Which was not good. The three-year-old boy waiting for the surgeon had fallen completely through the skin below his lower lip. Fifteen minutes ago the parents had given up keeping the numbing cream on the injury. That, of course, meant the cream would have worn off somewhat by the time the surgeon finally arrived.
Quinton frowned. Besides coping with variables, he hated waiting on specialists. He could have stitched up the injury himself, but probably not without leaving a worse scar than the plastic surgeon would. So, since Quinton knew the kid needed both internal and external stitches, he and the family were both waiting. Not an ideal situation at all, and now his time would be further divided when the drug overdose arrived.
He could use some caffeine. Having a few spare moments, he went to the staff lounge and filled a white foam cup with hot coffee. Someone had made a fresh pot, and the aroma wafted toward his nose as he sipped. The bitter black balm failed to soothe his soul. He contemplated the real reason he’d chosen to work this weekend.
Bart and responsibilities as a member of the hospital staff aside, work had gotten him out of a family function relating to his sister’s upcoming wedding. Not that he didn’t love his parents or his only sibling, but he didn’t necessarily want to see them, or hear the question they always asked: when was he moving home for good?
Trouble was, he didn’t want to return to St. Louis. The staff lounge window overlooked parts of Chicago, a city he’d called home since attending medical school at Northwestern University, and Quinton paused a moment to study the darkened cityscape. Chicago vibrated with life, and the city had a way of neutralizing differences. In St. Louis, life was all about where you went to high school and what country club you joined after college.
In Chicago, no one in his current social circle cared. In Chicago, he wasn’t Fred Searle’s son, groomed since birth to take over his aging father’s still-thriving medical practice. His parents had it all planned: Quinton was to marry the right girl, join the right club and have his kids attend the right schools. He’d assume his rightful place in St. Louis society.
But St. Louis society stifled; it didn’t foster growth as did Chicago’s eclectic mix. In his opinion, St. Louis had no real diversity, except for perhaps racially mixed University City, a town that Quinton’s family saw as too liberal and certainly not a fitting place for their grown son.
In Chicago, he was free from all that. Free from the mistakes he’d made, the people he’d inadvertently hurt in his crueler high school days. In his new hometown he could disappear into anonymity, or he could join what he wanted. There wasn’t one museum to visit but several. And the best part of Chicago was the magnificent Lake Michigan lakeshore, that expanse of blue water that never failed to calm him. He was a Cancer, a crab; he needed water. His apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows that gave him a view of the lake from two sides. When looking out over the lake toward Indiana, Quinton almost felt as if he could fly. Better yet, during the summer he could pull his boat out of its mooring and disappear into the endless blue.
But June was still five months away.
He tossed the empty cup into the trash can, the brew having somehow disappeared during his reverie. He didn’t remember drinking the coffee.
The lounge door shot inward, and Elaine poked her head through. “They’re downstairs,” she announced. “Jena is getting them now.”
CARLY JOHNSON wanted to cry. She hated hospitals. Hated them the way she hated lima beans.
Her daddy had died in a hospital.
“Shh.” Her mommy leaned over and held her tight while carrying her through the double doors.
Carly felt somewhat safer. She had a good mommy; that she knew. Mommy’s arms were always soft, always open. Mommy really wasn’t angry with her for getting into her purse. No, Carly thought as the bright lights assaulted her face, her mommy was more worried than anything.
Carly could always tell when her mommy worried because her blond eyebrows would pucker together and her blue eyes would darken. She’d overheard her aunt Ida saying something to her mommy about working too hard for her twenty-six years. Carly knew her mommy had to be old because she herself could only count to twenty without tripping over some numbers. Her head spun a little as she blinked back the light and tried to focus on what the nurse was saying. She wore a coat covered with teddy bears. Carly liked teddy bears.
“How many did she take?”
“I think only two, but I’m not sure.”
Carly frowned at her mommy’s answer. Her mommy didn’t sound quite right.
“Well, let’s get her right upstairs. We have a room already waiting for her. We’ll photocopy your insurance card up there.”
With that Carly felt her mommy’s arms tighten. Life hadn’t been too easy with Daddy gone. Her mommy worked long hours at Luie’s, baking all sorts of things. Carly got a lot of leftover cookies, but because money was tight, she really didn’t have lots of toys and extras. Not like Sarah, their new neighbor in the third-floor condo. Sarah had everything: toys, cookies and candy.
That was why Carly had eaten the pretty green pills when she’d found them in Mommy’s purse. She’d actually been after lipstick for a dress-up game, but it seemed so long since she’d had any candy. The last time had been Christmas; and Easter, when mommy always gave her a big chocolate bunny, was nowhere in sight.
“Mommy?” Carly asked suddenly. Being four, she could ask big girl questions.
“Yes, darling?”
Mommy appeared close to tears. Carly wished Mommy didn’t have to worry so much.
“Mommy? Am I going to heaven like Daddy?”
FIFTY DOLLARS. Beth Johnson knew her medical insurance’s emergency room co-pay by heart, and unfortunately, while she had the heart to pay for her daughter’s treatment, Beth didn’t have fifty dollars. Every bit of her meager resources from her twelve-dollar-an-hour job was allocated to bills, food and more bills. But for her daughter’s sake—for Carly certainly didn’t need to see how worried her mother was—Beth had to keep a reassuring smile plastered on her face. Just once, though, Beth wished someone would reassure her—tell her that everything would be okay and that in twelve days they’d have somewhere besides a homeless shelter to live.
“Here we are,” the nurse said as the elevator doors opened. “You’ll be in room three, Carly. We call it the Butterfly Room because it has pictures of butterflies painted on the walls.”
“Really?” Carly asked. She wiggled her way out of Beth’s arms.
“Really,” the nurse said. She pointed to a doorway. “Here, come see for yourself.”
Beth watched as Carly bounded into the room. Anyone looking at her daughter wouldn’t think she’d done anything wrong. In fact, Beth hadn’t thought so, either, until she’d seen the thin, telltale green circle around Carly’s mouth. Carly had denied everything, but a quick check of her tongue had confirmed Beth’s worst fears—that Carly had eaten the green cold medicine. The push-through plastic had been empty, and for the life of her, Beth couldn’t remember how many pills had been left.
At least the pediatric ER rooms weren’t like those downstairs. Beth had seen enough of those cold, sterile rooms to last her a lifetime. Here, at least, the rooms had colorful murals on the walls. Carly was currently counting green butterflies and the nurse had put a Disney princess movie in before she’d left.
“Hello, Carly, I’m Nurse Elaine.” A new nurse stepped into the room. Unlike her younger counterpart’s, Elaine’s scrubs were bright pink. “Let me take a look at you. Can you put this thermometer under your tongue for me?” Elaine held out a wand attached to a spiral cord, which was then connected to a rectangular device the nurse held in her other hand. Carly opened her mouth. “See, I knew you could.You are such