Chapter 17

Dr. Huot was on the phone when I returned to the nursing station. She glowed at me and said, “We have another consultation in the emergency room.”

My heart sank. I dreaded running into the bribing guy again. “Is it David Watson’s mother?”

She gave me a funny look.

“He works for a pharmaceutical company. His mother has pancreatic cancer. Her name is…” I drew a blank. “I think Mary something. Is it for them?”

Dr. Huot’s brow smoothed out. “I believe you’re talking about Mary Kincaid.”

“Yes. That’s it.”

“I did that consultation myself Friday afternoon. No, this is for an 89-year-old gentleman with metastatic colon cancer.”

I forced myself to smile. “I’ll go right down.”

The gods were with me. Mary Kincaid lay in the same hallway near the vending machines, but today a middle-aged woman in light blue scrubs sat in a chair beside her. No sign of David Watson.

So he’d hired someone, possibly a nurse. A sign of our two-tier health care system, but at least I didn’t have to face him again.

I met the 89-year-old patient, a balding man in a hospital-issued gown who whispered, “I want to go home.”

“You can’t, remember, Gervais? We talked about this,” snapped the much younger woman by his side.

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to smile. “Are you his daughter?”

“I’m his wife,” she said, even angrier now.

Crapola. “I’m sorry,” I said again. “Why don’t we start at the beginning. What sort of problems are you facing at home?”

“Isn’t it obvious? He can’t stand up. He fell on his way to the bathroom this morning. I heard a huge crash. I came running, and I couldn’t pick him up. I had to call the ambulance.”

I looked into Gervais Allain’s sad eyes and took his hand. “It’s hard, isn’t it?”

He nodded mutely. But all three of us knew he wasn’t going home. He probably couldn’t afford private twenty-four hour care, and his wife was fed up, or as I’d say in French, elle est tanée.

By the time I interviewed them and Dr. Huot came downstairs and reviewed everything, it was 4:59 p.m. I tried not to think about Ryan, but I kept touching the phone in my pocket. Sometimes phone reception blanks out in the hospital. I’d have to check it where I had a signal. I also wanted to check my e-mail on a computer, since I didn’t opt for the Internet on my pay-as-you-go phone.

Dr. Huot set down her pen with a smile. “Did you notice Mr. Allain’s Fentanyl patch?”

“I didn’t check it, but I know he’s on 37.5 mcg,” I said. I’d prescribed his medications already. I refused to glance at my watch.

She shook her head. “His patch was on his shoulder and no one had marked the date or the time.”

I nodded. Normally, the nurse will cover the patch with Tegaderm and write the time and date, because the patch is good for 72 hours. This way, they know when to change the patch.

“No one had written it. His wife said they had changed the patch three days ago, and he said it was yesterday. He’s complaining of pain. It’s possible to draw the medication out of a patch and inject it.” Her mouth was still smiling, but her eyes were not.

“You think his wife…”

Dr. Huot shook her head. “I don’t accuse anyone, but we will count the number of patches and call his pharmacy to make sure he has the right amount.”

Mr. Allain had brought his medications with him. The pharmacy had placed a sticker on the box with the dispensing time and date, about two weeks ago. Still, we counted and calculated and called the pharmacy to verify that yes, he seemed to have the right number of patches, even if they’d lost track of when to change them.

Now it was 5:42 p.m. Dr. Huot beamed at me. “It was nice working with you, Dr. Sze. I will see you tomorrow afternoon. In the morning, you’ll be with our social worker, Catherine Brunet.”

And I would be on call. But for now, Ryan Ryan Ryan Ryan Ryan. “Thank you, Dr. Huot. See you tomorrow.” I stood up and my pants pocket buzzed.

I waved at Dr. Huot and beat it out of the nursing station, but paused just inside the doors to I pull the phone out of my pocket. Ryan had texted me.

Where are you?

I leaned against the wall near the old-fashioned X-ray light boxes and typed laboriously with the keypad, pressing each number a few times to get to the correct letter.

Emergency room. Home in 20 min.

Ryan burst through the emergency room doors right in front of me. “Gotcha.”

I stared at him for a full second, not just because I was shocked out of my skull, but because sometimes I forget how Ryan’s face just does it for me. It’s not just that he’s so handsome that it feels like a gut punch. It’s more the way his eyes always look like he’s ready to smile and how I can tell he’s got long, lean muscles under his shirt. I didn’t care about the stubble on his face or the stretcher that was trying to get past us. My brain just kind of exploded with lust. All I could think was, Fuck. Fuckity Fuck fuck fuck.

I wanted to jump his bones. Here and now. Right in front of my colleagues. Torpedo my career. Frighten the senior citizens. Appall the administrators. I didn’t care.

Ryan’s eyes heated up. He took a step toward me.

Before he could touch me and really sink my career battleship, I grabbed his hand and tugged him outside the emerg doors, into the corridor. All the patients lined up along the hallway and in the waiting room could still witness us, but at least then there was a door between us and the other doctors. I licked my lips. “What are you doing here?”

“Surprising you,” he said, and kissed me.