Chapter Two

 

She stood at the third floor nurse’s station and shuffled through the small mountain of paperwork in front of her. Marcia Ross could see that Tracy wasn’t as focused as usual, but she hadn’t been for some time, at least, not since the accident.

“Why don’t you leave this paperwork for later and go make your rounds,” Marcia said. “It will clear your head.” It wasn’t so much a question as it was a strong suggestion.

“I’m fine,” she said, slapping down a manila folder with a puff of edgy exasperation that blew her bangs up and away from her forehead.

“You don’t look fine,” Marcia said, as Tracy stepped away from the station hub.

Since the accident, her colleagues had been watching her like a specimen in a Petri dish. They would cajole her into talking, but she wondered what was left to talk about. There was nothing left for her to do except throw herself into her work, and right now, she had to check on a patient: Mr. Richardson in 305.

Mr. Richardson was eighty-eight years fragile, and frequent cardiac episodes had left him precious little time, like tiny grains of sand slipping to the bottom half of an hourglass. Serious bouts of dementia had spotlighted him as a patient, extracting extra attention from nurses, but doctors had predicted an imminent curtain call. Tracy checked his dwindling vital signs.

He turned his head toward her, trying to speak. His blue eyes motioned behind a moistened glaze, and his mouth stretched open wide as he struggled to speak and breathe.

“Relax, Mr. Richardson.” She shushed him. His attempts became groans.

The old man was sedated, but he struggled and fought the euphoria. She saw the beads of sweat break on his face and his lips quiver to form words.

“Pr—Pri—”

“Calm down, calm down, Mr. Richardson,” she said, lulling him.

“Prince-cess” The esses dropped off into that familiar, final gasp, and blue eyes rolled backward into eternity. The loud, fast bleeping of the monitor blared out in code.

“CODE BLUE!” She yelled from the room and in an instant, the double doors were invaded by a small, green clad cavalry: a resident doctor, an intern, and two more nurses, one of which was Marcia.

The intern grabbed the paddles and waited.

“Now!” Marcia yelled.

The old man jumped at the jolt of electricity. Nothing.

“Again.” Nothing.

“Clear,” Marcia said, watching the monitor, hoping for the last ditch effort.

The body bolted one last time, but the blip became flat and the bleep unending.

“I’m going to call it,” the intern said. “4:35.”

The team stood silent and respectful at the spectacle of death. Tracy stood with her back against the wall, wide eyed and reeling and clutching the wall behind her. The shock raised her hair and goosed her frozen skin. She became statuesque, doing nothing, paused behind an unblinking stare. Her colleagues witnessed everything, and glares of confusion and disapproval met her. But they hadn’t heard what he called her—Princess...

* * * *

Dr. Kemp, a man of modest, early sixties, was the chief-of-staff at University Hospital, and Tracy felt no surprise when she learned that he expected her in his office at the end of her shift. She supposed she was now the talk of the hospital, having flipped out when an elderly patient died, but had she told them why, it might confirm their suspicions. Her mind flooded with improbable explanations.

His office was a comfortable setting with a maroon colored couch against the left wall and a large, presidential desk in the middle, neat and uncluttered. A framed family portrait slanted sideways stared back at her, as she sat in a plush chair set opposite the desk for moments like these.

“Tracy, I wanted to talk to you about what happened today,” he said, dropping the formalities. The soft toned Kemp was a pleasant man, a revered doctor, and a perfect pick as chief-of-staff. He was also an understanding friend, and she squirmed at the thought of lying to him.

“I know,” she said.

“They said that you froze in there, in Richardson’s room.” He paused. “That’s not like you, Tracy. Do you want to tell me what happened?”

He spoke to her now as her friend, not as her superior.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, diverting her eyes to the family portrait.

“Tracy, you haven’t been yourself lately and everyone has noticed it, especially Marcia. Tell me, what’s been going on?”

A brief silence passed between them. He was right. Everyone knew she hadn’t been herself since the accident, but no one would believe the events of the last twenty- four hours, these odd occurrences that were placing her perilously close to the edge. She wasn’t prepared to relate to him what happened late last night or earlier today.

“Is it about the accident? You haven’t said much of anything since it happened. Tracy, you need to talk to someone...anyone.”

“It’s just that every time I try to put it behind me, something, some memory, brings it all back.” She found this to be a more discreet answer. Kemp was an understanding man, but his old fashioned cynicism would suspect that she’d gone mad as a hatter.

“When was the last time you talked to Dr. Logan?”

And there it was, without even a mention of last night or today.

“So, you think I’m crazy? That’s what this is all about?”

“No, no, Tracy. I don’t,” he said, reassuring her. “It’s just that Dr. Logan was helping you after the accident, and I was thinking, well, when was the last time you saw her?”

Dr. Susan Logan was the psychiatrist on staff who was there to “help” her through her grief almost immediately after the accident and force her to except the fact that David was dead, as if any of that would be possible. Tracy reluctantly agreed to grief sessions, where she was diagnosed as having “survivor’s guilt,” and then stopped going. There was nothing a shrink could do to convince her to move on, as though she were blameless. There was no time table to stop grieving, and Susan Logan couldn’t tell her it wasn’t her fault.

“What is it that you think Susan can do for me? Do you, or anyone else, think that she is going to wave a magic wand and make everything as though it never happened?”

Her voice climbed in anger, and the impatience stamped on her face prompted Kemp to lift both hands to soothe her.

“Tracy, it’s been six months since David was killed. That is not a long time. No one expects you to stop grieving.”

A tear she tried to stop rolled down her face. He continued.

“It’s just that if something is bothering you now, you have to speak to someone, and that’s why Susan is here. Tracy, you’re an outstanding nurse. You can put this behind you and focus on your life and career again.”

If you only knew!

“Give her a call?” He tried to convince her with a wink. She dabbed her eyes with a Kleenex and cracked a half smile.

“I will,” she said, although she had no intention of doing so.

He patted her on the shoulder and after a few words on a different subject, she left his office. She sighed as she drove from the hospital parking lot. Just what would she have told the head shrinker about the recent episodes: the sound of David’s voice through the television, then Mr. Richardson’s dying words? She had no proof of any of it, and they would send her off to the state hospital in no time.

She pressed the button on the car radio; the advertisements were boasting. Save fifty percent now with no interest for six months...

A rush of static interrupted, then the radio began flipping from one station to another on its own, stringing together brief sounds of blips, bleeps, and blats. Fast musical notes and words spoken in mid-conclusion bounced back and forth in a chaotic collage.

Tracy looked down at the radio in shock; both of her hands were on the steering wheel, not touching the radio.

There was another quick rush of static then music. It was CCR singing that song, the last song she recalled at the party before the crash.

I see a Bad Moon Rising...I see trouble on the way...