And in the centre of it all, standing behind the charge desk like a captain on the bridge of a battleship, is Rosa Ortiz.
Mama Ortiz is five feet two inches of pure, concentrated authority. She has been the Head Charge Nurse at St. Jude’s for thirty years. She wears scrubs that are perfectly pressed, and her eyeliner is sharp enough to perform an appendectomy.
Currently, she is staring down a six-foot-four orthopedic surgeon who looks like he is about to cry.
"I don't care if you are the King of Bones," Ortiz is saying, hervoice cutting through the noise of the ER without shouting. "You do not discharge Bed 4 until I see the labs. If you discharge him, and he bounces back, I will make sure your next rotation is entirely rectal exams. Do you understand me?"
The surgeon nods frantically and scurries away.
Ortiz turns back to her computer, typing with ferocious speed. "Next!"
"Hi, Mom," Luke says, stepping up to the desk.
Ortiz continues typing, putting up an authoritative finger which silences Luke. She finishes her sentence, hits enter, and then slowly rotates her chair. Her expression shifts fromTactical CommandertoMother Henin a microsecond, but it’s a sharp, knowing kind of hen.
"Luke?" she says, scanning him for injury. "You look terrible. You look like you haven't slept in three days. And why are you hanging out with these delinquents?"
She gestures to me and Jax.
"We were hijacked," Jax says, leaning on the high counter. "We tried to elope. Catherine bought the airline."
"I heard," Ortiz says dryly. "The EMTs are taking bets. I have fifty dollars on 'Jax cries'."
"I almost did," Jax admits. "Mama, we need help. She’s forcing us to do venue tours tomorrow. In the city. She has a notebook. A leather one."
Ortiz raises an eyebrow. "And you want me to do what? Perform an exorcism?"
"I need a Chief of Staff," Jax says. "I need someone to look at the contract and tell her it’s garbage. I need someone who isn't afraid of the York name. Luke said... Luke said you’re the only one who can handle her."
Ortiz looks at her son. Luke nods. "She’s a Level One Trauma Event, Mom. You need to triage her."
Ortiz sighs. She picks up her pen—a cheap, hospital-issue Bic—and taps it against the desk.
"I have a shift tomorrow," she says.
"I’ll cover it," Luke says immediately. "I’ll pull the Charge shift. I need the hours anyway."
"You will not let the residents slack off," Ortiz warns. "And if Bed 6 tries to leave AMA, you tackle him."
"I know the drill, Mom," Luke says, leaning heavily against the counter. "Go. Save them."
"I can pull rank," I interject. "I am the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery. I can authorize an administrative leave day for 'Consulting’, the hospital Admin team can’t say no to a York.”
Ortiz looks at me. "You’re offering me a paid day off to go yell at your mother?"
"Essentially," I say. "Yes."
"That’s not enough," Ortiz says, crossing her arms. "Catherine York is a hazard to public health. I need Hazard Pay."
"Name it," Jax says. "Anything. I’ll buy you a car. I’ll buy you a condo in Boca."
"I don't want a condo," Ortiz says. "I want the break room."
"The... break room?" Jax asks.
"The nurses' break room on the 4th floor," Ortiz says. "The coffee machine tastes like battery acid and despair. The couch smells like 1985. The lighting makes us all look like corpses."
"Done," Jax says. "I’ll buy a new Keurig."
