Destroy (A Standalone Romance Novel) (19 page)

Come to think of it, I
was one of the people that the ‘public’ in question was watching carefully then.
Keeping that in mind, I marched through the doors of the ward.

As on the previous day,
Elizabeth had arrived before me. At the time, I wondered if she was sleeping in
the lounge. It was quite comfortable actually. They had furnished it like a small
living room, with sofas, chairs and coffee tables. There were also two bedrooms
and a fully equipped kitchen. So, if one of the doctors needed to stay
overnight, particularly when a transplant was imminent and the organ was on its
way, every minute counted. No time to go home and come back. Whenever the organ
arrives, you’ve got to be on hand and even scrubbed and in your gown to start
the procedure as soon as the patient is prepped.

But I didn’t think it was
the case for Elizabeth. She looked much refreshed and ready to tackle another
day.

As she handed me the
chart for the first of the two new patients, I noticed something that escaped
me before. Elizabeth wasn’t wearing her wedding band or her engagement ring.

On the one hand, there is
an unwritten law which suggests that a doctor or a nurse should not wear any
jewelry during their shift. For one thing, it could be snagged in a bandage or
a dressing; it could slip out and be lost or you could simply hurt a patient
inadvertently. On the other, Dr. Aldridge didn’t have to apply any dressing;
she didn’t have to clean a wound or even have a hand in any of the day-to-day
care of a patient. So, she could have worn her wedding band at least.

When the patient came in,
Elizabeth asked me to introduce myself first; so that I would be the first
doctor she remembered seeing. Elizabeth was to take second chair on this one. I
appreciated the opportunity. I wanted to fly my own wings ever since I arrived
at the hospital.

“Mrs. Linda Carter, is
it?” I asked as Elizabeth and I walked into the room.

“Yes, that’s me,” the
woman replied cheerfully.

“My name is Dr. Heather
Williams. I’ll be looking after you for the length of your stay with us, if
that’s okay with you.”

“I’m sure it will be
fine, Doctor. But I see Dr. Aldridge is here too; are you just going to
observe, Doctor?” Linda asked Elizabeth.

“Yes, Mrs. Carter. I’m
the observer, but don’t worry, I’ll be there during surgery.”

“Has my brother come in
already?” Linda looked through the glass panels that surrounded her room.

“No, Mrs. Carter, he’s
not here yet. But I’m sure he is only moments away,” Elizabeth replied. “I’ve
phoned his home this morning and he should be here within the hour I imagine.”

“You know, Dr. Williams,
my brother is such a procrastinator, I had to drive to his place to remind him
of the date.”

“He doesn’t like the idea
of going under the knife, is that it?” I asked, cracking a reassuring smile at
the lady.

“You got it. I think he
spent an entire night on the internet when he accepted to give me one of his
kidneys. He even wanted to take a course or some such thing to learn more about
the procedure. You know; the risks and all that.”

Elizabeth and I exchanged
a knowing glance. Many patients, whatever their treatments, are extremely
curious about what’s going to happen to them while they’re unconscious. People
hate losing control. They have to entrust their lives into the hands of a
surgeon; a person they often don’t know, or have met only on a couple of
occasions. They can’t relinquish control easily. It’s understandable. In the
case of Mrs. Carter’s brother, I was inclined to think that Linda had to do a
lot of convincing before he accepted to give his kidney.

When you reach a certain
age, in your forties generally, it seems as if such decisions as to give an
organ to someone, often means relinquishing a part of you that will cause you
to age faster. It’s a veritable myth among patients. Many believe that after
they gave up one of their organs, they are going to shrivel up and die earlier
than they should. I just hoped Linda’s brother wasn’t a firm believer in the
myth.

Two hours later, Mrs.
Carter was resting comfortably in company of her husband and two children while
her brother was in the next room getting acquainted with the TV. Like our Mr.
Archibald, he was an avid watcher of the sports’ channels. His questions were
slightly different from those Elizabeth and I had anticipated. Gerald Lancer
was wondering how long he was going to be laid up and how fast he could get out
of the hospital. He wanted to recover at home. “Hospital cooking is not for
me,” he told Elizabeth. “I hate Jell-O, mash potatoes, and peas. I rather have
a nice soup.”

At that juncture,
Elizabeth interrupted him, saying, “Not to worry, Mr. Lancer, we have a full
menu these days. You pick what you like to eat and we’ll make sure you get what
you want–no mash potatoes, no peas, and no Jell-O.”

He laughed heartily at
Elizabeth’s assertiveness. She had not told him that he would be staying in the
hospital for at least four days after surgery, but she had told him that his
diet wouldn’t suffer from it.

Since I had to review
both Linda and Gerald’s chart before this evening’s procedure, I decided to
stay in for lunch. I had to put my reading cap on again and absorb most of what
I needed to know before going down to the dungeon with our two patients.

I was in the middle of my
reading when Elizabeth came in with a tray of goodies. She had gone to the café
and ordered a couple of dishes for lunch. I was impressed with her thoughtfulness.
She sat down across from me and said, “You better have the soup before it gets
cold.” She smiled.

I shook my head, returned
the smile and put down the file I was reading. “Thank you,” I said, “That looks
yummy.” And it did. Hospital food has improved a lot in the last twenty years.
As Mr. Lancer said: “No peas, no Jell-O, no mash potatoes,” unless it’s on your
order sheet, of course.

I was eating quietly when
I thought it might be the right time to ask the question that was burning my
lips since I met her. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth, but I’ve got to ask: why don’t you
and your husband open a private practice? I mean you would make a great team
together.”

She laughed. “I know.
Many people have asked us the same thing. But private practice means taking on
responsibilities that neither of us is prepared to tackle.”

“Like what?” I asked,
getting into my rice salad eagerly.

“Like administration; the
IRS; insurance coverage; hiring employees; looking after the nursing staff;
getting specialists listed; and so on and so forth.” She paused to finish her
soup. “Besides, working with the man and then going home with him would be a
little more than I could stand.” She giggled. “Actually, I’m the one who needs
space. I am the one who doesn’t want to have the burden of those
responsibilities I mentioned. Jeff would be perfectly all right with all of it.
He would hire a lawyer, an accountant, an administrator and a whole bunch of
staff to run the place–same as in a clinic.”

“That’s a lot to take
care of. It almost sounds as no one would have time to practice medicine in
such conditions.”

“Precisely. I, for one,
would be more worried about my income tax return than my next patient. I know
me; I’m the worrywart, par excellence. And I would be after Jeff day in and day
out to see if he’s filled all the forms for the insurance company, the
accountant, and God knows who else. I would be impossible to live with, I’m
sure.

“But when you’re working
in this hospital, none of those things bother you. You’re only required to
follow the rules; to attend to your patients; and to make sure you don’t keep
them in those beds too long. Most of our admitted patients can pay their bills
these days since Medicare has changed, but still, we can’t waste time, effort,
or meds on someone who’s fit enough to go home.”

So
our Dr. Elizabeth Aldridge is still married to Jeff, the bastard!
It was the thought that came back to mind, late that night. After several hours
of surgery, giving Linda Carter a new kidney as soon as we had retrieved it
from her brother, I was absolutely and thoroughly exhausted. When I got home,
there was a dish in the oven for me. I had to smile. Tiffany, once again, had
demonstrated her home-maker traits. At that very minute, I truly appreciated
her attentive friendship. As I was eating, watching the late news, she came out
of her room, wiping the sleep out of her eyes.

“What are you doing up?”
I asked; my mouth still full of spaghetti. “Sorry, did I disturb you?” I looked
up at her.

She was wearing her
fleecy pink robe and her bunny slippers. I must say she looked as cute as a
little doll.

She sat down beside me.
“Just tell me how the surgery went. Talking to the others in the locker room
tonight, I think you were the first one to enjoy the privilege of assisting the
surgeon.”

“Maybe so, Tiff. But I
can assure you, there’s nothing glamorous about being first in line in this
case. It’s just hard work. It’s like you’re going back to your first anatomy
class. You need to watch everything the primary surgeon does and be ready to
lend a hand at a moment’s notice. It’s really intense stuff.”

I continued eating, while
Tiffany went to fetch a glass of water out of the fridge.

“What about Dr.
Hottie
? Did you see him today?”

“No. And I’m glad he
didn’t show up in my scope,”—I swallowed another mouthful—“because I would have
shot him on sight.”

“Why?” Tiffany asked,
coming back to sit beside me.

“He’s a two-timer, that’s
why.”

“Really? How do you
know?”

“Elizabeth and I had a
chance to talk. I didn’t say anything about having a fling with her husband, of
course, but I was curious about their relationship. So, I asked her why she and
her hubby didn’t have a private practice. She told me that the responsibilities
attached to running a practice are far too overwhelming for her. She prefers
practicing in a hospital as opposed to having their own clinic.”

“That’s understandable, I
suppose,” Tiffany agreed. “So, from the way she talked you’ve concluded that
they’re still married and living together, is that it?”

I nodded and wiped my
plate with the last bit of roll I had saved. “Yep. Dr.
Hottie
is definitely living a double life as far as I can tell. His wife is a lovely
lady. She is very, very capable. She is quite a caring surgeon and certainly
not one who deserves to be cheated on.”

“It sounds like you’re
admiring her.”

“Yes, Tiff, I do. If she
had said they were separated, I would have understood. She doesn’t have to be
treated that way. And if they’re on their way to a divorce, all the better.”

“Do you mean you’d be
pleased if he were free?”

“Not really. I think once
men cheat, it’s like a wild animal tasting human blood for the first time;
they’ll continue hunting, whether they fall in love or not.”

“I guess you were right
when you said that if he were in your scope today, you would have shot him dead.”

“Absolutely. I admit I’m
partly at fault for falling in his trap. He’s such a gorgeous specimen; I don’t
know many women who could resist his charm. But he is also a predator, Tiff,
and that’s what disgusts me about him. I am putty in his hands and I hate
feeling that way about any man.”

An hour later, we finally
got to bed. It didn’t take me thirty seconds to fall asleep.
 

Chapter
21

The rest of the week was
spent without incident. I didn’t set eyes on Jeff and continued working with
Elizabeth. Natasha received part of her father’s liver and both of them were
doing fine. Lydia, Natasha’s sister, was now on top of the list of liver
recipients. This meant that she would have the best chance against millions of
other patients at receiving the organ in the very near future. In the meantime,
I was to look after her and keep a close watch on her diet and medications. She
was a lovely little child. She deserved the best of care, as all children do.

As I said many times,
pediatrics is not for me. I couldn’t handle it emotionally. Many women
physicians prefer it, but I truly don’t.

Friday night, Tiffany and
I decided to go shopping for the week’s groceries. We needed a bit of
everything. It’s amazing to think how fast we were running out of
every day
items. From paper towels to dish soap or shampoo,
to butter, and bread, we practically had a trunk full of stuff when we got
home.

We were unloading the
car, when I saw Mrs. Camborne come out of the elevator.

“Oh my, girls, am I glad
to see you home,” she declared to our surprised faces.

“Why? What’s the matter,
Mrs. Camborne? Are you sick?” I asked, grabbing the last bag out of the trunk.

“No-no, dear, not at all,
but it’s your mom, Heather.”

My heart skipped a beat.
I immediately thought something had happened to Dad and she had phoned our
landlady when she couldn’t get me on my cell. “Has she phoned?”