Chapter 8 Tasha
eight
tasha
Some days you were just on. Today was one of those days.
"Just routine maintenance," he'd said through gritted teeth. "Checking the sterilization units in the hospital's ventilation system."
Bingo. "Did you look directly at any of the UV lights?"
The sheepish pause told me everything I needed to know. UV keratitis—essentially a sunburn on his corneas from ultraviolet exposure. Not rocket science, but apparently none of the doctors had thought to ask about UV exposure when dealing with an HVAC tech complaining of severe eye pain.
Twenty minutes later, Dr. Lee was writing him a prescription for eye drops and strict instructions about eye protection, looking slightly annoyed that a Fast Track nurse had solved what the residents had been puzzling over.
Then came Mrs. Henderson, sweet sixty-eight-year-old grandmother who needed an MRI for her knee pain. The night shift nurse had already cleared her through the screening—no pacemaker, no surgical implants, all good to go.
Except I actually read the screening form.
"Mrs. Henderson," I said carefully, "the form asks about any metal piercings. Are you sure you don't have any?"
She blushed adorably. "Well, I do have one, but it's in a... very unusual place. Would that matter?"
I kept my expression perfectly professional. "If it's anywhere that would be painful as hell when the MRI kicks on, then yes, it absolutely matters.” Absolutely no judgment from me! If Grandma wants to have fun, Grandma can have fun! “That's exactly why we do the complete screening on everyone."
Crisis averted. The MRI tech thanked me profusely when I called to update the orders. Apparently, discovering a clitoral hood piercing after the machine was running would have been, ahh... problematic.
I was feeling pretty good about my clinical decision-making when EMS rolled in with what should have been a straightforward finger injury.
The kid—and he really was just a kid, early twenties at most—was practically hyperventilating on the stretcher, cradling his left hand like it might fall off. His index finger was swollen and obviously painful, but from what I could see, it wasn't mangled or deformed.
"Got it slammed in a heavy door about an hour ago," the EMT reported to Sophia, freshly returned from her globetrotting adventures and thrown right back into the crucible of the ER. "Significant pain, some swelling. We splinted it."
Sophia glanced at the board, which was already packed. "Send him to triage. We'll get him worked up when—"
"Wait," I interrupted, watching the kid's face. He'd gone pale at the word "triage," probably imagining another hour of waiting with a throbbing finger. "What exactly did you tell him about the injury?"
The EMT, a young volunteer who looked like he was maybe nineteen himself, shifted uncomfortably. "Well, you know, with that kind of trauma to the finger, there's always a chance it might need amputation if there's significant damage to the—"
"Amputation?" I stared at him. "You told a kid with a slammed finger that he might need amputation?"
"I mean, it's always a possibility with crush injuries—"
I looked at the kid's finger again. Swollen, yes. Bruised, definitely. But the nail bed looked intact, there was no obvious laceration, and he had full range of motion despite the pain.
"Sophia," I said, making a decision, "just send him to Fast Track. I think I can take one more."
She raised an eyebrow but nodded. "Your call."
Twenty minutes later, I had the kid comfortable with an ice pack and pain medication, his x-ray ordered, and his anxiety significantly reduced after I'd explained that his finger was almost certainly just bruised, not dangling by a thread.
"So I'm not going to lose it?" he asked for the third time.
"Not unless you're planning to stick it in a blender," I said dryly. "You'll be sore for a week or two, but all your digits should remain attached."
He actually smiled at that, the first time since he'd arrived. As a transporter wheeled him off to radiology, I felt pretty good about the whole interaction. It would have been completely appropriate to send him to triage—we were slammed—but sometimes a little extra effort made all the difference.
That's when she arrived.
"Excuse me, I need to speak to someone about my son's treatment," announced a woman who had clearly perfected the art of demanding to speak to managers.
She was maybe fifty, wearing what I'd learned to recognize as "I have money and you will respect me" casual wear, and radiating the kind of entitled energy that made my teeth itch.
"What can I help you with?" I asked, keeping my voice pleasant.
"My son was brought here with a serious hand injury, and I need to know exactly what's been done and what the treatment plan is. I also need access to his medical records."
I blinked. "I'm sorry, what's your son's name? We don't have any children here with hand injuries."
She rattled off a name that made me pause. "Wait, you mean the adult patient? The twenty-something guy with the finger injury?"
"Yes, and I demand to know—"
"Ma'am," I interrupted, "that's an adult patient we're talking about. I can't discuss anything with you without his explicit permission. You're welcome to talk to him directly when he gets back from radiology—assuming you have a visitor badge?"
Her face flushed red. "That's ridiculous! I'm his mother! I have every right to know what's happening with his medical care!"
"Actually, you don't," I said, maintaining my professional tone despite the spike of irritation. "HIPAA laws are very clear about patient privacy, even for family members. Unless he's given us written permission to share his information with you, I legally cannot discuss his case."
"This is outrageous! I want to file a complaint! I'm being treated rudely and denied basic information about my own child!"
"Your adult child," I corrected. "And I'm sorry you feel that way, but—"
"Is there a problem?" Sophia's voice cut through the rising tension as she approached, her expression professionally concerned.
"This person wants access to their son's medical chart," I explained, keeping my voice level but shooting Sophia a look that said help me out here.
Sophia nodded seriously, her face taking on an expression of helpful understanding. "Oh, of course! For a minor, we absolutely have to allow parental access to medical records." She turned to the woman with professional interest. "How old is your son, ma'am? Ten? Twelve?"
The woman stammered slightly. "Twenty-four."
"Twenty-four?" Sophia's eyebrows shot up in apparent surprise. "Twenty-four years old?"
"Yes."
"Well," Sophia said, her voice taking on that deadly polite tone I'd learned to recognize, "I'm sorry, ma'am, but Tasha here is absolutely correct.
Unless you want us to break a multitude of federal and state laws regarding patient privacy, I cannot give you information from an adult patient's chart without his explicit written permission. "
"But I'm his mother—"
"You're not suggesting we break the law, are you?" Sophia asked, her expression perfectly innocent.
The woman opened and closed her mouth a few times, clearly wanting to argue but recognizing she was on the losing side. With a final huff of indignation, she stalked off toward the waiting area.
"Good job sticking to your guns on the privacy issue," Sophia said once the woman was out of earshot. "The kid might not have cared if we shared that information with his mom, but we do things the right way here."
I nodded, but I could feel my irritation still simmering.
"It's just frustrating, you know? There are people who've been waiting in triage for hours, and I went out of my way to get that kid seen quickly because he was obviously struggling.
The EMT had him convinced he was going to lose his finger.
And then all I get is grief from his helicopter mother. "
"Welcome to the ER," Sophia said with a slight smile. "Where no good deed goes unpunished."
Something about her smile caught my attention. There was a lightness to it I hadn't seen before, a relaxed quality that was distinctly un-Sophia-like. She looked... content. Happy, even.
"Speaking of good deeds," I said, studying her face, "you seem remarkably chipper today. Did you have… fun… in New Zealand?" I let the question hang with just enough implication to make my meaning clear.
Sophia's smile widened, and instead of her usual deflection or professional redirect, she actually looked almost... smug?
"Let's just say it was... educational," she replied, and there was definitely something in her voice that hadn't been there before.
“‘Educational’?" I pressed, grinning despite myself. "I gotta know: what kind of ‘education’ are we talking about here?"
"The kind that's none of your business," she said, but she was still smiling, and there was color in her cheeks that suggested I was right on target.
"Damn, Sophia!" I laughed, bouncing slightly on my toes, unable to contain my excitement.
"Okay! Okay! I see you! Here I was thinking you were all work and no play, but apparently you've been holding out on us! Did you—” I gasped audibly.
“Oh my GOD, did you join the mile-high club?
Please tell me you joined the mile-high club! "
"Tasha!" Sophia hissed, glancing around the ER, but she was fighting back laughter.
"What? It's a perfectly reasonable question! You were on a very long flight!" I was practically vibrating with curiosity now, completely forgetting where we were. "Or wait—was it the accent? Because honestly, that accent would do things to me too. Like, I get it. Completely."
From across the nurses' station, I caught Nate watching us with an expression somewhere between amusement and mild horror. He shook his head slightly, the kind of look an older sibling might give a particularly exuberant younger one.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Sophia said primly, but the effect was ruined by the fact that she was practically glowing.
"Oh, but you do. You absolutely do," I said, lowering my voice but not my enthusiasm. "And honestly? Good for you. Really. It's nice to see you... I don't know, properly sexed-up, I guess."
"Jesus, Tasha," Sophia muttered, but she was still smiling.
"What? Life's too short not to get some!
Especially with hot foreign guys who probably know what they're doing.
" I paused, struck by a thought. "Oh God, please tell me he knows what he's doing.
Because if Sophia Mitchell finally lets someone past the ice queen fortress and he turns out to be disappointing in bed, I will personally—"
"Tasha." Sophia's voice carried a warning, but there was warmth underneath it. "You need to stop talking. Now."
I grinned, completely unrepentant. "Fine, fine. But just so you know, I'm living vicariously through you right now. My dating life is nonexistent, so I need details. Not right now, obviously, but later. Over drinks. Many drinks."
For a moment, something softer crossed her expression. "Thanks, Tasha. That... means more than you know."
As she walked away, I found myself reassessing everything I thought I knew about Sophia Mitchell. Maybe the ice queen thing had been more about protection than personality. Maybe she just needed the right person to help her thaw out.
Either way, seeing her this happy was oddly satisfying. If someone as controlled and guarded as Sophia could find whatever it was she'd found in New Zealand, maybe there was hope for the rest of us.
Though watching the kid's mother pace around the waiting area like a caged tiger, I was reminded once again why I preferred keeping my professional and personal lives completely separate.
Some people's family dynamics were just too complicated to navigate.
Give me a straightforward medical emergency over relationship drama any day of the week.