Saving Meghan(37)

Becky’s narrowing eyes were a form of censure. “And you’re being na?ve,” she shot back.

Turning on her heels, Becky marched toward the receptionist’s window, moving past a mother comforting twin girls, who appeared to have matching ailments to go with their matching pink denim jackets. She knocked on the clear glass window to get the attention of the impassive receptionist, who poked her head out from behind a towering computer monitor. A strained smile appeared when she saw it was Becky summoning her yet again.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“Yes, please page Dr. Nash. I want to see my daughter, Meghan, right now.” Becky made no effort to soften her acerbic tone.

“I just did that for you a few minutes ago,” the receptionist explained. “In fact, I think we’ve paged her twice already.”

“And what? She didn’t respond again? Does she always ignore her page?”

The receptionist returned a nervous shake of her head. The gesture was meant to be conciliatory, reinforcing Becky’s belief that something was definitely amiss.

“Is this unusual?” Becky asked. “Does a doctor often take away a child and not report back for over three hours? Not answer her page? Not even tell the mother what she’s doing? What tests she’s running? Or even where they are?” Becky sensed Carl’s presence looming behind her.

“Sweetheart, she’s just doing her job,” he said of the beleaguered receptionist. “Go easy on her. We’ll sort this out.” Carl leaned down to put his face in the window. “I’m so sorry to be a bother,” he said, addressing the woman behind the glass. “We’re trying to track down our daughter, and we’re growing a bit impatient. We’ll take our seats, just let us know when you hear back from Dr. Nash.”

That’s it, Carl, play nice with everyone because that’s been working for us so well. Sometimes Becky wanted to scream at her husband to step up and get something done for a change, fix one of their goddamn problems.

He could do it well enough with his business, that was for sure. Contractors weren’t delivering on a job? Look out, here comes Carl to give them a good tongue-lashing. Local government wasn’t cooperating with a permit problem? It’s Carl to the rescue! But when a doctor absconds with his child and won’t answer her damn page? Please … and thank you … and yes, we’ll patiently wait right here. Becky gritted her teeth because otherwise she might have punched him in the jaw.

Stepping away from the window, Becky let the gentleman with a nagging cough behind her check in with Reception.

Carl followed. “Just relax, honey,” he said, taking hold of her arm. “It’ll all be fine.”

“You relax,” Becky said to him, pulling free of his grip.

She walked away, not back to their seats, but to stand near the automatic door into the ER. Those doors stayed shut unless the receptionist or someone else with a badge opened them.

“What are you doing?” Carl asked. He eyed Becky with suspicion.

“I’m waiting patiently for our daughter,” Becky said, taking a sarcastic tone. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

She did not mean to be so cutting, but he was making it difficult to be kind. Carl exhaled loud enough to express obvious exasperation with his wife.

“What on earth do you think could have gone wrong?” he asked. “It’s just taking time. These things always take time.”

“Plenty could be wrong,” Becky snapped. She shook her head in disgust at Carl’s inexcusable nonchalance. “There could be a medical emergency, or worse. So until Dr. Nash gets back to us with an update, forgive me for not feeling compelled to sit down and wait patiently.”

At that moment, the automatic doors to the ER whooshed open as a nurse exited. Becky slipped past the nurse unnoticed. Carl hurried his steps to catch up to his wife before those doors closed. Becky paused to glance over her shoulder. Satisfied nobody was coming to stop her, she continued her advance. Carl fell into step behind. He reached again for Becky’s arm, but she pulled away.

“Stop, Becky! Just stop!”

Becky glared back at him without breaking stride. Soon, she was standing in the actual emergency room. In the background, she could hear babies crying, groans from the sick and injured. She heard doctors shouting orders and saw nurses running to carry them out. The ER was a brightly lit, open space. A curved desk in the center of the room served as mission control for the doctors and nurses who triaged the emergencies taking place behind the curtained bays that lined the walls. Becky wondered which one held her daughter. With the curtains closed, it was impossible to tell.

She tapped the shoulder of a woman dressed in burgundy scrubs who was standing nearby, writing something on a medical chart. “Excuse me,” she said. “My daughter, Meghan Gerard, is here being seen by Dr. Amanda Nash. Could you tell me which bay she’s in?”

The woman’s eyes turned murky with confusion. “I’m sorry, who are you looking for?” she asked.

“Meghan Gerard,” Becky said anxiously. “Dr. Amanda Nash brought her here.”

The woman—a doctor or nurse, Becky had no way of knowing—took Becky and Carl over to mission control. Carl still looked perturbed, but Becky could not care less how annoyed or frustrated he was with her. She wanted her daughter, and she wanted her now.