest. All I wanted to do was move over to him and hold on until he felt better.

“Do you help everyone who tells you their story?” His smile lit up his face, and my mood lightened.

“Yes. I don't just do this for a living. I've always listened when people have problems. I can remember being there for friends in third grade.”

My profession was obvious to my parents from grade school forward. They encouraged me to study psychology because they figured I would keep listening to people, and I might as well make a living at it. I couldn't have asked for better cheerleaders.

“I wanted to be a doctor as long as I can remember. That or a fireman. I grew up in Perm, Russia. My sister and I used to walk along the Kama River and talk about what we wanted to be when we grew up. Our parents insisted we not watch television or listen to radio because they didn't trust the Russian government. We lived a normal life, but as soon as my father could get a job abroad, we moved to Italy when I was sixteen.”

“What did your father do?”

“He was a mechanic. He built airplane parts. We left in 1991 after the Soviet Union fell. We were among the first families to leave. My mother thought Italy sounded pretty, and so we packed all of our things in a van and drove there.”

His eyes shone as he spoke.

“You enjoyed the trip?”

“I loved the trip. We were out of soviet control and free to have normal conversations. It was my first taste of freedom, and I vowed never to go back into another communist country. I kept that promise when my wife and I left Italy for New York right after we married.”

“Excuse me, Doctors. I need to speak with Ellie.”

I turned at the sound of Owen's voice. He looked frustrated. I had a feeling it was conversation I didn’t want to have in the relatively open lounge.

“I'll see you later, Dr. K.” I smiled at him and followed Owen into the hallway. “Why do you look like someone pissed in your cornflakes?”

“Like someone what?”

Clearly, he had never heard that particular expression.

“Like someone pissed in your cornflakes. Or like you ate yellow snow. Does that help?” I teased him.

“Lady, you are one strange surprise after another.” He smiled and led me toward the intensive care unit. “We have a small child brought in with a suspected non-accidental injury, and we want you to talk to the mother. She has fainted three times on my security officers, and they need to know what happened.”

“Okay. Is she the suspected abuser or was there someone else present?” I hated to ask those questions.

“She was present but asleep. The suspect is her boyfriend. He’s in custody. The child is unconscious with brain injuries, and the attending said she will likely stay in a coma for a while.”

He forced the last words out of his mouth. He was furious.

“How old is she, Owen?” I hoped she was very young. Small children healed fastest from traumatic injuries because their systems were still under construction.

“Two years old.”

“Owen, I can take it from here. Are your officers still there? If I get her to speak with me, I'll ask her if it's okay for them to listen in.” Unfortunately, I had experienced this situation before.

“Yes, I have a female officer with her now.” He stopped cold and took a deep breath. “I will go and cool off before I join you.” He turned down an adjoining hallway and left.

I walked the rest of the way to the pediatric intensive care unit focused on the little girl. I arrived as the female officer attempted to placate the mother outside of the door. The screams could be heard down the hallway. I signaled to the secretary to make sure the other patients’ doors were closed so they didn't hear this confrontation.

“I didn't do anything wrong!” the mother yelled.

“I never said you did,” the female officer replied in a calm voice.

“Maybe I can help,” I smiled at the secretary. “Can we have the key for the family conference room?”

She handed me the key, and I asked the mother and the officer to join me.

The mother explained she lay down to take a nap that morning after she worked a full twelve-hour night shift. Her boyfriend shook her awake and told her the baby had fallen down the stairs and he couldn't revive her. The mother panicked, shoved her boyfriend aside, and ran to her daughter's side. She couldn’t get a pulse and called 911. The ambulance got there a few minutes later. That’s when she noticed her boyfriend was gone.

She explained what happened to the officers, and they didn't believe her. They made her ride in the squad car instead of the ambulance, and she recalled passing out a few times. A call came into the squad car just before they arrived at the hospital, and the officers let her come inside with her daughter. She assumed she was going to be arrested as soon as her daughter stabilized.

The security guard interrupted her. “We don't think you did this, ma'am. Your boyfriend has priors for abuse and is being questioned right now.”

“Oh, thank god.” She fell forward and wept. “I hope they put him away forever. He tried to kill my daughter.”

The officer and I sat where we were and let her vent.

“You son of a bitch! I trusted you! I let you into my house, into my life, and you pay me back by hurting my little girl.” Her fist didn't make a dent in the wall. “My family told me not to trust you, but I did and look what happened. I can never make this up to her. Lost time, I can make up. Working too much, I can make up. But I can't put her back together.”

I caught her as she fell and held her while she cried. The officer finished her notes and left us alone.

“I'll never make this up to her. She will never forgive me.”

The young mother looked at me with pain and sorrow etched into her face. She would be a better mother because of this incident, if she didn’t become so overprotective that her little girl feels trapped.