70. BLAKE
BLAKE
I burst into the emergency room, where a swarm of medical professionals surrounded Tessa. ER doctors, nurses, and Dr. Vaughn. A sea of hands moved with practiced efficiency, the kind of orchestrated mayhem that only happened when death lurked at the edges of possibility.
Tessa’s skin had gone ghostly pale, her lips tinged with an all-too-familiar blue that made my chest constrict.
“Get an ECG and increase her on oxygen to fifteen liters per minute. Vitals every two minutes. And get toxicology down here now!” Dr. Calder barked.
My rival for chief of emergency medicine—thank God he was the one on duty tonight because he was amazing—pressed his stethoscope to her chest, his face carved in concentration.
“Dr. Morrison, you should leave,” Dr. Vaughn said quietly.
“I’m not leaving.” The words came out raw.
“Heart rate’s dropping. Forty-seven beats per minute!” a nurse called out as she hung a saline IV.
“You could be a distraction.” Dr. Vaughn’s voice was gentle but firm. “We need to work on saving her life.”
“I want to help.” My voice cracked.
“I know you do. You’re emotionally compromised, and we can’t have that in the ER. Out. Now.”
It wasn’t until then that I realized the room had gone blurry.
My eyes were burning, my throat so tight that it felt like I was swallowing fire.
For the first time in my career, I understood what it meant to be on this side of an emergency, to be the one watching, helpless, as someone you love balanced on the scalpel’s edge between life and death.
Like that family member I’d shooed away the day Tessa had landed in my ER.
“At least tell me how she’s doing.”
“She’s barely responsive,” the nurse reported with no filter. “BP is crashing. Seventy-five over fifty.”
Dr. Calder grabbed the IV tubing. “Push atropine, 0.5 milligrams IV. Now.”
“Antidote?”
“Given the second she arrived.” Dr. Vaughn guided me into the hallway. “We’re working on stabilizing her vitals to give the antidote a chance to work. You’re positive it’s cyanide?”
My hand—gloved, thanks to the EMTs—trembled as I held out the syringe I’d used on Eli along with a shard of glass I’d collected from the broken champagne flute on the ground. “It might have trace amounts. We should confirm.”
Dr. Vaughn took the items carefully with gloved hands, passing them to a waiting intern. “Toxicology. Stat.” He leveled his eyes on mine. “She’s in good hands, Dr. Morrison.”
After discarding my glove, I pinched the bridge of my nose and began pacing, feeling more useless than I had in my entire medical career as the frantic voices from Tessa’s room became a brutal symphony.
I texted Ryker. Come to Mercy Harbor. Now. 911.
He tried to call, but I couldn’t tell him his sister might die over the phone. He deserved better than that.
Oh God. What if she died? What if I was too late?
It was strange, how I’d imagined my life full of solitude all these years, but now, the thought of a world without Tessa felt like contemplating life without oxygen. Impossible, devastating, void of any meaning or joy.
My eyes burned hotter. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cried, let alone in public. Probably in one of my foster homes, maybe the last time my foster father had beaten Faith.
“Dr. Morrison?”
I spun to find Collins, the intern I’d once lectured for showing emotion. I’d dragged him aside and torn him apart for crying in the hallway.
“Pretty poetic, huh?” I managed a weak smile. “I gave you hell for crying over a patient.”
“You’re allowed to cry over this patient.” His voice was gentle as he looked to the room. “I heard she means a lot to you.”
“Some people would gloat right now.”
Collins showed me his true colors. Again. “I would never gloat over a patient fighting for their life,” he said softly. “I’m really sorry you’re going through this. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”
I nodded. “Thank you, Collins.”
He gave me an understanding look and turned to leave.
“Hey, Collins?”
He paused.
“How about you shadow me next week?”
Assuming I came in next week. Assuming Tessa survived. I couldn’t even let the thought in that next week wouldn’t be an ordinary, normal week …
His face brightened. “Really?”
“Really. In fact, let’s make it a month.”
His smile widened, and I recognized something I’d missed before: the pure compassion that made him not just a doctor, but a healer.
“It’s not just for your benefit,” I added. “I think I could learn a lot from you.”
Because as it turned out, caring about your patient didn’t make you a dangerous doctor. It made you a better one.