Chapter 38
LAINE
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—" The kid's crying harder than he's puking, which is saying something since he just painted my scrub pants with what looks like red Gatorade and pizza. Some of it's splattered on my shoes too.
"Hey, hey, it's okay." I grab a basin with one hand while rubbing his back with the other. His whole body's shaking. Twelve years old and mortified, probably thinks this is the worst thing that's ever happened to him. "Connor, look at me. It's okay."
"I didn't mean to—"
"I know you didn't. You told me your stomach hurt and I didn't get the basin fast enough. That's on me, not you."
His mom's hovering, hands fluttering like she wants to help but doesn't know how. "I'm so sorry about your shoes. I can—"
"They're waterproof for a reason." I keep my voice light even though the smell's hitting me now. Pizza definitely. Why do kids always eat pizza right before they come to the ER? "Connor, you still feeling sick?"
He nods miserably, tears and snot mixing on his face. I position the basin and wait with him through another round, making soothing noises. Poor kid. Stomach flu's been tearing through his school—we've had dozens of kids in here this week.
When he's done, I help him rinse his mouth and get him settled back against the pillows. His face is that particular shade of pale-green that means we're nowhere close to finished.
"Better?"
"Am I gonna die?"
The question catches me off guard. Not because it's unusual—kids always think they're dying when they're this sick—but because for half a second I want to laugh. Not at him. Just at the pure drama of being twelve.
When's the last time I actually laughed at work? Not polite smiles or appropriate chuckles, but really laughed?
"You're not dying," I tell Connor. "You're dehydrated and miserable, but we're fixing that. See this?" I tap the IV bag. It was a sign of how awful he feels that other than a little cry he let me do the IV. "Magic feel-better juice. Give it an hour and you'll be asking for popsicles."
"Really?"
"Really. I might even be able to find you a red one if you're nice to me."
That gets a tiny smile. Good. I chart the episode quickly. Emesis times two, approximately 300ml, no blood.
"I'll be back to check on you in a bit, okay? Try to rest."
In the hallway, I head straight for the locker room. Thank god I keep backup scrubs in my locker—learned that lesson my first week as a nurse. I wipe down my shoes with paper towels and swap the soiled scrub pants for clean ones. Two minutes, maybe three. Back to work.
Reid would probably make some joke about me stripping in the middle of my shift if he knew.
Except Reid's probably sitting on his couch at home, with Blake, laughing at some movie. He's probably sipping a beer, thinking all is right with the world. Just…oblivious.
Or maybe they're talking. Maybe Reid is sharing another "funny quirk" about me—how cluttered my bathroom drawers are, or how I hum when I'm nervous—and Blake is filing it away. Cataloging it. Turning my boyfriend's pillow talk into ammunition for the next time he wants to prove I don't belong.
God, why am I thinking about what they're saying?
Stop. Next patient.
The guy in three is writhing when I walk in, fist pressed against his lower back. Kidney stones. I've had patients tell me they're worse than childbirth, and looking at Mr. Quintana's face, I believe them.
"I've got your pain meds," I say, already drawing them up. "This should help."
"Please," he gasps. "Please, it's—fuck—sorry—"
"No apologies necessary. I'd be cursing too." I find his IV port and push the medication slowly. "This is Dilaudid. You should feel it pretty quickly."
His wife's in the corner, wringing her hands. "Is it definitely stones?"
"The CT scan will tell us for sure, but based on his symptoms and the blood in his urine, the doctor thinks that's most likely." His face starts to relax as the medication hits. "There we go. Better?"
"Oh god." He's almost crying with relief. "Oh, thank god."
"That's the good stuff," I tell him. "You should be comfortable for a while. Urology will be down to look at your scan and talk about options."
His wife mouths 'thank you' at me as I update his chart. I give her what I hope is a reassuring nod and head back out.
The ER's in that weird evening lull—busy enough that everyone's moving, but not so slammed that we're drowning. Dr. Cervantes is on the phone with someone, waving wildly. Two residents are debating something over a computer screen. Normal Tuesday sounds.
I check the board. Mrs. Woodrow in five has been here six hours for what turned out to be gas pains. She's probably ready to murder someone by now. I grab her discharge papers and head that way.
But Joyce intercepts me halfway there.
"Those can wait five minutes."
"Mrs. Woodrow's been—"
"Six hours, I know. Five more minutes won't kill her." Joyce has that look. The one that says she's in nursing supervisor mode and resistance is futile. "When's your break?"
Never, ideally. Breaks mean time to think, and thinking means—
"Twenty minutes?" I guess.
"Perfect. Break room. I'm buying coffee."
"Joyce—"
"Real coffee. From the good machine."
She's already walking away. Great. A feelings talk. Just what I need when I'm trying to get through my shift without thinking about how screwed up my life is.
It's been a week, and I can still feel the cold air flooding the cab. The sound of the door slamming.
Get out of my truck.
I can't get his voice out of my head. The way he looked at me—desperate and angry and disgusted all at once. You’re a flight risk.
And the worst part? He knew exactly which buttons to push. He knew about the suitcases. He knew about the moving. Which means he didn't just guess—he had the intelligence report.
From Reid.
I think that betrayal hurts more than anything else.
Mrs. Woodrow is dressed and perched on the edge of the bed like she's ready to sprint for the exit.
"Finally getting out of here?" I scan through her papers quickly. "Sorry for the wait. Tuesdays are always—"
"Six hours for gas!" She's not really mad at me, just mad at the situation. "I thought I was having a heart attack and it was gas!"
"Better gas than a heart attack," I point out, which gets a reluctant smile. "But I know. It's frustrating. The good news is your heart looks perfect. EKG's normal, blood work's normal. You're healthy."
"Healthy and embarrassed."
"Don't be. Chest pain is nothing to mess around with. You did the right thing coming in."
I go through the discharge instructions. What symptoms to watch for in a real heart attack, follow up with primary care, the usual, and get her into a wheelchair. She pats my hand as I help her transfer.
"You're a good nurse, dear. Very professional."
Soaking up the compliment, I push her down the hallway in search of an orderly. The rest of my life feels so out of control, that I really needed the little bit of praise she gave me.
I don't even recognize myself right now. Praise? Caring for my patients, doing a good job was always the goal. I didn't need anyone praising me for it. But this week, I've been on the verge of a breakdown every day. How weak is that?
I flag down Derek to wheel her out and check the time. Fifteen minutes until Joyce expects me. Maybe if I look busy enough—
"Laine!" Dr. Pavel waves me over. "Can you start a line on the new admit in seven? Seventeen-year-old, needs fluids."
Perfect. IVs I can do in my sleep. Without feeling. Just find the vein, insert needle, secure with tape.
The teenager barely looks up from her phone when I walk in. Dehydration from basketball practice, going by her uniform and the notes in her chart. Another bag of saline, another perfectly placed IV, another task completed without having to engage my actual emotions.
Is this who I'm becoming? Someone who goes through the motions perfectly but feels nothing?
That's not fair. I feel things. I feel tired. I feel the ache in my feet from a long shift. I feel the familiar burn in my lower back from bending over beds all day.
I just don't feel... bright anymore. It's like someone turned down my dimmer switch and I'm operating at seventy percent. Enough to function, not enough to shine.
And I hate it. But I don't know what the heck to do about it. There really is no good choice.
Joyce is waiting in the break room with two cups and her I'm-going-to-fix-you face.
"Sit," she says.
I sit. The coffee smells amazing—real coffee, not the burnt sludge from the ER pot.
"So," Joyce says, settling across from me. "Want to tell me why you've been sleepwalking through your shifts?"
"I haven't been—"
"Laine." She gives me the look. "You've been here seven months. In that time, I've watched you light up this ER. You make the meanest patients smile. You tell terrible medical jokes. You sing in the supply closet when you think no one's listening."
Oh god, she's heard the supply closet singing? There’s something about the acoustics in there that makes me want to belt 90’s love songs.
"But lately?" Joyce continues. "You're doing everything right, but it's like you're not really here. You're performing the role of Laine instead of being Laine. At least the Laine I’ve come to know and love.”
I take a sip and the coffee burns my tongue. I focus on that instead of the way her words hit exactly where I don't want them to.
"I'm just tired," I try. "We've been busy, and—"
"Honey." Her voice goes gentle, which is worse than stern. "What's going on?"
I stare at my coffee. There's a little swirl of cream on top, making patterns. Kind of pretty, actually.
"Is it work? Are you having trouble with anyone here?"
"No." That comes out fast because it's true. Work is fine. Work is the only place that still feels normal. "Everyone's great."
"Is it your family? I know they're overseas—"