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“Hey, Cassie,” I call out, flagging down our supervisor as she walks by.
She’s clacking her perfectly manicured nails on her cell, not slowing her stride as she pivots toward the nurse’s station, following the sound of my voice.
“Any updates on staffing?”
She continues texting, not looking up to address me while answering, “Coincidence you ask. We had a virtual interview with a potential new hire. She has a lot of experience, seems nice. We will probably extend her an offer. We have another student nurse who accepted a night-shift position, but he has yet to take his boards and will need a lot of help.”
“Just what we need,” Margaret mumbles under her breath, “another fresh nurse.”
Ignoring Margaret’s comment, I turn back to Cassie. “What about the other one? The one with experience? Hire her up, let’s do this.”
Cassie puts a hand up to halt me. “Slow down. She lives out of state and has some licensing to change first. Plus, she is finishing up a medical leave and can’t start quite yet. But I think she is worth holding out for.”
She finally puts her phone away, flips open her binder, and pulls out what looks like a schedule. “Speaking of scheduling, we have a few gaps that need to be filled . . .”
As she is busy perusing the schedule, most likely reading to fire off some shifts in my direction, one of our newer hires, Brantley, comes around the corner juggling a PCA pump in his arms.
“Margaret,” he stumbles, “are you busy? Can you help me?”
Margaret doesn’t break eye contact with the computer as she pointer-finger types. “Does it look like I’m busy?”
“I have this patient who is in a lot of pain, recovering from a spleen laceration and broken leg. The doctor ordered a PCA, but I need help setting it up.”
Margaret finally stops typing to turn toward Brantley, eyeing him up and down as she adjusts her cat-eyeglasses. “Please tell me you’ve initiated a PCA before. That is something they still teach in nursing school, isn’t it?”
Brantley looks down at the pump in his hands, and my heart goes out to him. Maybe I have zero experience training people, but I feel guilty watching their interaction unfold. From what I know, Brantley went to school for accounting, and spent a decade sitting behind a desk offering tax advice until an early mid-life crisis hit him and he decided to follow his original dream of becoming a nurse. He’s always scared and nervous as hell when asking for help, but the best way to learn is by doing. So, I stand up, letting my chair roll back with an exaggerated thud as it slams into the desk behind me.
“Sorry, Cass, you’ll have to hit me up later for scheduling. I’m going to help Brantley with this PCA.” I walk out of the nurse’s station, ushering with my thumb that he should follow me though I have no idea where we are going.
He trots to catch up to my long strides, panting, and mutters “Thank you.”
“No worries,” I tell him. “What room are we going to again?” I peek at the items in his arms, making sure he has all the basic supplies before following him down the hall.
I let him enter the patient’s room first, following quietly behind. The lights are all off, save for the small light over the computer. Blinds are closed, the air is cool, and I take in the patient lying in the bed. By the shape and size, I figure it’s a female. Her face is covered by a wet washcloth, most likely to cool the post-anesthesia sweats and help minimize nausea.
She’s laying on her side, arms across her middle in a protective posture, but even with the blankets pulled up to her chest, I see the thick dressing and brace from her broken leg. I’m glad she has the washcloth over her face because I wince. She will have a hell of a recovery ahead of her.
Brantley opens her chart to the medication page. We take our time verifying he has the right medication and no relative allergies. I go over the orders, explaining what the basal dose is versus bolus dose.
I take the pump from Brantley and usher him over to the IV pole, squatting to attach the PCA to the base of the pole.
Peeking over my shoulder at the patient’s whiteboard, I make sure to keep my voice low and calm, “Savannah,” I start, “I’m Jenna, one of the other nurses here. I’m helping Brantley set up a pain pump so we can hopefully get you a little more comfortable, okay? Once we get it set up, we will administer a starting dose that you should start to feel in about ten minutes.”
Switching places with Brantley, I have him program the pump for her initial dose and continuous infusion rate, keeping my eyes locked on the machine to make sure he programs it correctly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the patient has slowly removed the washcloth and swipes the moisture from her forehead, smoothing away the long hair matted to her face.
Once the pump is set up, I gather our empty packaging and am about to ask Brantley if he needs help with anything else, when a tired and groggy voice cuts through the quiet room.
“Jenna Watkins. You haven’t changed one bit.”
My hands freeze mid-garbage collection, mind ratting through the rolodex of who the hell would know me here. I haven’t spoken to anyone from high school since the summer after graduation, and considering I spent the last six years far away from here, the likelihood that I would know a patient of ours personally is incredibly low.
Tossing the garbage into the bin, I slowly turn back toward the bed, once again taking in the long, dark hair that cascades over her shoulders, the beautiful crystal blue eyes that are the telling trait for the entire family. Blue eyes that keep me up at night, keep my thoughts busy wondering what life is like for him now. Wondering if he ever thinks of me.
“Holy shit.Savannah.”
Chapter Five
Eight years earlier
