Almost A Family

Erin glanced at the chart rack along the back of the station. This morning, eight of the charts bore name labels. Not many, given the number of available beds. “How is everything going down here?”

“Three patients in the E.R. last night—one asthma, a broken wrist and a chest pain. Dr. Olson was on call.”

“Anyone admitted?”

Marcia chuckled. “Not on his watch—unless you’re about dead.” She ran a finger down a clipboard in front of her. “The Paulson boy has been discharged and will be going home this afternoon. Frank Willoughby will probably be going back to the nursing home after the radiologist reads his chest X-rays tomorrow.”

“He had pneumonia, right?”

“Yep. A double, but he’s doing really well.” The blonde smiled. “He’s the first patient the new doctor has admitted since he took over for Hadley on Monday. Nice guy.”

“Oh?”

“Definitely the strong and silent type—and man, those gorgeous eyes…” Her voice drifted off in pure appreciation. “Like a guy would ever need those lashes, you know? It just isn’t fair.”

“Really,” Erin said dryly.

The nurse’s eyes flew open and she blushed. “Um…sorry.”

“No problem. Have you seen Grace this morning?”

“On Wednesdays she usually comes around ten and stays until seven. Should I leave her a message?”

“I’ll just catch her later, but thanks.”

Erin moved on down the hallway, inspecting the terrazzo for dust and the door frames for paint chips and scratches. At the far end, she pushed through the double doors marked E.R.—Staff Only and found the hospital’s third-shift housekeeper industriously attacking the gleaming floor with long swipes of her mop.

From her employee file, Erin knew Mrs. Banks was a widow of nearly seventy, but from all reports she still considered the hospital’s cleanliness her mission in life, and had no intention of slowing down. According to Madge, she often talked to people who weren’t there, and rarely deigned to speak to people who were, but that disconcerting tendency had never affected her efficiency.

“You’re doing a fine job,” Erin called out to her.

The woman glanced over her shoulder and nodded as she mopped her way past the admissions desk.

Carl Miller, the hospital’s only male nurse, glanced up from the chart he was working on at the desk and smiled.

“Did you have a busy night?” Erin asked.

He peered at her over his glasses. “Yes, but that makes the time go faster…or so they say.”

“What do you do when it’s slow?”

“With all the regulations these days, there’s never enough time to catch up on documentation. Believe me.”

“Is the staffing adequate?”

“No, but what place can afford that? We all pitch in, and Grace does call in an extra nurse if the census goes high enough.”

Erin moved past the desk and peered into the exam rooms, one by one. “Tell me—if you could write up a wish list, what would it be?” she called out to him.

“New state-of-the-art crash carts, fully stocked,” he replied without hesitation, his voice edged in sarcasm. “A new cardiac monitoring system for the E.R. and hospital side. New beds and new mattresses for every room. A new PACS system, for digitalized X-rays. But of course, I’m dreaming.”

At the sound of footsteps behind her, she turned. Connor Reynolds was coming down the aisle. “Good list,” he said. “Personally, I’d add a larger MRI, a dialysis unit and a wellness program. That’s just for starters.”

Erin ignored the heightened awareness she felt at the sound of his voice. Awareness? How about hunger, just simple hunger. With the ruckus at home, she hadn’t had time for breakfast, and after her morning walk-through, she really needed to grab something from one of the snack machines in the staff lounge. “I couldn’t agree more. If money wasn’t an issue, those items would all be part of a very long list.”

“There are ways,” he countered. “Rental programs. Grants. Building a bequest program.” A faint smile played across his sensual mouth. “Bake sales.”

“I’ll keep all that in mind.”

When he walked past her, his dry glance suggested he didn’t believe change was possible at Blackberry Hill Memorial.

Feeling a flash of irritation, she watched him disappear into a patient room. Just wait, she said under her breath, wishing not for the first time that she was five inches taller and had a far more imposing demeanor.

Like her three sisters, she’d been gifted with her family’s genetic heritage for fine bones, which apparently made men think she was helpless, and she had the pixie sort of face that made them assume she couldn’t think for herself. That she’d been a tomboy, ran on the track team in high school and had taken more self-defense classes than she could count had never given her the aura of strength she’d like to project.

Nodding at Carl, she turned to go.

“Carl—come in here, stat.” Connor’s sharp voice cut through the silence.

Surprised, she looked over her shoulder and saw Carl hurry into room 22. A split second later he darted back out, grabbed the electronic blood pressure unit sitting in the hallway, and pushed it into the room.

Frank Willoughby’s room, she remembered. A sweet old guy and a favorite with the nurses, from what she’d heard. Please, Lord, let him be all right.

But one minute stretched to three, then five. No code blue, no rush for equipment or race to surgery.

Walking over to the nurses’ station, she looked at the shelves of patient charts. On the spine of Willoughby’s there was a bright orange DNR—Do Not Resuscitate—sticker, so there hadn’t been an option to call a code blue.

She knew, even before Carl came out and shook his head, that Frank was gone.

His expression grim, Carl settled down at the phone to make the usual calls to family members, the nursing home and the mortuary designated on the face sheet of the chart.

Erin moved to the doorway of the old man’s room and found Connor in a chair by the bed, his head bowed and his hands clasped loosely between his knees.

He glanced up at her. “Lost him. His last X-ray showed a lot of improvement, and he was on the verge of being discharged. But with his overall health and age, he’d signed the Do Not Resuscitate forms.”

“I’m sorry.” Erin stepped inside the room. “Was it his pneumonia, do you think?”

“That, or his heart, or any number of other things. He had a diagnosis list a mile long. But dammit, he was doing well last night. If I could have coded him…” Connor shook his head as he stood and smoothed back the old man’s wispy hair. “He swore he planned to beat me at a round of golf the day he was discharged, and I bet he would have, if either of us actually knew how to play.” Connor straightened the man’s gown, then pulled the blanket up. “He teased me about that, too. Said he didn’t think it was natural that a doctor didn’t play golf.”

The emotion in Connor’s voice touched her. “Will there be an autopsy?”

“Doubt it. He was ninety-three, he had chronic health problems. He was hospitalized for pneumonia. In cases like this one, the coroner usually just goes ahead and releases the body to the funeral home.”

She knew that was true. “Sorry—I hear he’s your first admission to this hospital.”

With a heavy sigh, Connor settled back in his chair. “You never get used to this.”

“Are you staying here awhile?”