Ghost Downstairs
Chapter One
2003
Lina Zuendel blamed the loss of her job on Stephen King. If she hadn’t been reading Salem’s Lot that night in the nurses’ lounge, she wouldn’t have been so spooked and jumpy, and she wouldn’t have screamed when she turned a hallway corner at two o’clock in the morning and collided with Sara, another nurse. Sara carried a half-full dinner tray and wheeled an empty IV device, and when Lina smashed into her the result was spectacular. Sara fell, knocking over both the IV and Lina. As Lina sprawled on the hall tiles she saw the dinner tray go airborne.
A crescent of burger bounced off her forehead while an apple core hit Sara in the eye. Jabbering apologies, Lina rose to help Sara, planted her foot on a pudding cup, and slipped again, whacking her forehead on Sara’s chin. At that point Sara started to hit Lina to keep her away. Lina crawled aside, wiping ketchup off her ear and still apologizing, while two grinning orderlies helped Sara up and led her to the lounge.
Lina admitted in her heart that the moment had been a perfectly executed piece of slapstick. She understood why people laughed. None of them knew at the time that Lina would kill a patient because of it.
“I went to get sodium chloride for Mr. Ambaum, to flush his catheter,” she explained to the doctors and the hospital administrator who called her in after Mr. Ambaum’s death. It was five in the morning. Lina still had a chocolate pudding stain on her white sneaker. “I was rattled after, um, running into Sara. I took what I thought was the sodium chloride, and went to his room and injected it, but…” Her hands still trembled. “It turned out to be potassium chloride. I somehow grabbed that instead, I don’t know how…”
“You injected potassium chloride into his central venous line?” The administrator took notes as he spoke. He hid his emotions well, but his voice was gruff. He couldn’t have been pleased to learn a nurse had accidentally given a patient a lethal injection.
Mr. Ambaum had been receiving chemotherapy for liver cancer. He had a wife and two grown sons.
“Yes.” Professionalism had to be upheld. Lina would not cry in front of everyone. She blinked against the tears and controlled her voice. “I thought I checked. I saw the word ‘chloride.’ I should have…” She stopped. She should have checked better. End of weak defense.
The hospital had already explained to Mr. Ambaum’s family that he had died of cardiac arrest after a medication error. Though the family members were merely in shock right now, the administrator told Lina to expect anger and press coverage—though probably not legal action, as the hospital would do everything it could to settle with the Ambaums out of court. In the mean-time, the administrator sent Lina home and told her to take tomorrow off. Lina nodded, gathered her shreds of pudding-splashed dignity, and left the hospital.
A fresh September dawn bathed the eastern sky. Lina stumbled along the sidewalk, blinking at buildings and citizens and seagulls. Salmon-colored sunlight gleamed on the cars. Roasting coffee filled the salty air with its scent. A beeping bread truck backed into an alley.
Seattle’s First Hill bore the nickname “Pill Hill” for the numerous hospitals dotting it, and Lina’s apartment sat in the middle of them. When she had moved into it as a fresh young nurse with a bright white lab coat, she had counted herself lucky to live among so many potential workplaces. Now, five years and three lab coats later, she doubted she would stay at Everglade Hospital even if they did forgive her. They had been too kind. She had killed a man. In her own mind she had committed manslaughter. She did not want to give up nursing, nor go to jail, but she felt she deserved both those fates, and suspected she would never touch a syringe again without shuddering. But this was only the first morning, she thought in desperation. It would improve with time and sleep. Wouldn’t it?
Lina unlocked the iron security gate of her building, trudged up the stone steps, and shuffled inside. She needed someone to talk to, someone close, but she had no one. The other nurses were friendly, but not the sort of people whose blouses she would cry on. Her brother was probably stoned. Her mom never paid attention to nursing concerns unless they concerned herself. Her dad might actually be dismayed with her for her mistake. Really, Lina had no one.
Except maybe Brent.
In the stairwell she paused at the landing between the second and third floor, where a window faced Elliott Bay. Deep blue water and evergreen-bristled shores cozied up to the metropolis. A white ferry trundled toward Bainbridge Island. Desperate love for the city swelled beneath her ribs. Seattle had seemed the promised land when she had been growing up in her drab Tacoma neighborhood, and since she had moved here not a day had gone by when she didn’t love it still. Brent had invited her to come with him to Atlanta. Because of her ties to Seattle she had refused, and they broke up and said all those cruel things to each other. But would he be kind to her now if she called him and spilled the whole awful story? He knew her better than anyone else did. He was her strongest hope for sanity this morning.
In her apartment she thumped Salem’s Lot onto her desk, pushed newspapers off her chair, and plopped down to check her email. Like magic, one from Brent appeared. But it wasn’t addressed just to Lina. In fact, it appeared to be addressed to everyone Brent knew. The cc list went on for about fifty names.
Hi friends and folks! it read. Atlanta is treating me great. In fact, you’re never going to believe this, but I’m getting married! Her name’s Joanne and we met at a biomed research conference, and well, it had to be fate. I’m too slammed right now to give the whole story, but I’m really happy and wanted to let everyone know, and I’m sure some of you will be calling me anyway for details when you get this. Have a wonderful day!
That was all. Lina checked again, but he had sent no separate email for her alone, no kind words for the woman he had left behind in Seattle just five months ago. She checked the voicemail on her cell phone. Nothing there either.
She rose on shaking legs and looked at the answering machine on her landline. The blinking light signaled a message. She dove forward, knocking a dictionary off the desk, and pressed the button.
“Hey Lina, it’s your mom,” drawled the recording. Lina sank back into the chair and put her head in her hands. “I’ve got these cramps again. They’re making me miserable, honey, and I wanted to ask you what that tea was you told me about. ’Cause I swear, sugar, the Midol ain’t cutting it anymore. When the hell is menopause going to get here already? Well, at least I got a nurse for a daughter who I can call and complain to. Call me back. Also, Lina, your brother has a thing on his face again. Talk to him about it, okay? Bye, honey.”
With dried ketchup in her hair, pudding on her shoe, and shackles of love and cowardice chaining her to an unforgiving Seattle, Lina sat at her desk and wept.
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