Chapter 2 Tasha
two
tasha
The problem with Nathan Crawford wasn't that he was incompetent. The problem was that he was so aggressively competent, so relentlessly professional, that it made everyone else look stupid by comparison.
Take Tuesday morning's disaster: Mrs. Kellerman, sixty eight years old, diabetic, on dialysis three times a week, veins like spider webs under tissue paper.
She'd been stuck four times already—twice by night shift, once by respiratory therapy trying to draw blood gases, and once by some overeager resident who'd insisted he could "definitely get this one. "
Her arms looked like a war zone.
"I can't take much more of this, honey," Mrs. Kellerman said to me, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. "I know y’all are trying, but..."
I looked at her arms, mapping the viable targets in my head. There, on the back of her left hand, I saw it— a tiny, threadlike vein that everyone else had probably dismissed as too small.
But I'd gotten smaller.
"Mrs. Kellerman," I said, pulling up a chair beside her bed, "I'm going to get this on the first try. I promise."
"Oh, sweetheart, that's what they all say."
"Well," I said, prepping my supplies with practiced efficiency. "I'm not 'they all.' I'm very good at this."
Nathan appeared at my elbow with the ultrasound machine. "Need help? I can get this set up for—"
"Won't need it," I said without looking at him. "But thanks anyway."
I felt his eyes on me as I slid the 22-gauge needle into that impossibly small vein, felt the tiny pop of entry, watched the flash of blood in the chamber. Perfect placement on the first stick.
"There we go, Mrs. Kellerman," I said, taping down the IV with satisfaction. "All done."
"Oh my God," she breathed, staring at her hand like I'd performed magic. "I barely felt that. You're amazing!"
I waited for the acknowledgment. The impressed look. The grudging respect that always came when I pulled off something the others couldn't.
"Nice work," Nathan said, already moving to hang Mrs. Kellerman's antibiotics. "That was textbook technique. Saved us from having to call for a midline."
That was it. No amazement. No ‘how did you do that?’ Just ‘nice work’ like I'd done something any competent nurse could manage.
"Textbook," I repeated flatly.
"Perfect angle, good vein choice, excellent patient communication," he said, checking the IV flow rate. "Mrs. Kellerman, thanks to Tasha, you're all set. This should run for about an hour."
I stared at him as he moved on to his next patient, completely oblivious to the fact that he'd just dismissed what was genuinely impressive work.
Textbook.
Like anyone could have done it.
* * *
Thursday brought Mr. Taylor, seventy four years old, readmitted for complications related to his gallbladder surgery, who'd been holding in our ER for a day and a half waiting for an inpatient bed to come free.
The kind of patient who thought nurses were just there to fetch things and fluff pillows—which was apparently all the MedSurg nurses upstairs did, considering how reluctant they were to actually take report and get this man out of our trauma bay.
Because nothing said "efficient patient flow" like having a stable patient taking up space while we tried to manage actual emergencies around him. But here we were, providing what was essentially hotel service while waiting for the floor to deign to accept their admission.
"You're very gentle," he told Nathan as he helped him to the bathroom. "Not like some of these girls who just want to rush through everything. You really care about doing a good job."
"That's very kind of you to say, Mr. Taylor," Nathan replied, steadying the man's elbow. "All the nurses here are excellent. We all want you to get better."
Mr. Taylor harrumphed. "Well, you're different. More professional. You take your time, explain things properly."
"Yes," I said, my voice perfectly pleasant as I approached with his medications. "Nathan's very... nurturing."
I put just enough emphasis on the word to make it sound like something between a compliment and an observation about his maternal instincts.
Nathan glanced at me, that same mild, unreadable expression. "Thank you, Tasha."
Thank you. Not 'what's that supposed to mean?' or 'are you questioning my competence?'. ‘Thank you’. Like I'd given him a genuine compliment.
Mr. Taylor, oblivious to the subtext, nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly! That's what I was saying. Very nurturing. You'd make a great father someday."
"I have a daughter, actually," Nathan said, helping Mr. Taylor back into bed. "She keeps me on my toes."
"Well, she's lucky to have you," Mr. Taylor said with the authority of someone who'd decided Nathan was his new favorite person.
I watched Nathan tuck the blankets around Mr. Taylor with the same methodical care he brought to everything, and felt something twist in my chest. Not anger, exactly. Something more complicated.
"Your pain medication is here, Mr. Taylor," I said, holding up the small cup of pills.
"Oh," Mr. Taylor said, taking the cup without really looking at me. "Thank you, dear."
Of course. Not ‘thank you for going through my medications with a fine-tooth comb to make sure the resident's NSAID order wouldn't cause me to bleed internally.' Just ‘thank you, dear’.
Nathan caught my expression this time, something shifting in his face. "Tasha spent time reviewing all your medications to make sure nothing would interact poorly," he told Mr. Taylor. "She probably prevented some serious complications."
"Oh," Mr. Taylor said again, this time actually looking at me. "Well. That's... thank you."
I waited for Nathan to move on, to go back to his other patients and leave me to stew in my irritation. Instead, he lingered.
"That was a good catch," he said quietly. "The warfarin-NSAID interaction. Most people would have missed it."
I blinked. He'd noticed. He'd actually been paying attention to my work, not just his own.
"It's my job," I said, but the words came out less sharp than I'd intended.
"Still. Good work."
He walked away then, leaving me standing there feeling oddly off-balance.
It wasn't the praise that threw me; I was used to being good at my job.
It was the way he'd said it. Like he actually meant it.
Like he'd been watching my work with genuine respect, not just waiting for his turn to look competent.
I watched him stop at the next bed, where Mrs. Garcia was arguing with her daughter about discharge planning. His voice was patient, kind, as he explained the home care instructions for the third time. No condescension. No frustration. Just... professional competence mixed with genuine compassion.
The man was irritatingly impossible to dislike.
Which was exactly the problem.
I'd spent three years perfecting the art of keeping people at a distance. A sharp comment here, a perfectly timed eye roll there, just enough attitude to make sure no one got too comfortable, too familiar, too close. It worked. It kept me safe.
But Nathan Crawford didn't seem to notice my carefully crafted defenses. Or maybe he noticed and just... didn't care.
Either way, it was unsettling.