ER

“First, we separate the needy from the nosy and the malingering,” Dr. Daisy Chen said, waving a dainty hand around her newly opened emergency ward. This was the freshly cleaned annex to the recently departed Dr. Timothy’s office, the opening of which on this first day had attracted a sudden flurry of Inlet citizens, a number of whom fit Daisy’s last two designated groups.

Nurse Patsy McFee grinned and examined the list of those who had appeared at the triage station—her desk—and announced their complaints.

Dr. Daisy had interviewed RN Patsy on Skype a month earlier, after Patsy had applied for the part-time position Daisy had advertised. Patsy was moving to the Inlet with her husband, Duncan, who had bought an interest in a shake mill at the north end of the island.

Daisy had checked on Patsy’s record of several years of work at Langley Memorial Hospital’s Emergency Room and at two GP’s offices, and texted her, “When can you start?” She was in the Inlet two days after that.

Patsy examined Finbar O’Toole as he approached her desk on crutches. The crutches were the folding type that can be packed away when not needed, which Patsy—having watched from the window as Finbar nimbly stepped from his pickup truck and deftly assembled them—thought was about now.

She checked Finbar’s medical card. “What’s the problem, Mr. O’Toole?”

“Legs,” Finbar said. “Need a doctor’s certificate to say I’m not fit to work, to go on disability.”

“And the company you work for?”

“Er …”

“Your employer, the one who hired you?”

“Er …”

“They would have registered with WorkSafeBC and been paying premiums to cover injuries on the job so that you can claim benefits.”

“Well … kinda self-employed …”

“Ah, so you would have been paying the premiums?”

“Er …”

“I’ll have to make a couple calls. Take a seat over there.” She indicated a line of metal chairs.

“Well …”

“A seat, Mr. O’Toole. Over there.”

“Finbar, please,” Finbar said, as ingratiating as
all get out.

“Finbar it is. Seat anyway. Over there.”

Finbar crutch-hopped to a chair, his eyes on the exit door.

The Clements kids were next, Alun holding Marathon, their SPCA rescue pup, in his arms, and Jillian sobbing.

“Paw,” Alan said, and pointed to the pup’s foot, which was bleeding from an embedded cedar splinter.

“Vet?” Patsy asked.

“Victoria,” Jillian gulped. “Note said if emergency, see Dr. Daisy.”

“Or Androcles?” the nurse suggested.

“Hah! Aesop!” Alun laughed.

Patsy smiled. “I’ll get a little treat for him while we wait.”

“No!” Alun said. “He’s not allowed to eat between meals. Weight an’ that.”

His sister groaned and fondled the pup’s ears.

Patsy bristled. “Bloody hell.” Patsy knew about diets, everything from Dr. Atkins to Paleolithic—and had tossed all of them. “Half a damn Arrowroot biscuit!” she growled, and gave it to the willing, drooling, and seemingly now smiling Marathon.

Dr. Daisy appeared. “Little bit of freezing first,” she said, and waved a hypodermic. “Have a seat for a while.” Jillian crunched her eyes closed while Daisy administered the freezing. Alun bore the moment stoically, as did Marathon.

Dr. Daisy looked out the window at the sound of horse hoofs on the gravel road.

“Hell, I hope not,” she groaned, then breathed out relief when Annabelle Bell-Atkinson trotted by on her Arab mare, Salome, riding sidesaddle. “She looks like she’s in that series Victoria,” Daisy said. “Let’s hope she doesn’t fall off anywhere near here.” She gazed around the room. “Have you seen Penny?” she asked Patsy.

“Penny …?”

“Littlebear. She missed this morning’s prenatal class.”

“No,” Patsy said. “I’ll phone the garden centre.”

Penny was late teens, or maybe mid-teens. She had not been specific when she arrived in the Inlet a few months before from “up north,” alone and pregnant—she wasn’t sure quite since when—and did not mention the father. She had found a job at Widden’s Garden Centre, and they allowed her to rent a room. She had been found to be industrious, conscientious, and reliable.

“She’s done everything right until now,” Daisy noted. “That girl could pop any second.”

An audience had gathered; the nosy lot.

Rachel Spinner sat doing her own assessment of the lame and lazy as more wounded arrived. Young Sam Spinner had squashed flat a forefinger with a poorly aimed stone axe on a walling job. Legitimate. Randolph Champion said he was looking for some painkillers for a friend (unidentified). Rachel laughed out loud and Patsy pointed to the door. Geek Henry or Harvey shuffled furtively in, approached Patsy, and whispered in her ear. She tried not to smile, and told him to take a seat until Dr. Daisy could see him. He grinned sheepishly at everyone and said, “Nothing serious.”

There was a sudden fuss at the door, which slammed open, and Wilfred Widden called out, “Gangway, move aside.” He propelled forward a two-wheeled garden-centre cart, normally used for moving plants and bags of soil, now holding a reclining and quietly moaning Penny Littlebear, who had decided that the need to complete a list of chores took precedence over imminent delivery.

Dr. Daisy waved Wilfred into the inner office, gave Penny a quick look-over, and said, “Glad you could make it.”

Nurse Patsy announced to the gathered, “If you’re just here to watch, go away. We have an emergency.”

Twenty minutes later Daisy Littlebear, six pounds four ounces, was welcomed into the population of Spinner’s Inlet. The stubbornly remaining audience was advised, and applauded heartily.

A moment later Finbar O’Toole apparently received a call on his cellphone. He took it from his pocket, said “Yeah?” and “Oh, dear.” And to Patsy, “Sorry, bit of an emergency for me too,” and turned to leave.

He had taken three steps when Patsy called, “Finbar?”

A hurried, “What?”

“Your crutches.”