The Queen of Hearts(79)

“You kicked the dog?”

“‘Kick’ is too strong. I nudge him. With the foot.”

“Can I see?”

“Certainly you must see; this is why I come to the hospital.”

I rolled up Mr. Dmitriy-Rau’s pant leg, discovering the imprint of a tiny row of teeth.

“Ah! The dog bit you!”

“Yes. It was unprovoked bite. Very painful. Perhaps you will have to do stitching?”

I peered at the bite. It looked as if Mr. Dmitriy-Rau had been lightly drilled at regular intervals with a toothpick. There was no tearing of the skin.

“I don’t think so. Let me grab the other doctor, but I think we will be able to get you out of here quickly, assuming your dog has had all his shots.”

“Yes, yes, he go to the vet quite often. All the time, really. Perhaps some issues there. So I will wait for you and then we will do the ass rape. Then I will go home.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Soon we will do the ass rape. Then I may go.”

“The ass . . . what?”

“Ass rape. No?”

“No, I . . .” Cautiously: “Can you describe it?”

“Well, so. You are the doctor here, no? But I will try. It is the very tight rape, for the pain, the swelling. It goes like so”—he motioned in a circular fashion—“and then you may apply metal bits for completion.” He regarded me, adding kindly, “Well, perhaps you do not do this here.”

“I don’t—”

“Is okay. The brown fabric? No?”

“Ace wrap!” I shouted triumphantly. “Yes! Yes, I will get you an Ace wrap.”

“Thank you, dear. You are the very nice student doctor. Keep up with studies.”

I stood in the D hallway, watching the bustle of the ER. The layout was essentially a large square; there were four long hallways at perpendicular angles, which contained the patient rooms, with a huge blocky desk in the center comprising the departmental workstation. There were unit secretaries seated at computers, armed with telephones and intercoms, and radiating out next to them were areas for the doctors to chart. In the central square of the department there was a closed cube manned by radiology residents, which contained lighted screens to view X-ray films. I felt a tad anxious. I had yet to present my first patient to my upper-level resident, and truth be told, that was going to be one very sparse presentation. I had spent nearly twenty minutes in the room and yet completely failed to obtain most of the required elements: no past medical history, no allergies, no medication list, no review of systems, and no exam of any body parts other than the bitten ankle. Well, so, perhaps I could write “yap-yap-yap” on the chart. No, no, no: focus. I’d better get Dr. Tamara located posthaste, and see how to fill in the details without (a) completely fabricating them or (b) getting sucked back into Mr. Dmitriy-Rau’s flood of extraneous information.

I found Dr. Tamara yukking it up with some nurses at the main desk. She turned out to be an enormous brunette in her mid-thirties who was embarking on a second, or possibly third, career, which explained the odd nickname. Having just met her, I found it awkward to refer to her as “Sensei,” even though Dr. Tamara explained she preferred it. “No need to be formal,” she blared, unself-consciously tugging at her bottom in an effort to dislodge some migrating underwear.

I couldn’t resist. “Yes, Sensei,” I said, bowing deeply, which caused Dr. Tamara to howl and offer up a stout hand for a high five.

“Atta girl!”

“Yes, er, thank you,” I said. The ER certainly seemed to have its share of eccentric characters. “What do the patients call you?”

“Oh, I try to avoid the patients as much as possible. That’s what you’re for. Now tell what you’ve got in twenty-five there.”

I filled Dr. Tamara in on the yapping and the nudging and the ass rape. This resulted in such mirth I was forgiven for my otherwise shoddy history and physical exam; Sensei said she would handle it. “Laurie, get the man in twenty-five an ass rape, stat!” she bellowed at a passing nurse, who glanced quizzically at us but did not break stride. “Huh,” said Dr. Tamara, undeterred. “Guess we’ll have to do the ass rape ourselves.”

Just then my pager sounded. I gave it a quick glance: it was my home number. I excused myself and trotted to a phone in the doctors’ charting area.

It was Emma, and she sounded strained. I resolved to try to put her at ease.

“Well, hello there,” I boomed.

There was a brief hesitation. “Zadie?” asked Emma. “Are you drinking?”

“What? No. Actually, I’m seeing patients. I was . . . trying to sound cheery. How are you?”

“I’ve been better,” Emma said.

Breakthrough! I decided to let her take the lead on this one. “Yeah,” I agreed.

“I think,” Emma said in a small voice. “I think I want to tell you why Graham died.”

I was stunned. “Right now?” I asked.

“No, no, not on the phone. I have to work overnight, but I’ll call you if it gets slow. You can come in. Uh, if you will.”

“Of course. Of course I will, Emma. I’m so sorry I’m not home right now. Do you want me to try to get out of here?”

“No,” said Emma, her voice stronger. “No. You can’t leave the hospital in the middle of a shift. We’ll talk tonight, one way or another. It’s important that I commit to this, before anything else happens. I’m sorry to call. I just . . . I wanted to hear your voice for a second.”