Nursing The Doctor (11 page)

“All blood is tested, Ms. Sullivan, but of course if the donor has very recently become infected, the test might not be accurate. In the case of Hepatitis C, it can take up to twenty weeks after infection to test positive.”

Lily’s heart sank. “So, is there a hold on all the donated blood for a specified length of time to make certain it’s not infected?” She was clutching the phone so hard her fingertips were white.

There was a pause. “Not necessarily, Ms. Sullivan. That of course would be the ideal situation, but if there is a drastic shortage of one particular type and we have it on hand...”

Which of course must have been exactly the situation when the blood bank phoned her to come in, Lily realized.

“But if I’m infected, there’s a real possibility that whoever got my blood will also be infected, and I feel so responsible,” she blurted out in a desperate tone. “I know that the donated blood is tracked. Could...would you please, please tell me who received my donation?”

“Oh, no.” The supervisor sounded profoundly shocked. “Absolutely not, Ms. Sullivan. That information is completely confidential, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“You’ll notify them, though? You’ll let them all know that’s there’s a potential danger of infection?”

Again there was a lengthy pause. “Actually, our policy is to wait until it’s documented and confirmed. We won’t notify anyone until that time.”

Slowly Lily hung up the phone.

How many people had she put at risk? How many people had received her tainted blood? The need to know consumed her. The horror of not knowing was overwhelming.

There was a technician, Rolando Alvarez, who worked in the hospital lab, and she’d done him a favor, given him her parking pass when she decided to start taking the bus to work. He’d been very grateful.

“Anytime you need anything, just ask,” he’d said.

Ordinarily she would never dream of asking him to reciprocate, but by the end of her shift, Lily knew that she had no choice.

She felt as if she was going mad. She simply had to know what her carelessness might have done to other lives, then she had to do her best to make amends in whatever way she could, even though she couldn’t imagine how. She was only convinced that knowing would be far better than her own dreadful imaginings.

She went down to the lab when her shift ended and explained what she needed and why.

“If this makes you uncomfortable and you’d rather not, of course I understand,” she said, but Rolando shook his head.

“Your motive is concern. That’s absolutely legitimate,” he assured her, and she silently blessed him. “But it could take me a while, Lily. Those files are protected.”

Lily thanked him and gave him her numbers at work and at home.

That night she fed Zoe and Gram leftover stew while Kaleb showered and got himself ready for his date with Frannie.

Lily couldn’t eat. The food stuck in her throat. She longed for someone to confide in, but ironically her brother and her best friend weren’t available tonight.

Kaleb came trotting downstairs, freshly scrubbed and handsome in dark green slacks and a patterned sweater.

“Don’t wait up for me, sis.” He flashed her a smile and a wink, gave each female an exuberant kiss and hurried out the door. Lily felt more alone than she ever had before.

Instead of enjoying her time with her niece, she spent the hours in a kind of waking nightmare. She settled Gram and Zoe and went to bed herself at eleven, but she was wide-awake when she heard Kaleb come in at ten past one.

At three-thirty, she got up and rummaged through the medicine chest for the mild sedative the doctor had prescribed for Gram. She swallowed two of the tablets and waited grimly for sleep.

Mentally exhausted and physically drugged, she was still deeply asleep Friday morning when Kaleb came into her bedroom and shook her gently.

“Sorry, sis, but somebody called Rolando is on the phone for you. He says it’s urgent.”

Lily was instantly awake, sitting bolt upright, her heart pounding as she snatched the phone Kaleb extended to her.

“Lily, I have the information you wanted,” Rolando said. “Sorry it took so long. I double-checked this, and there was only one recipient. He received all the blood you donated.”

Lily could feel herself stiffen.

“Who? Who was it?” Her lips felt paralyzed.

“Greg Brulotte.”

Greg Brulotte? She shook her head. It couldn’t be. Rolando must have it wrong. He was playing some sort of bizarre joke on her.

“Tell me his name again?”

Rolando repeated it.

“You checked? You’re certain?”

“Absolutely.”

She wasn’t conscious of thanking Rolando or of disconnecting the call. She sat as if her body had turned to stone, staring unseeingly at the colorful Gauguin print she’d hung on the wall opposite her bed.

Greg Brulotte. All her blood had gone to Greg?

Of course she’d heard that he’d had to have a transfusion, that he’d lost too much blood to replace with the standard plasma expander. But she’d never for a moment even considered that it was her blood Greg had received.

Fate, or God, or whoever arranged these things, had a twisted sense of humor, that was certain. Her blood, which she’d have given willingly to save Greg’s life, could now be putting that life in terrible danger.

As all the ramifications of the situation became clear to her, she lifted her hands and pressed them to her cheeks.

Waves of violent emotion rolled through her, regret and guilt at her own carelessness, sorrow and bitter anger at the capriciousness of fate. It would have been a tragedy no matter who had received her blood...but Greg...

She’d tried to deny, even to herself, her feelings for him, but they were there whether she acknowledged them or not. She cared about Greg despite her certain knowledge of what sort of man he was.

She was more than half in love with him. The memory of how he’d looked when she’d seen him last Monday replayed itself in her brain. She saw again the hurt and the fear he’d tried so hard to conceal with sarcasm and anger. What would his reaction be if he knew of this new danger, this threat to his life?

And to hers. She’d spent hours today really thinking about what her chances were of contracting Hep C, and she couldn’t deny the fact that she’d inadvertently provided the most probable, direct route to infect herself. Of course the possibility was strong that her body could ward off the infection. She was healthy, in the prime of life.

But Greg wasn’t His body was injured, his immune system was already working overtime. Worst of all, he’d lost his spleen, the very organ that played an important role in the body’s defense against infection.

Should she tell him? She cringed at the thought. How did you tell someone something like this?

If the situation were reversed, would she want to be told?

She would. She knew she would. During her nursing career, she’d seen families agonize about whether or not to tell a loved one they had a terminal disease. She’d always felt strongly that the person had the right to know. It was their body, after all, their life.

Greg deserved to know.

All she had to do was somehow find the courage to tell him.

Greg knew the call light was on, but he rammed his thumb on the button again just for good measure. As usual, it took an eternity, but at last a nurse appeared beside his bed.

“What is it now, Dr. Brulotte?” There was weary resignation in her tone, and it infuriated him.

“That’s exactly what I’d like to know.” He jerked his thumb at the grayish mound of food on his lunch tray. “What the hell is this stuff? It doesn’t look or taste like anything I’ve encountered before, and believe me, I’ve eaten some strange food in my time.”

“It’s hash, Dr. Brulotte. I’m sorry you don’t like it. Shall I take your tray away?”

“You might as well, this stuff’s not edible. How is anyone supposed to survive in here with food like this? Couldn’t the kitchen try a little harder to make the weekend enjoyable for us poor unfortunate gimps? Even the stuff they fed us as interns wasn’t this bad.”

Lips pinched, the nurse removed the tray.

The curtains were drawn around the bed next to his, and Greg heard the unmistakable sounds of his roommate using a bedpan. The smell wafted his way.

Viciously Greg thumbed the call light again.

“Yes, Dr. Brulotte?” This time, the respondent was younger. There was apprehension in her voice.

“I want to know exactly when I’m going to get the private room Dr. Halsey finally located for me?”

He’d had a shouting match with Ben over it earlier in die day. How hard could it be to vacate a private room, for God’s sake?

“Actually, Doctor, we’re moving you right away. The cleaning staff is just finishing in 417. We’ll have you settled in there in a few minutes.”

It took the better part of an hour, but when the staff finally finished transferring him, his bed and his belongings, when he was at last alone in the tiny room, Greg felt a profound sense of relief.

For the first time since the accident he had at least the illusion of privacy. The only sounds and smells he’d have to endure were his own. It was a minuscule improvement in the grotesque melodrama his life had become, and he was grateful for it. Here, he wouldn’t have to guard himself so rigidly against the emotions that kept sweeping over him.

Here, if he was awake at 3:00 a.m., he could turn on his bed lamp without being reprimanded for waking up his roommate.

The unbelievable effort it took to get hauled out of bed and loaded into a wheelchair and then have the process reversed was taking its toll. He was almost asleep when his mother’s familiar, hesitant voice sounded at his door.

“Greg, hello. I see they’ve put you in a different room. How are you feeling?”

Elise was, as always, impeccably dressed. She was wearing a tailored navy suit with a cream shirt, and as usual the smell of White Shoulders wafted its way to Greg’s nostrils. She carried a black raincoat slung over one arm, and expensive gold bracelets jangled as she came to stand beside his bed. It surprised him that the quick glance he gave her revealed that her mascara was smeared as if she’d been crying.

He couldn’t believe she was here again. Twice, or was it three times now, he’d made it clear he didn’t want to see her. What would it take to convince her?

“Nothing’s changed, Elise.”

After that first glance, he refused to look at her. Instead, he turned his head toward the window, where the gray November afternoon was already drawing to a close.

“It has changed, Greg.” Elise’s soft voice was trembling uncontrollably. “I just came by to tell you that your Grandpa Stanley died this morning.”

A sob broke in her throat and her face crumpled. She had to struggle to continue. “He hadn’t been well, so a neighbor dropped by. He found him on the kitchen floor. He’d had a massive stroke while eating his breakfast. Dr. Constantine phoned to tell me, and I knew you’d want to know.”

Grandpa Stanley.

Dead?

Greg’s brain conjured him up, the way he’d seen his grandpa last, a tall, spare figure in an immaculate white shirt and trademark red suspenders, standing in the doorway of the old white house on the hill, smiling and waving goodbye as Greg drove away.

Greg’s own heart seemed to falter, and pain that had nothing to do with his injuries ripped through him with ferocious force.

He’d only stayed with Stanley two nights that last visit, he remembered. He’d planned a fishing trip with his buddies and he’d been anxious to get away from Greenwood early, to meet them and pack.

Oh, Gramps. Grandpa, I should have stayed with you. I knew you wanted me to, although you never said so. You were too proud, and I was too selfish.

He was aware of Elise’s hesitant hand on his hair, and he flinched and moved his head, terrified that the slightest contact would shatter the minute amount of control he was able to summon up.

He would not, he could not cry in front of her.

“I know how much he meant to you.” The pain in his mother’s voice made Greg swallow in spite of himself, but he wasn’t about to let her use Stanley’s death to bridge the distance between them.