The Only Best Place (27 page)

And you don't?

I couldn't fit my head around that yet. Didn't know where to put it.

What would I lose? What would I gain?

There are moments when you like it here. Admit it.

But so much would change…

I couldn't think about that yet. Not yet.

I put the kids in bed while Dan retreated to his shop. We maintained a quiet cease-fire, neither of us talking. Neither of
us knew what to say, how to regain lost ground.

I tried to read a book, gave up and went to bed, lying between the freshly washed sheets, trying to find sleep. Dan joined
me much later, but he turned away from me, presenting his back to me across the expanse of our bed, which now seemed as broad
as the Atlantic and just as inviting. In minutes I heard him snoring.

Sleep, when I finally found it, was restless. Full of incoherent dreams.

I woke up in the early morning, unable to sleep anymore, and made my way back downstairs. Two o'clock in the hospital was usually
a chance to catch up with some of the other nurses, catch up on paperwork. At home, it was an empty, lonely time with no one
to connect with. I checked my e-mail. Nothing from Terra or Josie. Somehow it didn't matter as much as it used to.

I wandered around the house, restless, unsettled.

Then I saw the Bible sitting by Dan's chair. I snapped on the light and picked it up. I had read it a couple of times before,
not sure of where to start. A piece of paper stuck out from the pages, so I opened it there. Psalm 23. I dropped into Dan's
chair and started reading. The rhythm of the language and vaguely familiar words drew me in. “… He leads me beside quiet
waters. He restores my soul.” I took a long, slow breath as I read, letting the cadence of the words wash over me. Comfort
me. “… You anoint my head with oil. My cup overflows. Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

I dropped my head on the chair and stared at the ceiling. The house of the Lord. Did God really want me? Would He really restore
a soul that had been tainted by wrong? Would the family really forgive me?

I felt as if my life were unraveling and I didn't know how to put it back together again.

A
nd when did you say you injured your back?” I asked my patient as I whisked the curtain closed around the bed. The day had
been busy, thankfully. I didn't have time to spin through the endless circle of what I had said the day before yesterday—what
I should have said, what I shouldn't have said. Dan hadn't brought it up yesterday or this morning.

I didn't know how to proceed from here and I couldn't mention it to Kathy or ask her advice. As for my magical book? Well,
there was no chapter in
How a Marriage Can Succeed
that covered uneasy truces.

“Ten years ago. I was working as a roofer. Slipped on a shingle that some idiot had laying around and
wham
“—he smacked his hands together—“I was sliding down that roof and on the ground before I knew what hit me. Saw more stars
than the Walk of Fame.” He gave me a quick grin, then, as if realizing that he was supposed to be in pain, and winced. “I
need to see the doctor.”

Mr. Francisco wore scruffy blue jeans and a tattered jean jacket and his hair was pulled back into a greasy ponytail. Obviously
not one of the more prosperous seekers of the American Dream.

“Before I get the doctor, can you do a few things for me so I can judge the extent of your pain?”

This netted me a sullen look and a shrug. “Sure. As long as you don't make me throw my back out. I'll sue, you know.”

Of course he would.

“Can you lift your arms over your head?”

This was done with much groaning and moaning as I watched for any telltale signs. I knew that the motto of the justice system
was “innocent until proven guilty,” but I had a vibe about this guy.

I gave him a few more small exercises, which he performed mindlessly, his begrudging air slowly fading as I took notes.

“Can you touch your toes?” I asked the question casually, and when he easily bent over to do this, my vibe grew stronger.
He should have been in agony.

“So, when is the doctor going to see me?” he asked, his voice growing quieter as he straightened. “I really need something
for the pain, 'cause I lost my other prescription.”

Of course he needed a new prescription. And as we went through the list of his allergies—big surprise—he named every common
painkiller that could be acquired without a prescription.

With patients like Mr. Francisco, training and intuition collided. My training taught me to be sympathetic, to listen and
to be nonjudgmental.

“Are you on any medication now?” I asked, injecting a pleasant tone into my voice. It was work, that injecting. I knew this
guy's type all too well. We came across them day after day in Seattle, and it was always a struggle to deal with them professionally
and courteously when you knew they were using and abusing the system.

He lifted his hands just a fraction. The pain, of course. “Well, I had some medication, like I told you. But I was with some
dudes and we were hanging out at my place. One of the guys went into my bathroom. He's a big-time druggie. Loser,” he said
knowingly with a slow nod, pulling me onto his side. “I'm sure he's dealing on the side. Knows I'll squash him like a bug
if I find out he's doing that stuff. I'm sure he took the stuff from my bathroom, 'cause as soon as he was done, he told this
other guy they had to leave real quick. I was going to go to my regular doctor, in Missoula, but he's gone on some fancy trip
to the Bahamas. You know doctors,” he said, lowering his voice and angling his head with a quick jerk toward the cubicle where
John was busy with another patient. “I had to come here anyway to see some guy about a truck that I was going to buy. I was
gonna try to go without the pills, but the pain, it just got too bad.”

“That's too bad,” I said, forcing sympathy into my voice.

“Anyway, when can I see the doctor? I'm dying here.”

I smiled politely as I carefully wrote out some notes on his chart. I'd seen dying, and Mr. Francisco was a long ways from
hearing the angels sing.

“I'm in pain, nurse. You have to pay attention. You have to treat me.”

Don't roll your eyes. Don't even make eye contact. Just keep writing.

“You hearing me, nurse? I got rights. I got medical insurance. I can pay.” His voice rose with each declaration.

Relax. Don't take it personally. Don't let your emotions intrude on your patient-nurse relationship.

“I'll get the doctor,” I said with a careful smile.

As I left, I massaged my temples, trying to push away the pain that had been steadily building since my confrontation with
Dan. I couldn't push aside the angry words thrown down between us. What he'd said about my mother, what I'd said about his. What
Gloria had said about Dr. John.

I worked the night shift after our fight, unintentionally underscoring his accusation that I put work before family. But I
couldn't be at home with all that tension boiling beneath the quiet facade we kept up for the sake of the kids.

Once again our lives slipped past each other. I hated it.

In spite of my pique with her self-righteous gossiping, I set my own pride aside long enough to realize that Gloria was right.
I had been edging around dangerous territory, encouraging Dr. John. And I had encouraged him for the wrong reasons. Pride.
Selfish gossip. In spite of what Gloria and Wilma had done and said, I had no right to bring down their characters just to
prop up my own weaknesses. What had been worse was realizing how easily I had slipped into the same territory where Dan had
been. I had come here with a sense of pride and superiority. All lost. Swept away.

So I created a distance between me and Dr. John. I kept our conversation professional and didn't rise to the bait when he
made a comment about Gloria. Thankfully he seemed to get the hint, but I felt as if I had lost my only ally.

I checked on the woman with the croupy cough beside Mr. Francisco. Thankfully she didn't ask when Dr. John was going to see
her. I didn't have an answer.

As I stepped out of her cubicle, a noise at the front desk caught my attention. My heart sank when I saw the man carrying
a child, a woman hurrying behind him. All the beds were full. Mr. Francisco had been triaged to the end of the line and was
our last patient. If we had a real emergency, he'd be bumped back to the waiting room, which would make him even more cranky.

Then the frantic-looking man by the front desk glanced over his shoulder and ice slipped through my veins.

It was Dan… and he carried Nicholas.

Wilma was right on his heels.

Questions skittered through my mind. Why was Wilma here? Kathy was supposed to be taking care of the kids. But right behind
those questions a larger one loomed, heavy and threatening.

What was wrong with Nicholas?

Go. Now. Hurry. Your baby. Your little boy is in trouble. You should have been at home. You knew he wasn't well. Dan was right.
You do put your job first and now Wilma gets to see firsthand.

Nicholas had been fussing all last night and was a bit feverish that morning, but I had put it down to teething. Had I been
so terribly wrong? Me? A nurse?

Guilty fear tumbled through my mind as I made my rubbery legs hurry to Dan's side.

“He's burning up, Leslie.” Dan looked to me as if I had an answer. All I had at the moment was a flash of guilt that I hadn't
been home to prevent this. Whatever this was.

“Bring him into the trauma room,” I said, holding back from pulling Nicholas out of his arms myself. I hurried ahead of him,
Dan and Wilma right behind me.

Relax. Assess. Triage. Treat.

I ran through the litany that always helped me during the harder cases that came into the emergency room in Seattle.

The words usually calmed me and pulled me back from the emotions of the situation. I had a job to do.

But I had forgotten about Mr. Francisco glaring at me through narrowed eyes as he sat on the bed we needed for Nicholas. “Where's
the doc? I thought he was going to see me next.”

“We have to move you back to the waiting room,” I said firmly. “We have an emergency.”

He didn't budge.

“Please get off the bed.” I couldn't stop the edge in my voice. My son needed that space.

“I'll sue.”

“I know a good lawyer. We have a very ill child.” I didn't have time for this. “Now, get off that bed.”

I didn't know where this fit in nurse-patient procedure, but as I stared at him, he finally moved. I was there in a nanosecond,
whipping off the sheets he had been sitting on, replacing them as he stormed out the door. He moved surprisingly fast for
someone with severe back pain.

When Dan and Wilma came in the room, I saw Wilma look from me to the retreating back of Mr. Francisco, then back at me, puzzled.
No time to explain.

“Lay him on the bed,” I said to Dan. “Take off his shirt and coat.”

My heart stuttered in my chest as Dan undressed him, handing the clothes to my mother-in-law. I pulled the crash cart close,
clipped a new cover on the thermometer, and checked his temperature. Sky-high. His breathing was fast, pulse erratic.

“Dr. John Brouwer!” I called out, knowing he was somewhere on the ward. “I need you
now.
” Again, no time for niceties. This case now had priority.

Nicholas's chest was clear.

In spite of my training and my previous experience, I couldn't pull back far enough from this case. This body, burning with
fever, lying so still on the bed, was my son. My baby boy. I called to Arlene to get a lab tech down here.

“What happened?” I asked as I started a chart.

My mind clicked through the possibilities as a faint whisper of a memory teased the back of my mind. The mother who had come
in the other day talking about a suspected case of meningitis at the day care. We hadn't treated the child here, so I never
thought of it again. Until now.

“Kathy said Nicholas was cranky when you left for work,” Wilma said. “Then he started shivering a couple of hours later and
he threw up. She called Dan, who called me, and we met at Kathy's place. When we picked Nicholas up, we noticed that he was
all stiff.”

Febrile convulsion?

Habit and training pushed away the emotions for the moment as I scribbled rough notes on the chart. I would translate later.
I hooked him up to the vital-signs monitor, slipped the oxygen mask on, snapped a tourniquet on his arm, and swabbed the spot
where I would start the IV. I was pushing things. O
₂
and IV were not on the standing orders for a young child presenting with a fever. But I couldn't get rid of the doubt scratching
repeatedly at the back of my mind.

Why was that cannula shaking so much? Why couldn't I hold it still? I swallowed and tried to relax.

Oh, God.

I took in another breath.

Oh, God.

The expression had always been simply that. An expression. A cry to a deity that I had conveniently sidelined, only to call
Him out when things went wrong. God's name was an expression of fear, a cry for help.

It was only in the extreme situations of my job that I used His name. But now, as I gently pierced my own son's soft skin
with a needle, I felt as if I mentally whispered to Him. Drawing on His power and strength.

“When he got drowsy on the way here, I knew something was really wrong,” Wilma was saying.

Nicholas's eyes fluttered open. I didn't want to make eye contact. He was a patient. If I saw his eyes, if I saw tears or
pain, he would cease to be a patient and suddenly become my son.

Check oxygen levels. Increase saturation.
What would the doctor order from the lab? I started a requisition form.

Where was Dr. John?

I checked the vital-signs monitor, my mind still flipping through possibilities.