Chapter twenty-one
Varley Medical, London
Samantha
Bryan sits at his desk typing away furiously. He stares at his screen as if the world depends on his work, normally relaxed demeanor nowhere to be seen. The jovial fun we have day to day is absent.
My shift started an hour ago, and it’s been relatively quiet.
At six in the morning, patients are starting to wake up and the day is only just beginning.
The routine of getting people woken, fed, and washed is becoming second nature to me.
In some ways, it’s my favorite part of the day.
The seemingly pointless conversations I have with them become important.
When someone chooses to tell me about their life, I take time to listen.
Them sharing their stories deserves my time, and beyond the care I can give to their health, simply being interested can be a far better medicine.
“Everything okay?” I ask, wandering up to Bryan’s station.
“Not really,” he mutters back.
“You’re in early today.”
“I need to take some time off later this week. Peter is having some issues, and I need to be there to support him,” he says evasively.
“I can’t afford to lose any wages, though. Things are difficult enough.”
He doesn’t look up from his screen, but the man I’m looking at is clearly terrified, the fear emanating from him obvious.
His body shakes when the temperature in the room is well below sweat level.
Every muscle quivers as he pounds on his keyboard.
“Anything I can help with?” I ask, keeping my voice soft. I’m trying to convey sympathy without being condescending.
“No, I don’t want to talk about it,” he states sharply.
I take that as my cue to move on. Bryan has never silenced a chat with me before.
We’ve become firm friends since January.
I see him as my sidekick in the world of Varley Medical, always available with a listening ear and kind words.
Today, I will let his reluctance to lean on me go, but whatever the issue, it will be readdressed, and if I can help him I will.
Just then, Dr. Rivera appears as the elevator doors open.
Beside her is a young woman, most likely in her twenties, with jet-black hair and wearing clothes that look to have seen better days.
She walks across the reception area a few steps behind the doctor, not speaking.
Her hands are clasped in front of her, fingers knitted together nervously.
I watch them disappear from view around the corner, toward the doctor’s office.
Something doesn’t sit right, and I decide this could be my opportunity to gather some information.
Without a word, I follow their path but on arrival at the office, the door is firmly closed, which is unusual.
Sensing defeat, I turn and make my way to the next patient I need to see.
An hour later, I’m called to the doctor’s office.
When I arrive, she’s sitting in her chair as she does every day—with an air of superiority.
The young woman lies on the couch reserved for difficult conversations.
Her thin body is huddled in one corner as her head rests on the armrest.
I’m unsure if she’s sleeping, as her eyes are closed, but she’s silent. No gentle snores can be heard.
“Nurse Coleman,” Dr. Rivera says professionally as I step into the room.
“I need you to undertake some private duties before your shift ends. But please do not discuss them with the other members of staff; it’s highly confidential circumstances.”
Unsure what to say, I try to stop my jaw from opening at the unexpected request.
Of all the people in the department I thought she would ask for help, the last one would be me.
“Do you understand?” she prompts when I don’t answer.
“Yes, doctor.”
“The young lady on my sofa is a last-minute donor for our patient requiring a kidney transplant in room 400. Lord Woodward. As you are aware, our patient is in a critical condition and we’re in the final days of him being suitable for a transplant.”
I listen on, confused. I’ve heard this man being talked about between the nurses; he is on palliative care.
Until now, there was no indication a transplant was forthcoming, or that he was a candidate for one.
“I’ll be conducting the operation within the next few days, once the blood and antibody tests have been completed.”
“Where did she come from?” I ask, perplexed and uncertain. Everything about this screams wrongdoing.
“The girl is the niece of our client.” Her use of the word “client” causes my hackles to rise.
Client has connotations of payment being the primary focus, while patient evokes a more caring outlook.
“She’s come here under her own wishes. Her family is unaware, as none of them were willing to donate to their elderly uncle. Lord Woodward has no living children. This girl is his last hope of survival.”
“And she’s his niece?” I say, skeptically. Every fiber of my being tells me this woman is no more that man’s family than I am.
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” She narrows her eyes, and the look of disdain I have become so familiar with flits over her features.
“Do remember, nurse, you are the last one at the door of this department. If you choose to be awkward, I have every capability of terminating your employment. I will also ensure you never work in private medicine again.”
My instinct is to retaliate to her threat, but I remind myself of my purpose for being here.
This obscene situation could be my opportunity to learn more about what’s going on in the ward.
I look at the young woman resting on the sofa and know damn well she’s no niece of the man lying in room four hundred who’s spent his time here pressing the nurse’s call button every ten minutes.
“Understood, doctor,” I say through gritted teeth. “What exactly would you like me to do?” She visibly relaxes on my agreement, and I congratulate myself on keeping my mouth shut. She lifts a tattered piece of paper from her desk and waves it at me.
“Take this,” she says, “and get Bryan to check her into room 402.”
I stare at the scrap of paper, the blurred photocopy of a passport.
The woman on the sofa’s picture gazes back at me.
Her name is noted as Lauren Woodward, and she’s detailed as being twenty-four years old, according to her date of birth.
“Where is the original document?” I question. My limited experience in the department tells me that all donors need to be identity checked before admittance. The strangeness of the situation only gets more warped.
“I’ve seen it,” the doctor snaps. “Just do as you’re told, nurse. I am in charge here.”
She pauses, taking a deep breath before continuing her instruction.
“Once she’s logged onto the system, come back and escort her to her room. Ensure she showers and is made comfortable. I will visit her later this morning to conduct the required tests. No food or drink until I advise she’s able to.”
“Yes, doctor. Would she like to visit her uncle?”
“No, he’s not to know she is here. He would be more likely to reject the donation. We don’t want to risk more delay on his surgery. I gave this young lady my word I would respect her privacy, and you need to as well.”
With the questionable identification in my hands, I return to Bryan’s desk. He glances up, and his pained expression softens a little. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did earlier.”
“It’s okay. I know what it can feel like to have numerous pressures and no obvious relief.” I walk around to stand beside him and place my hand on his shoulder. “If you need help, don’t hesitate to ask. I may be able to.”
“Thanks, Sam.” He places his fingers over mine. “It’s nice to feel I have a friend in here. What can I do for you?” I pass him the pathetic paperwork, and he stares at it.
“Can you check this patient into room 402?”
“Sure, what is she in for?”
“She’s a kidney donor.”
“Where are the authorization paperwork and health checks?” he asks, confused, and I shrug.
“The doctor said these were ongoing. She’s seen the relevant paperwork. I was only given this and told to check her in.” He grumbles something I can’t hear. “What was that?”
“Nothing. Where is she now?”
“In the office with Dr. Rivera.” His look tells me this isn’t the answer he was looking for. “She’s the recipient’s niece, apparently.”
“Neither of us believe that.” He exhales dramatically.
“Things are getting stranger by the day in this place. But we must do as we are told. The dragon has me by the balls, Sam. I can’t risk losing this job, and my pay is way above anything else I could get.”
His questioning of the circumstances makes me want to tell him what I know, our suspicions on the organ theft and sale circuit.
But Bryan is in deep; he’s been at Varley Medical for years and was aware of discrepancies long before I joined the team.
I keep my mouth shut. “I’ll process this.”
He gestures at the paper. “You go sort out the poor woman.”
“Thanks, Bryan,” I say, then return to the doctor’s office.
When I arrive back, the woman supposedly called Lauren is sitting up, staring blankly at the wall. She doesn’t turn when I open the door. The doctor is reading an academic paper regarding heart transplants at her desk.
“The room is ready,” I announce, and the doctors eyes flick to me. She nods but doesn’t speak. “Bryan was asking about the authorization form.”
“Tell him I will drop it on his desk later,” she responds curtly.
“Yes, doctor.” I move in front of my newest patient, stepping into her line of sight.
Blank eyes flick up. “Would you like to come with me?”
She rises without a word. At this proximity, she looks even more scraggy than before.
Her eyes are swollen red from hours of crying.
The dark, baggy clothes hang off her limp frame, each item clearly worn at the edges.
“Do you have a bag?” I ask, and she shakes her head.
“You’ll need to organize some essentials for Lauren, nurse,” Dr. Rivera interjects. “She arrived here in somewhat of a hurry.”
A multitude of questions sit on my tongue, wanting to challenge my boss, but I know this is my opportunity to earn a little trust.
If I shut this down now, I may jeopardize what we could learn about the wider operation going on.
Against my morals, I merely nod, then signal for Lauren to follow me.
We leave the office, her walking slightly behind at my shoulder.
Her room is only a minute away, and when I open the door, the smell of bleach hits my nostrils will full force.
I immediately go over and open the windows the tiny portion they allow.
“The cleaners have been liberal with the chemicals,” I say jovially, trying to strike up a thread of conversation.
“The fresh air should clear the smell soon.”
“At least it's clean,” she replies, wistfully. Her tired eyes roam over the blank space. “Can I sleep? It’s been a while since…” Her words trail off, and a soft pink coats her cheeks. “I’ve not had much rest, the worry with my uncle’s condition, you see.”
“That’s understandable,” I tell her, not believing a word. “Where did you say you live?”
“In the city, not far from him.”
“And his own children weren’t able to donate?” I ask, taking a chance to confirm my suspicions.
“No,” she replies instantly. “They weren’t a suitable blood type.” The effort it takes to maintain a neutral expression is unbearable. Surely, if this were the Lord’s niece, she would know he had no children. I refrain from pointing this out.
“They’ll be grateful to you then, when they discover your selflessness.”
“Perhaps. Will you excuse me nurse? I really need to rest.”
“Of course.” I smile the most genuine smile I can muster. “Have a shower first. The bathroom is just through here; there’s shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. Towels are there as well. I’ll place some nightwear on the bed for your return.”
“Thank you,” she says, almost under her breath. The fa?ade cracks slightly as her voice breaks.
“You get sorted, and I’ll pop in later when I have any updates.”
***
My shift ends while most of my colleagues are taking lunch.
Early shift is a blessing; I get to finish my day at work and still have hours in the afternoon and evening to enjoy.
Bryan left long ago and on my way out, I saunter past his desk in hope of snagging what I need.
Lauren’s passport image stares back at me.
Quickly, I pull my phone from my pocket and snap a photo, then make my way to the elevator.
On my descent, I look at the young woman who I’m obligated to care for, all the while wondering what I can do to help.
I flick to my contacts, then swipe between the two men I need to tell about the revelations of the day.
They’re next to each other in my contact list, as I listed them by their surname first.
Unsure what to do, I create a group chat with the three of us, then send the photo of what I believe is forged identification.
Russell immediately responds with a shoulder-shrug emoji. At the top of the screen, the word, typing, flashes then his response pops onto the screen.
Sorry Trouble, not my type. And with my leg, I don’t think I’m capable of a threesome yet.
I laugh out loud; the woman who joined me in the compartment from the floor below frowns at me. “Sorry, my boyfriend is being a clown,” I tell her before realizing how I described him. Boyfriend. Just then, Connor responds, the concern clear from his text.
What do you need? I’m here.
Two brothers, so different in so many ways.
Both make my heart ache with want and my pussy with need.
How will I ever choose? Will this crazy situation ever be resolved without someone’s heart being broken?
The deeper we get, the less I feel it’s possible.
But, I know I can’t walk away. We’ve gone too far.
I type back a quick message, explaining I need information on this patient. Connor immediately fires back.
Come to our office, not over text.
Russell is then marked as typing, and I dread what will pop up on my screen. Will he be serious or say something to rile his brother? It’s doubtful that he could allow a moment to pass without ruffling feathers.
Come to my office first. I miss you more.
As I step out onto the busy London afternoon, the messages between the two continue to ping in my pocket.
With each glance at my screen, the conversation gets more ridiculous.
The Chase brothers have the ability to bicker in any situation, it seems.
Momentarily, I regret creating a group chat, but I can’t help but smile when they challenge each other to convince me to see them first using only emoji.
Russell proceeds to send an up arrow then twenty aubergine emoji in a row followed by a hot face and a huge smiley. Connor, however, sends only three—a diamond ring, a couple, and a baby. The chat goes dead, and I stride toward the office unsure what the hell I’m walking into.