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I pulled the curtain shut again and took a seat in the chair next to the bed. “Betty, do you want to tell me what really happened?”
She didn’t look surprised that I deduced the truth. Betty inhaled a shaky breath. “I burned his dinner…”
“Who’s dinner?”
“Dominic’s…”
“Is Dominic your boyfriend?” I asked gently.
“Dominic is my son. His father is the one who—”
It was bad enough when a woman was being abused, but when children were involved, it made everything worse.
“I can help you,” I said quietly. “I can make a call—”
“And what?” she asked, her dark eyes finally showing some fire. “What good will that do? So someone can take away my son? So his father can kick me out of our apartment after he beats me again? I’m a waitress at a shitty highway diner. I don’t have a lot of options here. Besides he hasn’t done this in a while… I should have been more careful.”
“This isn’t your fault. You must know that. There are places you can go…shelters. We can get you safe.”
She snorted. “Those places are worse than what I’ve already got. Don’t do me any favors. Just fix my shoulder so I can get back to my life.”
I knew better than to push. If I pushed, she’d leave before even receiving treatment. And she needed her shoulder fixed.
The curtain around the cot was pulled aside. “Dr. Ward,” Dr. Stillwater greeted. She was an attractive middle-aged woman who wore her brown hair in a neat chignon. “You asked for a consult?”
I nodded and introduced her to the patient.
Dr. Stillwater kept me posted on Ms. Carrington’s surgery. Her shoulder was back in its socket, and she would be discharged the next day.
Eighteen hours later, I walked into my condo and dropped my purse onto the floor. I hadn’t bothered showering at the hospital. I’d wanted to leave as soon as possible and had driven home like the devil was on my tail, haunted by the memory of the young woman I couldn’t save. A young woman who had been dealt such a bad hand in life that she wasn’t capable of saving herself, even when help was offered to her.
It was midnight, I was still in scrubs, and the residue of impotence clung to my soul.
Sometimes people came into the ER who were beyond saving. They either died on the operating table or found out later, after the surgery, that they were terminal. Other times, there were patients who I called husk people. The hope had gone out of them long ago. Their bodies still functioned, and they talked, walked, and moved normally. Their hearts still pumped blood, their kidneys filtered out toxins, but nothing could fix the true problems within. Life had beaten them down so much that they never bothered to get up off the grungy floor. They stayed down, just hoping to survive another day.
The husk people were the hardest ones to face.
How did you save people who wouldn’t—couldn’t—save themselves?
My phone buzzed in my pants pocket. I fished it out and looked at the screen.
Boxer:Hey, darlin’.
I could hear his drawl in my head, but it still didn’t bring a smile to my face.
Hey,I texted back.
A moment later, my cell rang.
“Hi,” I answered.
“What’s wrong?” he asked immediately.
“Nothing’s wrong. I just walked through the door. I’m exhausted.”
He paused. “You can talk to me about it. I’m a good listener.”
My ex had pretended he wanted to hear about my days, but he was never able to hide the glazed look on his face when I talked about my patients.
