Just One of the Guys(79)

“I won’t. I think it’s great, Matt,” I say earnestly. “You shouldn’t feel stuck in a career when you’re thirty-three years old, buddy. Going back to school would be great, however you do it. Part-time, full-time, whatever. Good for you, Matt!”

“Really?” he asks, and I love him so much just then, not because he’s the most considerate of my brothers, or the closest in age, or someone who shares his food, but because he trusts me to give him a good answer.

“Really,” I say. “But now I’ve got to run, buddy. Help yourself to my books.” I gesture to the long, low bookshelf that carries seven years’ worth of higher education.

“I already have.” He grins.

I ARRIVE AT THE E.R. AND CHECK in with the triage nurse, a tight-faced woman named Gabrielle Downs. She sighs dramatically when I present myself. “Just what I need today,” she mutters. “Fine. Stay out of the way. If I’m not totally swamped the way I am now, I’ll see if I can find something for you to do.”

“Are you any relation to Lucia Downs?” I ask.

Another dramatic sigh. “Yes. My sister.”

Of course. Melodrama like this can only come through genetics. “I work with Lucia at the Eaton Falls Gazette.”

Gabrielle raises an eyebrow disdainfully. “Where she’s the receptionist?”

There is such contempt dripping from that word that I can’t help feeling defensive of Lucia, however much she doesn’t deserve it. “Lucia is much more than the receptionist,” I return coolly. “The paper wouldn’t run without her.”

“So she tells me every single time I talk to her.”

Gabrielle walks away, leaving me to wonder just what I’m supposed to do. Well, no harm in looking around, I suppose. In the first curtained-off area, optimistically named Evaluation Room 1, an elderly man is sleeping. In the second, a little boy, about seven, is sniffling on the bed, his mom sitting next to him, holding his hand. There’s a nearly palpable bond between them, and an unexpected wave of maternal envy and admiration surges through me.

“Hi,” I say, smiling.

“Hi,” the mom answers. “Are you the doctor?”

“No. I’m an EMT,” I say. “Well, I’m becoming an EMT. Can I ask your son a few questions?”

“Sure,” the mom says. “He has a really bad sore throat.”

And clearly, no health insurance, or they’d be at the pediatrician’s right now, instead of forced to spend half the day or more here. “Sorry to hear that, buddy,” I say. “You feel yucky?”

The boy’s name is Nate, he tells me, he’s six and three-quarters years old and wants to be a firefighter when he grows up. Perfect. I tell him about my brothers and dad, smiling as his eyes grow wide with awe. “Do you like the Yankees?” I ask.

“Of course,” he answers, swallowing with a grimace.

“I got to go to a game last week,” I tell him. “They won. Who’s your favorite player?”

We chat amiably until a nurse (not Lucia’s sister) comes in to do a strep test, and I’m shooed out of the cubicle.

“Bye, pal,” I say. He waves and smiles, then gags as the nurse sticks a swab in his throat for a culture.

“Thanks. You really helped pass the time,” the mom says.

Flushed with pride, I turn away and bump squarely into Ryan Darling, trauma surgeon.

“Uh-oh,” I say. There’s only one reason Ryan would be here.

“Hello, Chastity,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s my E.R. day, remember?” I answer.

“Oh, of course. How’s it going?” He smiles, causing a nearby conversation to halt. Imagining that they’re admiring my extremely handsome boyfriend, I smile back.

“It’s going okay, Ryan,” I say. “I just got started, really. I don’t think I get to do anything much. What about you? Are you here on a consult?”

“Just waiting for the ambulance,” he says nonchalantly. “Bike versus motorcycle. Possible splenic rupture. Stick around. You can see me in action. When I’m called down, the excitement starts.” One of the orderlies overhears and rolls his eyes.

I raise an eyebrow. “How humble you are, dear,” I murmur. He shrugs as if to say, Can’t help it if it’s true. “Anyway,” I continue, “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to hang around watching trauma surgeons.”

“Oh, if I say you can, you can.” He smiles reassuringly, but I cringe inwardly, for two reasons. One, I don’t want to see someone who’s really hurt. My palms are already slick. Second, Ryan is being really arrogant, even for a surgeon.

“Well?” he asks.

“Um…sure,” I mutter.

“Great!” Ryan turns to Gabrielle, who is approaching with a clipboard. “Nurse, where the hell is that ambulance? I was paged five minutes ago and they’re not even here. I have better things to do than come down here and watch paint dry.”

“Yes, Doctor. I’m sorry.” Gabrielle shoots me a resentful look.

“You’d better get it through your head that a surgeon doesn’t have time to burn. I’m not some baby catcher, you know.”

Gabrielle bows her head and scurries away.