Chapter 3
Monday evening,
emergency room
Savannah stood inside the emergency room entrance and noticed that her keys were jangling. Her hand was shaking and she could feel her heart race.
She took a deep, calming breath. She held her elbows tightly to her sides, knowing that she dreaded hearing news of Nicole’s condition.
Those tangled legs, fluttering pulse, and bleeding skull—she didn’t think Nicole would be leaving the emergency room alive.
* * *
The waiting room was decorated in the exact opposite mood of bright and cheery. It was dismal, depressing, and painted a dull flat gray. Savannah wondered if this was the plan, or perhaps lifeless décor was the only kind that could withstand the high traffic. The man behind the reception desk was thin, pale, and had shaved his head as a solution to his natural baldness. His mucky brown eyes stared at her through thin round frames.
“What’s the condition of Nicole Borawski?” Savannah asked.
“Can you spell that?” The reception man opened a red binder with about a dozen sheets of paper, one for each patient.
Savannah frowned. “B-O-R-A-W-S-K-I. Her first name is Nicole. N-I-C-O-L-E.”
He flipped a few of the pages and stopped. “Yes, she’s here. Are you a relative?”
“No—”
“Okay, then the only thing I can tell you is that she arrived and that she is in critical condition.”
Savannah lifted her head to look at the ceiling. At least Nicole made it here. “Thanks. Her wife will be arriving shortly.”
“Wife?” The receptionist pursed his lips, then pressed them into a thin line. “She’d better have the proper identification if she expects to be let in to see a patient.”
Savannah raised one eyebrow and turned back into the waiting room.
The coffee was bitter and stale. Even when she followed the handwritten instructions taped on the wall on how to make a fresh pot, the only difference was that it was now hot, bitter, stale coffee.
She repeatedly clenched her hands into fists and released them, trying to ease the tension that plagued them while she worried about Nicole. Savannah sat on the green chair with her head in her hands. She tried to recall if she had locked the doors at Webb’s Glass Shop before leaving.
The automatic doors swooshed open and Elizabeth Hartford frantically looked around the room. She was slightly taller than Savannah’s six feet, with short, scruffy locks of sun-bleached hair and the kind of weathered tan that comes with years of sailing on racing yachts. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her gaze landed on the information desk. With the unconscious grace of an athlete, Elizabeth ran over to it, but the receptionist had stepped away.
Elizabeth pounded a rat-a-tat with her fist on the desk. Then she looked at everyone, desperately searching for someone in charge. She said to the room in general, “My wife is supposed to be here. I was told she was in an accident. Her name is Nicole Borawski. Can someone help me?”
Savannah walked over and gently touched Elizabeth on the arm. “Elizabeth, I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Savannah Webb. I own Webb’s Glass Shop next door to Queen’s Head Pub. Nicole is here. The receptionist will be back in a moment. I’m sure.”
Elizabeth’s tanned skin was tinged with a yellow paleness. She blinked her deep brown eyes repeatedly. “What happened? What do the doctors say?”
“I’m not her next of kin. They’ll only tell me she’s in critical condition.” She gently turned Elizabeth back to the receptionist, who was sitting down in his chair. “This is Nicole Borawski’s wife, Elizabeth Hartford. She needs to know what’s happening.”
The receptionist looked up. “Ms. Hartford, may I have your identification and insurance cards, please? I’ll also need proof of your”—he pressed his lips together—“marriage to the patient to indicate that you are her next of kin.”
“I don’t understand. Where’s Nicole? I need to see Nicole,” she said frantically.
Savannah firmly held Elizabeth and spoke quietly but clearly into her ear. “I know it’s hard, but you must calm down. They need to make sure it’s you, first. They will give you all the information you want as soon as they confirm your identity. It’s the privacy act, I think, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t know anything. You need to get in there and see the doctor. Do you have your ID handy?”
Elizabeth blinked rapidly, unzipped her windbreaker and removed a worn Spider-Man billfold from the back pocket of her shorts. She placed her driver’s license and medical insurance card on the counter.
The receptionist took them. “Do you have proof of your marital status?”
Elizabeth frowned. “I don’t carry our marriage license around with me, if that’s what you mean.” The pitch of her voice boomed in the large waiting area. Elizabeth was used to yelling over the sound of crashing waves and grinding winches while racing through the ocean.
“Calm down.” Savannah’s whisper contrasted sharply with Elizabeth’s volume. “This will go easier if you take the high road.”
Elizabeth woodenly turned to Savannah with absolute terror shining in her eyes. “I don’t have proof.”
“Wait a second, wouldn’t your insurance company have that information? Isn’t that on your card?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never been questioned about our relationship before.”
“You haven’t had an emergency since you married?”
Elizabeth shook her head.
Savannah picked up the insurance card from the window shelf. “Look. There’s a number to call. Hang on.” She dialed the number and explained the situation to the insurance agent. In less than a minute, Savannah handed her cell phone to the receptionist. “Maybe this will be proof enough.” She accompanied her comment with a ferocious look.
The receptionist took the phone. “Hello, this the Bayside Hospital emergency room.” He listened for a few seconds. “No, of course we don’t discriminate, we treat everyone who comes in. Personal information is different.” He listened again. “Okay, but—” He pursed his lips but continued to listen. “Okay, fine.” The receptionist handed the phone back to Savannah.
“Is everything clear, now?” Savannah said between clenched teeth.
“Yes, ma’am. We treat all your kind.” He took Elizabeth’s ID and insurance card from the counter. “I’m going to copy these. Meanwhile, please fill out these forms. All of them.” He handed Elizabeth a thick set of forms that were attached to a clipboard. He also gave Elizabeth a pen with the hospital’s logo printed on it. “Have a seat. As soon as you complete the forms, we’ll get you logged in as the next of kin and the doctor will be able to tell you what’s happening.”
Elizabeth glared at the receptionist, then spoke each word slowly, calmly, fiercely. “Can you please tell me if she’s alive?”