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Several minutes later, I hear the door open then shut and lock.
Ryan slides back into bed, and I start to get up.
“Don’t go. We weren’t finished, Heidi.”
“She saw us,” I gasp.
“She saw a brunette in my bed. She didn’t see you,” he says, pushing his hand between my legs and inserting two fingers. “The wig is actually perfect. You can be Heidi for me and you.”
“This has to stop,” I tell him.
“You’re so wet, though, love. Let’s not deny us. This can be the last time.” He lowers the blanket and hovers over me. “Don’t hold back. Do it like her. For you, for me, for all of us.”
After that night, I never felt comfortable in the house again, even though he assured me Rochelle knew nothing. Every time we were together, him always Ryan, me always Heidi, I worried.
The late morning is filled with sick children. I hate to see kids in pain and ill. It used to bother me more when the babies came in. They can’t tell you what is wrong with them, and they don’t understand why you aren’t helping them. If that’s not enough, they look at you like you are evil. At least with older children, they can tell you where the pain is.
I walk into a room with a mother and child. The child’s teeth are chattering, and she is whining. The mother holds her close, trying to comfort her.
As soon as I close the door behind me, the mother looks up.
“She has a hundred and four temperature. She’s been vomiting for two days. This is our second trip to the ER. Why can’t you help her?” I hear panic in her voice.
My instinct is to ask her to stay calm. Her child needs her to stay calm.
“I’m sorry. Let me look at the chart.” I click on the tablet and see that she was at an urgent care center two days prior. “Kelsey was diagnosed with a virus?”
“Yes, but nothing has helped. Alternating pain relievers is a joke. I’m sure she is vomiting them up.”
“Kelsey, can you tell me if there is pain specific to a spot?”
“My tummy,” she cries. “Everywhere.”
“When the pain started, where did it start? Can you remember?” I ask.
“My stomach,” she whimpers.
I look at her mother. “Did they run labs or do any scans?”
“No. They said it was a virus and to wait it out. There was nothing they could do about it.”
“Okay, let me grab the doctor.”
I walk out in the hall and see Dr. Bennett. “Room 18 has a little girl. She can’t eat; she has a fever; and she has been vomiting. They went to urgent care and were told it was viral and sent home. No lab work or scans. Her pain started in her stomach.”
“You disagree?” he asks, tapping on his tablet.
“I think they should have done something to rule out appendicitis,” I answer.
He smiles and nods as he walks toward the room. “That’s my girl. Thank you.” Dr. Bennett is unlike many of the doctors I have worked with. He actually believes in his nurses’ abilities and judgment. Most of the others think they know everything. The God complex.
He opens the door. “I’m Dr. Bennett, Kelsey. I want to get some pictures of your tummy, okay?”
When he walks out of the room a few minutes later, he looks for me and nods. I walk over to him.
“I ordered scans for her, and I agree with you. My guess is appendicitis. Good job, Lorraine.”
“Thank you.”
“Get her hooked up to an IV, recheck her vitals, and if radiology isn’t already here waiting for you to finish, then you and I will take her there.”
Less than half an hour later, Kelsey is being wheeled to the surgical floor. Accompanying the surgeon is the other Dr. Bennett, Dr. Ryan Bennett, son to Dr. Sam and Sarah Bennett. He smiles at me then turns his back and puts his hand on Kelsey’s mom’s shoulder. I assume he’s comforting her before her daughter is put under the scalpel.
It is calm enough now in the ER that I am able to think about catching up on paperwork.
Walking toward the desk, I see the older Dr. Bennett motion me over.
“Come to dinner this week. Promise at least that.”
“I’ll give it some thought. I need to sort everything out with the house being on the market,” I tell him in hopes to appease him.
Completely out of character for him, Dr. Bennett reaches out and hugs me. “You belong with us. Come home, and we can help you with the house and deciding what comes next.”
After a moment, I back away. “I know.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Watch yourself,” Brock says, leaving me at the café. “Don’t mix up one obsession with another.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Sure,” he remarks.
I shrug my shoulders and make my way to my car. I have a chef salad for Lo that I need to get to the hospital before my hour is over. She seems more relaxed at my place, but Brock’s words hit me in the stomach.
