Chapter 57
57
POLLY
We have a second bedroom upstairs. We had once imagined it would eventually serve as a nursery for our first child, and Hank had even spoken of building an extension if we had more children, but things didn’t work out that way. Instead, it’s an office.
Not that Hank or I really need an office. Hank is a mechanic. And I am…well, right now, I’m nothing. But when I was a nurse, I didn’t need an office very much either. But I did use the desk when I worked on Hank’s bookkeeping for the auto shop. Or to store tax documents and important papers.
And that’s what I’m looking for right now.
I sit down at the desk in our office and sift through the papers in the top drawer. I haven’t used this drawer in a while, so it doesn’t take me long to find what I need. I pull out a piece of paper and lay it down in front of me. Then I dial a number on my phone.
“Walgreens pharmacy,” a clipped female voice answers.
“Hello.” I clutch the piece of paper in front of me. “My name is Dr. Chloe Passaro. I’d like to call in a prescription for a patient.”
“Sure. What’s the patient’s name?”
“Polly Thompson.” I recite my date of birth for her as well.
“Okay then,” the pharmacist says, “what would you like to order?”
“Cephalexin,” I say. “Five hundred milligrams twice a day. Dispense fourteen tablets. No refills.”
“Is that all?”
I hesitate. My other concern is the possibility of a blood clot in her leg, but without an ultrasound to diagnose it, I wouldn’t feel comfortable giving her a therapeutic dose of blood thinner. But she should at least get a prophylactic dose. “Do you have prefilled syringes of enoxaparin?” I ask.
“Yes, we do, Doctor.”
I order enough for her to get through the next month. By then, this will come to an end, one way or another.
“Thank you, Doctor,” the pharmacist says. “Can I have your NPI number?”
I look down at the paper in front of me that contains all of Dr. Passaro’s identification numbers for when I used to call in prescriptions on her behalf. Of course, I always identified myself as “Polly, the nurse working with Dr. Passaro.” But that wouldn’t work in this situation.
A pharmacist takes down Dr. Passaro’s information, and I suspect that by the afternoon, I will get a call saying my prescription is ready. But the antibiotic won’t be for me. It will be for Tegan. I checked which antibiotic would be safest to take for a pregnant patient with a skin infection, and that’s what I have called in. Given how sick she is, I’m scared the infection has spread to the blood, which means if we were in a hospital setting, she would certainly require IV antibiotics. But this is the best I can do.
It’s dicey to impersonate a doctor I haven’t even worked for in several years. But then again, it’s not actually that risky. I’m not calling in narcotics or anything that would raise a red flag. All I’ve done is ask for a week’s worth of an antibiotic and a low dose of a blood thinner. Dr. Passaro will never know about it.
Now that I’ve got the antibiotics being dispensed, I creep back down to the basement to check on Tegan. I tried to offer her some breakfast, but she was so out of it that I was scared she might choke. I did manage to get her to drink some water.
Right now, she’s fast asleep. Her eyelashes flutter slightly with each breath, and her cheeks are flushed pink. I have a thermometer in the medicine cabinet, but I’m afraid to check her temperature. Just by touch, it’s clear she’s running a high fever.
“Tegan.” I nudge her slightly. “Tegan?”
She murmurs but doesn’t open her eyes.
I pull back the sheets from her left ankle. I tried to hide my reaction from her when I first saw it, but it looks awful. The skin is bright red and shiny, and when I press my fingers against the top of her foot, I can’t palpate a pulse. And that wound from the accident looks terrible. There is a fair amount of pus oozing out of it, and I’m not sure how deep the infection goes—maybe even down to the bone. If I did take her to the hospital, there’s a reasonable chance she would lose that foot.
I grab the first aid kit under the bathroom sink and do my best to clean out the open wound. I run warm water over it, and I try my best to disinfect it with Betadine, even though I recognize it’s far too late. When I’m done, I wrap her foot up gently in Kerlix gauze.
The most disturbing thing of all is that she barely stirs through the entire thing.
I chew on my lip, trying to figure out my next move. Finally, I walk around the side of the bed to the nightstand and rifle around in the bottom drawer. I pull out a stethoscope and stick the tips in my ears. I lay the diaphragm of the stethoscope on the bulge of Tegan’s belly and close my eyes, listening.
There’s a heartbeat. It’s weak, but I hear it.
The baby is okay.
But she won’t be for long. I’ve got to get that antibiotic right now, and I’ve got to get that baby out of her before it’s too late.