Can't Always Get What You Want (32 page)

“I. Don’t. Know.”

He walks away from me, rubbing his hands roughly over his face.

“You don’t know,” he repeats, his voice breaking on the word “don’t.”

I swallow hard. “Brett, listen. I…”

He spins around at me, his eyes blazing blue fire.

“No, you listen to me for a minute.”

He picks up each of my hands in his own, lacing our fingers together.

“I get that you’re messed up from your first love dying. I get it. But I need to know, before we say anything else tonight, if you love me.”

I’m stunned. “Of course I do. I’ve told you I love you.”

“No. I mean, with your whole heart.”

“I…”

How do I answer that truthfully?

“I think a part of me will always love Aaron.”

He grimaces, and turns his face away.

“I don’t think you get how much I want you, Sophie.” His agonized tone rips me in two. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. I want to marry you someday.”

Gulp.

“You’re my everything!” he announces, his voice getting louder.

“You’re all I think about, all I dream about. And now you’re telling me that I’m competing with a
ghost
?”

“I’m sorry, but that’s just how I feel,” I say quietly. “You have most of my heart…”

“Most?
MOST?
Well, you have all of mine!” he bellows. “I love you, but I can’t deal with this. I cannot, no, I
will not
compete with someone who isn’t even here.”

Brett marches toward the front door.

“Don’t go!” I cry. “Please, don’t go.”

He shrugs his coat on, and pauses in the door frame. A torn expression distorts his beautiful face.

I run to the door and extend my arms toward him.

Please hug me. Stay with me, yell at me even. Just don’t leave me.

He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t draw me near, either. My arms, hanging midair, fall back to my sides with a dejected swoop.

He snuffs his nose, places a chaste kiss on my right cheek, and backs away.

“Call me when you sort yourself out. You know where to find me.”

Chapter 27

No Use in Crying

I’m back at work for a day shift. I’m finding it hard to concentrate. Events from last night keep replaying in my mind.

I lean on my med cart and softly thump my fist against my forehead. Why oh why didn’t I deal with this when I should have?

“You okay, Soph?” Natalie asks.

“Yeah, peachy!” I lie. “Why do you ask?”

She shuffles her feet. “Umm…because you’re crying?”

What?

Oh. Dear. There they are, two fat salty tears running down my face.

“I’m fine. Must be allergies or something.”

“Okay…I’ll just be down the hall if you need me.”

I nod, and pray that she leaves quickly.

I’d love nothing better than to curl up on my couch, eat vast quantities of chocolate, and watch romance movies that make me cry. Because that’s what girls do during breakups. We like to torture ourselves.

What do men do during breakups? I can’t picture Brett stuffing his face with chocolate and wearing his favorite “fat” pants while crying and watching
When Harry Met Sally.

No, it’s probably more like getting piss-tank drunk and watching sports highlights.

I scan the to-do list I keep on my med cart.

Damn. I haven’t given Mr. Kowalski his morning pills yet. They were supposed to be given two hours ago. It’s just been one of those days.

I look for his med sheets. Okay, Kowalski, Kowalski…

Holy crappola. His morning med list is three pages long.

I can already feel the headache forming behind my eyes.

Okay. I can do this. I just need to get each pill out, one at a time.

I enter Mr. Kowalski’s name into the medication computer. I painstakingly enter in each drug name, dose, and route, triple-checking that everything is right.

There. All fifteen separate prescriptions nestled together in a paper medicine cup.

I’m halfway across the med room when a loud announcement rings over the intercom.

Attention, all staff. Would the owner of a blue Ford Focus with license plate number…

The interruption startles me, and I jump. The med cup in my hand shoots into the air and I stare at my feet, watching pills rain down around them.

I’m two hours behind! I don’t have time for this!

I crouch over the mess and start shoveling pills back into the medicine cup. I stretch my arms under the dusty nether regions of the supply carts to see where some of the more adventurous pills might have ended up.

I look down into the med cup, and pick off a piece of lint.

An awful temptation crawls into my mind.

Could I just give them anyway?

No one would be the wiser.

No, that would be so disgusting. I don’t even want to know what sort of hybrid bacteria live on hospital floors.

I glance at the clock again. Two hours behind.

No one would have to know…

I rise from my crouching position, and lose my balance halfway up. I reach an arm out to steady myself and collide with something solid.

“Oh! Dr. St. P—err, Luke! Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

“Try looking up.”

My cheeks flame. “Sorry for bumping into you. I was just—”

He holds a hand up to halt my talking. It reminds me so much of the gesture Martine made yesterday that I have to resist the urge to scream.

He reads from the chart in his hands, asking one question after another without bothering to look at me. I find myself tripping over words, trying desperately to remember particular numbers and facts about this exact patient. He rattles on for a good five minutes, and I start bouncing.

“Dr. St. Luke?”

He slowly lifts his gaze. “Did you just interrupt me?”

“Y-yes,” I stammer.

Oh come on, Sophie. You can do better than that.

“Yes,” I repeat. “I really need to go. I’ve got to give Mr. Kowalski his morning meds.”

He snaps the chart shut, and regards me for a moment.

“You’re going to give him
those
pills?” he asks.

The room is suddenly very quiet.

“No.”

“Good,” he says, eyes flicking to the med cup shaking in my hands.

He walks away, leaving me alone in the med room. My stomach is quivering with nausea.

What was I thinking?

I turn to the nearest med cart and angrily toss the pills into the sharps container.

“Okay…Kowa
lski, Kowalski…”

—

An hour before quitting time, Ginny hands me paperwork on a new admit. I stifle a groan, knowing that I’ll have a ton of work to finish, on top of my usual charting.

“Know any Portuguese?” she asks me.

“No. Why?”

She taps the chart. “Because this one doesn’t speak any English.”

“Oh?”

“Seventy-five-year old woman from Brazil. She has family here, and was two weeks into her visit when she got sick.”

“Sucky vacation,” I murmur. “What’s she in for?”

“Her family says she hasn’t been feeling well for a few days. She was admitted for shortness of breath, slurred speech, and double vision.”

“Stroke?” I ask.

“That’s what I thought at first, but no. I’ve got her set up down the hall; you just need to do the swabs and new-admit paperwork.”

I roll my eyes. “Can’t wait.”

The swabs should be real fun. We have to swab new admits to see if they’re carrying superbugs, like MRSA and VRE.

I can just picture me as a little old lady, holed up in a foreign hospital. I’m not sure I’d take it too well if someone I didn’t know (nurse or not) tried to stick cotton swabs near my hoo-ha.

I draw back the curtain, and hope for the best.

—

Well, that went a lot better than I thought it would. Mrs. Silva’s daughter was in the room and acted as translator. It helps if you can explain why you want to be so near a stranger’s nether regions.

That being said, Mrs. Silva didn’t seem to like the whole ordeal.

Phrases like “
filha da puta
” and “
buceta
” came up a few times. Not sure what they mean, but they sure seemed to shock her daughter.

I go about the rest of my physical examination, noting especially her shortness of breath.

“When did she start to get sick?” I ask.

“She had a sore throat and fever earlier this week, but I thought maybe she just caught a cold.”

“Um-hmm,” I say, listening to Mrs. Silva’s lungs. She’s hooked up to oxygen, but is still struggling to breathe. Her skin is cool and pale, her pulse rapid.

The oxygen mask slips off her face.

“Here, let me help you with that,” I say. I slip the elastic band around her ears, and my fingers brush her neck. A large lump swells beneath the surface.

I feel on either side of her face. She flinches, and looks at me warily.

“I’m sorry, I’m sure that hurts.”

Those are the most inflamed lymph nodes I’ve ever felt. I dig my penlight out of my pocket.

“Did anyone do an oral exam?” I ask.

“No, they were more concerned about her double vision and slurred speech. One of the ER doctors was worried about heart failure.”

Hmm. The symptoms pull together on my memory.

“Okay. I’d like to take a look in her mouth. Mrs. Silva? Can you open your mouth for me?”

She quirks an eyebrow up at me. I open my mouth wide, hoping she’ll imitate. She does. I squint and shine the light in her mouth.

“Let’s see what’s going on in here…”

Sure enough, a fuzzy gray, almost black membrane is covering the back of her throat.

“Well. I’ve never seen that in real life before.”

I turn my penlight off. Mrs. Silva’s daughter leans toward us.

“What is it?”

“I think your mom has diphtheria.”

—

I race out into the hallway, looking for St. Puke. I never thought I’d see the day I actually wanted to talk to him. I flag him down at the nurses’ desk just as he’s about to leave.

“Diphtheria!” I shout.

“What?” He turns around, annoyed.

I catch my breath. “She. Has. Diphtheria.”

“Be more specific! Who is ‘she’?”

“The new admit, Mrs. Silva.”

Everyone around us is standing still. Ginny hasn’t even blinked.

St. Puke rolls his eyes. “No, she does not. She is showing classic signs of heart failure, and I suspect she’s also had a stroke.”

“Her lymph nodes are the size of walnuts, and her pharynx is covered in a black, fuzzy membrane.”

St. Luke is quiet. He stares at me through his silver-rimmed glasses, fingers running over his mouth.

“Think about it,” I continue. “She’s an elderly person from a foreign country. Depending on the vaccine programs in her area, she may not have been immunized for it. And, since diphtheria is almost unheard of in North America, we could easily miss it. If the disease is advanced, which I’m guessing it is, it would explain all of her other symptoms: the shortness of breath, symptoms of shock and heart failure, everything.”

St. Luke steeples his fingers under his chin.

“You seem quite knowledgeable about vaccines.”

My brain stutters as I process his words. Did he just compliment me?

I shrug. “I just finished some courses on vaccination programs and third world diseases. Learned a lot of cool stuff.”

He crosses his arms, and smiles at me. Whoa—he can actually smile?

“Interesting. Do you know about tropical diseases then? Malaria and such?”

What does that have to do with anything?

“Umm, a little, I guess.”

“Hmm. You may not be as useless as I thought.”

The words are out before I can stop them.

“You’re an asshole.”

Oh. My. God. Did I just say that out loud?

My eyes widen, and I’m acutely aware that everyone in a ten-foot radius is staring at us. St. Luke grins wider.

Okay. I’m seriously getting creeped out.

He digs out his penlight.

“Diphtheria, huh? Let’s see if you’re right.”

Chapter 28

Nineteenth Nervous Breakdown

Well. That was one weird day. I’ve gone from thinking I’m the worst nurse ever (i.e., being tempted to hand out linty floor pills) to believing I’m a pretty awesome one. Turns out, I was right about the diphtheria diagnosis.

And, all of this within twenty four hours of Brett and me breaking up.

I
soooo
need a drink.

I take out my phone to text my mom.

Are you and Dad up for company this weekend? A weekend at home might be nice. I’ll even bring wine!

Several minutes later, just as I’m about to start my car, I hear my phone buzz with an incoming text.

We’d love that, but we’re away this weekend. Maybe in a couple of weeks? For your birthday, perhaps?

I consult my phone’s calendar. At this point, I don’t have any plans. I imagine if Brett and I were still together, we’d have gone out and done something.

God, I miss him.

Okay. Sounds good :) Have a fun weekend.