Critical Care: 1 (Mercy Hospital) Page 5

  Great. Cat bite on her big toe and Goliath within spitting distance.

  “I’m sorry,” he told the social worker with a smile. He dropped the sunglasses into his helmet. “I was halfway to Yosemite when I got the voice mail.” He stared into Claire’s eyes.

  Yes, my fault—deal with it. Claire lifted her chin and stared back, willing herself not to blink. Today was about doing what she could to help coworkers at risk, then bidding farewell to this whole mess. She’d shrink her world down to a comfort zone again, where the worst that could happen was insomnia or a joust with a one-eared cat that never purred. And then she’d move forward with her master plan.

  The heavyset social worker, Elaine Best, rose from her chair, and Claire glanced around the table. All the involved ER staff was here, including a security guard, Erin Quinn, Merlene Hibbert, Sarah Burke, and Inez Vega. The registration clerk, her hair in a single braid today, looked nervous but so much better than she had last night. It was a relief to know she’d talked with both her priest and a hospital social worker before she left the ER. Claire was surprised to see her shyly wave at Logan Caldwell. And even more so to see his return wink and warm smile. What was that all about?

  “We are here because of the Little Nugget Day Care tragedy,” Elaine began after introducing the CISM team, including Claire and the hospital chaplain, Ric Estes. “This process is not intended to be psychotherapy or to prevent and treat symptoms of post-traumatic stress. It is simply designed as a discussion to provide emotional support.”

  Claire stole a glance at Logan. His expression was unreadable, but his fingers drummed soundlessly on the tabletop, like a man who’d rather be anywhere but here. He looked up, and Claire refocused on the social worker.

  “When a critical incident involving a child occurs, 85 percent of the personnel affected will develop symptoms of stress within twenty-four hours,” Elaine said, her gaze traveling the room. “Some of you feel you can deal with this by yourselves. Maybe so.”

  Sarah Burke nodded over the rim of her Coke can. She was in scrubs again, and Claire wondered if she ever took a day off.

  “However,” the woman continued, “we’ve learned that people who try to handle everything alone take longer to do it. On the other hand, people who talk about a bad incident eat better, sleep better . . .”

  Sleep. Claire’s stomach tensed.

  “. . . remain healthier, stay employed longer, and have fewer problems in their home life as well as in other relationships,” Elaine finished.

  Logan began to doodle on a paper as Chaplain Estes, a balding man with a neatly trimmed beard, took over. “No one has any special status during this session. We are all just folks struggling through a rough situation.” He smiled gently. “So forget your rank and be a human being first.”

  Claire looked over at Logan and heard him sigh. The corners of his mouth drew downward, and his expression read “touchy-feely . . . shrink-to-fit.”

  He met her eyes before penning something on the paper. And underlining it.

  Chaplain Estes cleared his throat. “The next phase of Critical Incident Stress Debriefing is about to begin. We’ll ask each of you to tell us who you are, what your job was at the scene, and what happened there.”

  Suddenly the room felt warm, and Claire thought about taking off her jacket. It was lightweight but she was still perspiring. Was the heater on? Her breathing quickened and she shifted uneasily in her chair. Her throat constricted. Then, without warning, she started remembering the Sacramento trauma room, hearing the sirens, smelling the smoke, the sickening sweet scent of burned flesh and . . .

  Her pulse began to pound in her neck and her mouth went dry. She grasped the edge of the table, fighting a wave of dizziness. This was a huge mistake. She shouldn’t be part of this team. How could she get out of here?

  The chaplain’s voice seemed to echo from a tunnel, and Claire struggled to hear, filled with a dread she couldn’t name. “We also ask that you recall your first thought during this tragic incident once you stopped functioning automatically.”

  First thought. My first . . .

  Claire closed her eyes, but the horrible image of the hopelessly burned firefighter remained. Along with the clear memory of her first anguished thought: Oh no, that’s my brother!

  The session took more than two hours, and Claire made it to her final pamphlet-dispensing duty with the help of a hasty bathroom break. Today was proof she’d been right. She needed to stay away from the ER and all the memories it stirred up. As soon as things ended today, she’d be out of there. For good.

  Elaine smiled at the ER staff. “Please remember that most reactions to stress are normal. Don’t try to hold yourself to impossibly high standards—give yourselves permission to feel lousy for a while.” She nodded. “But remember that your employee benefits include counseling services if that need arises. And please look through the pamphlet. It has some great tips for dealing with the first forty-eight hours: exercise, keep busy, write down your thoughts, listen to music, eat regular meals even if you have to force yourself. Do the things that feel good to you.”

  Claire glanced across the table at the sound of Logan’s fingers drumming on his motorcycle helmet. Then, with what looked like a smug smile, he folded the paper he’d been writing on into crisp quarters.

  “I want to remind you about the 4-H fair and rodeo this weekend,” the chaplain added, standing. “The hospital is manning an information and nurse recruitment booth. I think Claire’s going to be volunteering there?” He acknowledged Claire’s nod and then continued. “Take your families, why don’t you? Pet the sheep, eat a corn dog, enjoy the music, dance, and laugh. Laughing is good for our souls.”

  The room emptied and Claire gathered her things, scooping up her folders but leaving the CISM pamphlets in neat stacks on the table. She wasn’t going to need them anymore. All that was left was to—

  Oh, boy. Logan was walking toward her. Claire’s heart slammed against her ribs, completely without warning. He stopped in front of her. His dark brows scrunched, and he exhaled softly. There was nothing brash about his expression, no hint of any biting sarcasm to follow. And for some reason Claire felt an unexpected wave of sadness. This was likely the last time she would see more than a glimpse of him. She held her breath.

  Logan’s eyes were soft, almost vulnerable. He took half a step forward until he was so close that she could smell the scent of leather mixed with a trace of the familiar cologne. His nearness seemed to warm the air between them, and when he leaned toward her, Claire’s heart rose to her throat. For a dizzying instant she imagined what it would be like to be held in his arms.

  “Claire!”

  As she turned, Claire heard Logan’s low grumble.

  Erin strode back through the doorway, grinning and holding out a bakery box. “Krispy Kremes. Snagged them from a sales rep,” she said, a little breathless as she arrived to stand beside them. She lifted the lid and prodded the donut glaze with a fingertip. “I’m giving myself permission to feel lousy to the tune of a zillion calories. Anyone care to join me?”

  Logan shifted his weight beside Claire. The motorcycle leathers creaked with the movement. He shook his head and gave a short laugh. The cynical edge reappeared as he spoke, but Claire was sure she heard an undercurrent of regret. “Actually,” he said, glancing at Claire, “I’m more interested in those ways to feel good.”

  A flush crept up Claire’s neck, and she was grateful to see Erin still inspecting the donuts.

  “Well, be a party pooper, then.” Erin leveled a look at Logan and chuckled. “Of course, now we know you’re more of a strawberry-milkshake-in-the-park kind of guy.”

  What’s this? A stab of jealousy surprised Claire. Logan and Erin? Didn’t she already have a boyfriend?

  She shook off the thought as Erin tugged at her sleeve. “But Claire has to at least split one with me. Because this is the closest we get to cake, and it’s your last day, isn’t it?”

  Last day. Claire
felt the strange sadness again. It made no sense and was even more confusing as she looked at Logan. He’d asked the same question. “Yes,” she answered with as casual a shrug as she could muster. “I’m finished. Unless anyone wants another pamphlet?”

  “No way.” Logan glanced at the dry-erase board just beyond, where the social worker had written a last suggestion for the ER staff in bold letters: The most successful way to deal with traumatic stress is to face it. Feel it and heal it. He frowned, and his voice emerged sharp and surprisingly bitter. “No more of any of this. I’ve already had way more than I can stomach.” His eyes seemed dark, his gaze far away.

  Claire’s mouth opened, but no words came. Only the sickening feeling that she’d been right all along about this insensitive man. He didn’t care about his staff or anybody but himself.

  “Logan, what’s wrong with you?” Erin’s eyes widened. “Claire’s worked hard to try and help us, and your attitude is—”

  Claire stopped her before she could continue. “It doesn’t matter. I know how Dr. Caldwell feels about this process. It was obvious from the start.” She couldn’t resist a jab. “And now look, I’ve gone and ruined his day off.” Back at you, McSnarly. She was glaring and she didn’t care; after all, she wasn’t going to have to deal with him anymore.

  Logan glowered at Claire. “That’s right. You did. And I could handle that, if your people hadn’t just tried their best to convince half my team to call in sick next week. Who’s going to replace them?” He pointed at her. “You?”

  Erin tried to step between them, but she wasn’t fast enough.

  Claire pressed forward until Logan’s pointing finger brushed her collarbone. She jutted her chin and glared at him, trembling with anger. “Oh? You mean you can’t fix them all with country music and pizza?”

  +++

  From the hospital patio, Claire heard the distant rev of a motorcycle engine. Like the warning growl of a Sierra mountain lion before it sprang away. Her breath escaped in a sigh of relief. Good, he’s going. The donut was working too; if she could have eaten it while running a 10K, it would have been perfect. Endorphins and donut glaze could melt Logan Caldwell away faster than a bucket of water on the Wicked Witch of the West.

  But maybe it had been good to see his true colors. He was insensitive, self-involved, and heartless. There was nothing attractive about a man who couldn’t dredge up some empathy for his coworkers. Claire had been a target of a physician’s callous disregard in those awful, vulnerable days after Kevin’s death. How could she forget that? She looked across the small stone table at Erin.

  “Better now?” Erin asked. Late afternoon sun slanted through the courtyard oaks, turning her hair to burnished copper. She handed Claire a napkin.

  “I’m so embarrassed about the way I acted in there.” Claire wiped the napkin across her lips. “I’m afraid that guy makes me crazy.”

  Erin laughed. “No big deal. Unfortunately Logan has that effect on some people.” She tucked a tendril of hair behind an ear. “He jokes about the Reno nurses forming a lynch mob before he left there a few years ago, says he was written up more than once.”

  Claire gaped. “Logan was fired?”

  “No. He said he needed a change. I’m guessing it had something to do with his wife.”

  Claire nearly dropped her elbow into the box of donuts. She blamed a rush of dizziness on sugar overload. “He’s . . . married?”

  “Was married,” Erin explained. “I’d never ask details, but he’s mentioned that it ended around three years ago.”

  “Oh.” Claire felt a wave of sympathy and then an irritating sense of relief.

  Erin’s brows drew together for a moment. “The debriefing covered that subject too. The effect our work has on relationships. I don’t doubt that.”

  “So do you think the debriefing helped at all? Or was Logan right? Did I really make things worse?”

  “Hey, wait a minute.” Erin reached across the table and placed her hand over Claire’s. “Don’t even go there.” Her expression was warm and sincere, and Claire knew that this nurse could be a real friend. She hadn’t realized until just this moment how much she missed the girlfriends she’d pushed away over the past two years.

  “You absolutely helped us,” Erin reassured. “You saw the way the staff opened up and how supportive they were of each other’s feelings.” She laughed. “We can’t all be Super Nurse like Sarah. Even if Logan’s right and half the staff call in sick, it wouldn’t matter. Sarah could do it all by herself. The day that girl misses a shift, we’d better start building an ark!”

  “And Inez?” Claire asked, watching as Erin began to gather her things from the tabletop. The whole debriefing process—even her own ghastly reaction—would be worth it if it had done something to help that tenderhearted grandmother. “I know she’s starting counseling. But do you think today’s session helped?”

  “Oh yes.” Erin stood and grinned at Claire. “But I’m not sure how much of it was the debriefing and how much was the result of well-timed milkshake therapy.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yep. It seems that our medical director wrote a little prescription of his own last night.” Erin’s grin widened. “Imagine Inez Vega in a motorcycle helmet. I’m serious. Cross my heart. She said that after she’d talked with her priest and the counselor, Logan loaded her on the back of his bike, bought two strawberry milkshakes, and then drove down to Gold Bug Park. The woman can hardly close her wallet over that stack of grandkid pictures. Logan looked at every one.”

  +++

  Claire set her purse and folders down on the coffee table, her mind so preoccupied that she barely dodged a swipe from Smokey’s paw. She couldn’t stop thinking of the strange mix that was Logan Caldwell: skilled doctor, thick-skinned taskmaster, and former husband. A man who offered strawberry milkshakes and—Whoops, what’s that?

  A paper, creased neatly into quarters, fell from between Claire’s CISM folders. She must have picked it up from the conference table by accident. She slid the dusty vase of fake daffodils out of the way and flattened the paper out on the table.

  Logan had doodled a motorcycle and a mountaintop, all crossed out with an exaggerated X. Beneath it was a short note, the words underlined: Educator, you owe me an afternoon.

  Claire lifted the paper, stunned for a moment. That awkward, interrupted conversation they’d had after the debriefing—was he trying to ask her out?

  Chapter Five

  Erin Quinn searched through her Faith QD tote bag again, her mouth dry with anxiety. The money has to be here. Somewhere.

  It was in an envelope clearly labeled “Little Nugget Victim Fund.” Erin had put it in her bag last night, planning to get it to the bank during lunch break today. She’d even reinforced the envelope with strapping tape, so the loose change—a quarter, two nickels, a dime, and a penny donated by Merlene Hibbert’s little granddaughter—wouldn’t tear through the paper when she transported it. Yesterday alone she’d collected $607.46 in cash and a few checks. And promises of more, come payday.

  The Sierra Mercy staff was eager to help mostly because of Jamie, the blond three-year-old they’d treated for burns in the ER. His brave smile beneath all those bandages had stolen hearts throughout the hospital. His single mother, Carly, would need financial help until the day care insurance was settled. If it was settled. There were rumors the policy had lapsed, and Jamie’s mother had no insurance of her own. With her own injuries and the home care of her son, it might be weeks before Carly could return to work. Every penny of the donations would seem a godsend. If only Erin could find those pennies.

  She dumped the contents of the tote bag onto the nurses’ lounge coffee table. Protein bars, makeup pouch, Bible study workbook, copies of her staff schedule, CISM packet, and the valentine from Brad. But no money envelope. How could that be? She pressed her fingers against her eyes and forced herself to think, backtrack. Please let me remember. This money is for Jamie.

  Erin had counted th
e money last night at her apartment; she’d put the envelope in the tote at the same time she’d laid out her scrubs and packed her lunch. She ticked the sequence off with her fingers. She’d driven to work, attended the Faith QD meeting, and gone on to the emergency department, putting the tote in her locker. Erin’s breath caught, and her gaze flew to the battered metal lockers clustered along the wall. Did I lock it?

  Guilt stabbed her instantly; only ER staff used this room, and they’d never had a problem. The nurses were like family.

  Sarah entered the lounge, hoisting her Diet Coke in a mock toast. Though fatigue cast faint shadows beneath her eyes, her voice was hearty and teasing. “Here’s to my heroic handling of another earwax crisis. You owe me big-time.” She wrinkled her nose and watched as Erin restuffed her tote bag. “So what did you decide about lunch? You or me first?”

  Erin forced herself to breathe in, breathe out. Stop worrying. Then she smiled warmly at Sarah. Her response held a soft chide. “Considering that you’re supposed to be off today, I’d say you should go. What is this, nine shifts in a row for you?”

  Sarah shook her head. “Seven, with yesterday’s in Sacramento. But those nights in the nursery hardly count as work. Rocking babies. I should pay them.”

  Though Sarah was smiling, Erin thought she heard regret in her voice and maybe a hint of something more. Sadness? It occurred to her that though she’d worked side by side with Sarah for over a year, she really knew very little about her personally except for the fact that Sarah was single and appeared to be powered exclusively by Diet Coke. She felt a pang of guilt. Some charge nurse she was. Maybe she should suggest getting together for coffee sometime.