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“I need your take on Brooklyn,” Greg said, and she blinked, blindsided by the sudden change in conversation. And then, realizing there’d really been no conversation; she’d been a fool for thinking his call for consult had to do with the two of them.
“I wrote my report.”
He nodded. “I read it. I just wanted to talk to you about it.”
“I put everything in there. I found nothing different.”
“But after we gave her that medication four days ago, there should have been a difference since, shouldn’t there?”
The little girl had multiple health issues, including a neurological disorder that, when she was stressed, created higher levels of hormones resulting in aggressive behavior. Brooklyn had a gastrological situation that also came on when she was upset. Born to a drug addict, she’d been in the system most of her life, but because her mother wouldn’t sign adoption papers, she wasn’t able to find a permanent home anywhere. Four days ago, a police car had brought in the girl, her foster mother following behind to say that Brooklyn was making up symptoms, and asking for the doctor on call to have a talk with her daughter. She felt that Brooklyn was using nebulous maladies as an excuse to throw fits anytime she didn’t get her way.
“She’s got a new sibling at home,” Elaina pointed out. “Her stress levels will be higher, even with the medication.”
She listened while he talked about the little girl complaining that her stomach had never quit hurting since her last hospital visit. All the while her mother was pointing out times at home that Brooklyn appeared to be pain-free, making it sound as though she only was in pain when she wasn’t getting what she wanted.
And yet, it was clear that Brooklyn’s foster mother loved her. Clear that she believed Brooklyn could get better. In Elaina’s opinion, the woman was feeling powerless, frustrated, with her inability to help the child.
“Althea was right there, holding Brooklyn’s hand, the whole time I was with her,” Greg said.
“You know that her neurological condition can bring on psychosomatic symptoms,” Elaina reminded him.
“And with the medication I gave her Monday, she should have been pretty calm for a few days, at least. I couldn’t prescribe another dose today,” Greg said, “but I sent her home with a prescription...” He named it. A drug with similar capabilities of the much stronger one he’d had administered by IV before he let Brooklyn go at the beginning of the week. But this was one that could actually be purchased at the pharmacy. “I asked that she be brought back in, through the ER, on Sunday,” he told her. “I’d like you to do another set of scans at that time, paying close attention to the brain waves, and see if you notice any change at all.”
“You think she didn’t get the meds on Monday?”
“I think it’s possible.”
“But why...”
“Martha was on again.”
She was a good RN, and one who’d tried to get her nurse practitioner license and failed the exam. Someone who thought she knew more than the doctors sometimes about what patients really needed. She was the one who was with patients for hours a day, who tended to their every need, while the doctors saw them for a couple of minutes and were gone.
This was a possible conclusion Elaina and Greg had drawn when they’d noticed some discrepancies in the charting the nurse had done per doctors’ orders.
Nothing that they’d proven. Certainly, no patients had suffered ill effects under Martha’s care.
It could also just be that Martha needed a refresher course on protocol before she found herself being written up. Not a call for Greg or Elaina or the charting committee to make.
The administrator they reported to would be the one to make those kinds of decisions or determine if any action was needed.
“And if there’s no change at all, I’m leaning toward the idea that Mom isn’t giving her the meds at home, either. Some parents don’t like the risk of side effects or determine that the child is better off without medication. Like the whole vaccine debate. Maybe she watches Brooklyn’s behavior, finds her more agreeable without the drugs, and thinks she can help Brooklyn holistically, or by teaching her better behavior. And when symptoms get too bad, she fears the child’s gastrological problems are rearing up and brings her to us to make sure she’s okay.”
Greg settled his backside against his desk, drawing her gaze to his thighs. And between them.
A familiar heat touched her privately for the second it took her to snap her gaze away. She sat down in one of the two chairs in front of his desk but then wished she hadn’t. She’d just forced herself to have to look up to him.
This man who was demanding a paternity test on the child that was, even then, growing inside her.
Oh my God.
She was pregnant.
Like it was just then hitting her, she sat there, looking at Greg, wanting to break out in laughter. And break down in tears.
She’d gone straight to work from the clinic the day before. And had allowed herself to be consumed by the father problem.
Failing to let the rest of the news take root.
