The Queen of Hearts(83)
I looked at Nick. He was lying stark naked, flat on his back, mouth open, arms and legs flung wide, managing to look simultaneously ridiculous and dear. All his ferocity was transformed to dopey sweetness. I felt a sudden swelling of love for him; despite his gruff manly exterior, he was a loving person, in his way. In a sudden flash of the future, I saw myself marrying him, kissing him goodbye each morning, tending to a slew of tiny Nicks and Zadies before coasting off to my own surgery job.
I touched his arm and he made a small snorty sound, as if he were a very tiny pig. I leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips, then rose and gathered up my things. Time to slink out and apologize to my bereaved roommate. I nudged open Nick’s creaky bedroom door with my hip.
“Wha’? Zadie?” croaked Nick. “Whereygoing?”
“I gotta go,” I whispered. “Emma wants to talk to me.”
Slightly less groggy: “She does?”
“Yes. She’s going to tell me about what happened with Graham, I think. Anyway, I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you about it.”
“She’s at work; why not wait? Besides”—now he sounded alert—“I have tomorrow morning free. We can stay together tonight, and I’ll bring you cappuccino and croissants in bed in the morning before you go into the ER. How often does that happen?”
“What? Never!” I said, excited. He was probably right. How much could we discuss between Emma’s patients? Whatever had happened with Graham, it would be better to talk about it privately tomorrow night, when we were both off. I almost never spent the night with Nick; our brutal schedules rarely permitted it.
“It’s settled, then,” said Nick, smiling at me. He took my pager from my hand and tucked it in his bedside drawer. “Come here, sex biscuit, and cuddle up to me.”
“Coming!” I sang. I’d page Emma first thing in the morning; she must be busy now. “But do you mind if I borrow some boxers or something to sleep in? We’re facing an enormous hygiene emergency if I don’t change clothes soon.” I started to pull open the drawer where he kept his underwear, and yelped in fright as Nick lunged out of bed and caught me by the shoulder.
“Those are dirty,” he said, shutting the drawer. His bare chest gleamed in the room’s dimmed ambient light.
“That’s not right,” I said, suspicious. “Who keeps dirty underwear in a drawer? What’s in there?”
“Nothing,” he said firmly, spinning me around toward the bed. “That’s where I keep my private items.”
I was immediately intrigued. “What private items?”
“Stop being so nosy.” He flashed a feral grin at me. “Or I’ll tie you to the bed.”
“Rawrrr,” I purred, casting a longing glance in the direction of the mysterious drawer, resolving to peek in it at the first opportunity. Nick took no chances, however: he tucked me into the crook of his shoulder and flung a muscled leg over my hip, his fingers drifting lazily through my hair. “Say it,” I instructed happily.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I do.” I could feel his heartbeat against my back. I nestled against him, soothed into a happy state of well-being, and fell fast into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter Thirty-six
SURGICAL SECRETS
Late Autumn, 1999: Louisville, Kentucky
Incoming Code Blue. Today I was being supervised by the chief resident of the ER, a beautiful brown-haired doctor named Rachel McMann, who was probably five feet one in heels but nonetheless intimidated everyone with her brusque manner and horrifying New Jersey accent. I caught sight of her now, striding machinelike toward one of the big resuscitation rooms in front.
She saw me too. “Medical student!” she bellowed. “Got a good one coming in. Full cardiac arrest, fifteen minutes downtime.”
“Thanks for paging me,” I said, trying to keep up without breaking into a full-on sprint. How did such a short person move so quickly?
As always in a code, the room was crowded. Rachel assumed the place at the head of the stretcher and I wedged in at her elbow. Our timing was good; right after we positioned ourselves, the EMTs barreled in. One was bagging while the other did CPR, both of them pausing long enough for the nurses to pull the sheet with the patient on it over to the ER stretcher.
“Forty-nine-year-old male, collapsed during a meeting. Initial rhythm was V-fib, defibrillated times three, total of two milligrams epi. No time to tube him,” one of the EMTs reported breathlessly.
The usual flurry of activity ensued. I was hoping Dr. McMann would let me intubate the patient, but instead she did it herself while simultaneously pimping me on the management of various arrhythmias. This was disconcerting to everyone in the code because she kept shouting “Congratulations! You just killed the patient!” every time I fumbled an answer. Meanwhile, one of the second-year ER residents had shown up uninvited and poached the remaining good procedure: insertion of a central line into the internal jugular vein.
The code was not going well. The patient kept getting resuscitated and then immediately dying again. To make it even more confusing, he’d had so much epinephrine it was impossible for him to flatline; the residual drug in his system showed up on the monitor as a little oscillation of activity even though no one could detect a pulse. But nobody wanted to quit. He was too young to die. We were all sweaty and exhausted when Dr. McMann finally called it.