Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
A my
Almost three months later, I’m not sure if this is better than what I left behind.
When I drove into Dallas, I didn’t know where to go. I chose the exit for downtown. My first stop was at a convenience store to get gas and ask the cashier if they could tell me somewhere I could rent that wasn’t too expensive.
She looked me up and down with dull brown eyes and shrugged. I tried again at a small grocery store down the road and had better luck.
Looking around the tiny motel room, I’m not sure the word I should be using is luck. I’d managed to get a job as a housekeeper at the place in exchange for a tiny salary and a place to sleep. The only good thing about it is I can bring Layla with me while I clean.
Whatever luck I had, I’m now out of it. I’m sick. I’ve tried telling myself over the last week that I was wrong. It’s allergies. Except my sore throat has gotten worse every day, and the fever that started four days ago tells me I’m wrong. Since I didn’t need to clean yesterday, I spent all day in bed—hoping it would help me get better. It didn’t.
The owner of the place eyes me as I go in to collect the cart and towels. “You sick.”
He’s not exactly a warm guy. Somewhere between fifty and eighty, his eyes don’t miss much. I shrug. “I think so.”
He sighs heavily. “There’s a new medical clinic opened up a few weeks ago down the street. A walk-in place. They don’t charge nothing. Hours are eight to eight. When you get done, head on over there. I don’t need you getting me or anyone else sick.”
I nod as I try to focus on staying on my feet. Putting Layla on the cart, I keep my eyes on her and remember she needs me. This should only take five or six hours. As soon as I’m done, I’ll go. I don’t want to get Layla sick, too.
Three hours later, the room swims around me as I try to straighten from bending over to make the bed. Layla claps and speaks gibberish to me. I work to focus on her. I’m almost done. I repeat over and over to try to keep going. It doesn’t help.
The owner is in the open doorway of the room shaking his head. I’m not sure how I came to be on the floor. “Go on, get to the doctor. I’m docking this from your pay. The place is two blocks up and to the right.”
Closing my eyes, I repeat the instructions until they’re in a loop, even if I don’t understand them. Two blocks? Two blocks from where?
Layla squeals. The sound pulls me from the dark. I just want to sleep. I’m so tired. Everything hurts, especially my throat. Two blocks up and to the right. Once I go two blocks and turn right, I’ll feel better.
Oh god, I almost drop Layla in her car seat carrier. She laughs, thinking it’s a game as she plays with my purse. Two blocks up and to the right. I make it to the truck and strap Layla in. She pats my cheek. I grasp her hand and hold it against my cheek, grateful for the cool touch.
Two blocks and to the right. I find it. It’s busy. In the time it’s taken to get here, Layla’s car seat has somehow become ten pounds heavier—I almost drop her again. All I can do is drag her seat. It’s too heavy to carry.
The receptionist’s eyes go wide when she sees me. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head and run my hand over my throat. “Hurts.” I croak out at her.
“Do you have a fever?”
I nod. Talking hurts too much.
“Let me get you into a room. We don’t want you out here getting others sick.” She’s around the desk, taking the car seat from me. “Got you, sweetie. Let’s get you and Mommy to a room.”
Everything happens from far away. She helps me onto an exam table, readjusting the pillow beneath my head and pushing the table a few inches so it’s pressed against the wall. “We don’t want you falling off. I’ll tell the doctor you’re in here.”
I made it. It’s safe here. I could hear it in the woman’s voice. Everything will be okay. It’s my last thought as I let the darkness overtake me.
Matteo
“Doctor, I put a patient in room five. She’s probably got strep. The poor thing is out of it. She has a baby, too. Might want to check her and make sure she’s not sick also.” Willow informs me as I pass her in the hall.
“What?” I’m trying hard to keep my temper. “Why didn’t you let Camilla triage?”
The procedure is supposed to be that a patient gets checked in and tells Willow or Amara why they came in and if they have an appointment. Then Camilla or Lupe triages. If symptoms indicate it could be a case of strep, they get a culture for a rapid strep test. It’s worked for the last three weeks.
I have one other doctor, Diane, who is off today. I also have two nurse practitioners, Tomas and Imani. Imani is also off today. Camilla is an RN who can handle a patient as well as me or Diane. Lupe is an LPN working toward her RN and has already left for the day.
Two of our lab techs are also out sick today. There are four techs total to handle laboratory testing. I was able to get the X-ray machine I wanted, and there are three techs for it. With one of them out sick today, I’m realizing I need to hire another.
Since I have to hire techs and a radiologist for the CT machine, I was able to purchase and will be delivered by the end of next month. It’s going to be easier if I can find a tech who also has X-ray certification since it’s a common step up to earn more than an X-ray tech salary.
The last few weeks, everything ran smoothly, but today it feels like the whole neighborhood is sick with either strep throat or the flu. There’s also the fact Christmas was two days ago, and people were still getting together even when they were sick and spreading it.
She shrugs. “The lady was about to keel over. The baby is a sweetie. She was asleep almost as soon as her momma.”
Shit. If nothing else, it’s good they’re both asleep.
Two hours later, it’s time to close the doors. Even though there’s another half hour before the clinic closes, we’re not going to be able to see anyone else for the day. As it is, we’re going to be here late, clearing people out.
Cleo stops me on my way to a patient waiting. “Doctor, I had a pharmacy tech come over to let me know we’re running lower on amoxicillin than they thought. I’m not sure we’ll have enough if even six more patients need it. We’re getting a delivery first thing Monday, but it’s good we’re closed tomorrow.”
I sigh and nod. To get Rafe off my back, the clinic isn’t open seven days a week. We’re closed on Sundays, and we’re only open today on Saturday from ten to seven instead of the eight to eight we are during the week. “Let Tomas and Camilla know to give penicillin shots to those who are willing to take one. Remind them to tell the patient it hurts like hell, but it will resolve the illness sooner.”
While there’s also a pharmacy within the building, I don’t usually need to interact with the three pharmacists and their techs. We talked earlier today, and they let me know they placed another order for antibiotics.
I’m just grateful my pharmacists are on top of things. The pharmacy is always as busy as we are—sometimes more. We contacted local hospitals and clinics to let them know they could send their patients to us. The medications we offer for free are basic and high-cost treatments: antibiotics, steroids, inhalers, insulin, immunosuppressives, and HIV and AIDS treatments.
It’s almost eight o’clock, and everyone else is already gone. As I walk the last patient out, Cleo stops me. “We have a problem.”
“What?” I run a hand through my hair as I fight not to yawn.
“There’s a patient in room five. She’s asleep and there’s a baby in there with her, also sleeping.” She hands me a file.
“Are you fucking serious?” How the hell could a patient be forgotten?
Cleo gives me the stink eye I deserve. “If you’re done. Tomas got a throat culture from her. It came back as strep, but the woman was dead to the world when he tried to find out if she was allergic to penicillin. He told Camilla to see her. However, Camilla didn’t.”
Sighing. “I apologize. I’ll see to her now. Go home. I’ll close up.”
I’m also going to talk with Camilla later. I can’t believe she didn’t complete patient care. I will note that.
“All right. Have a good night, and take the day off tomorrow. Don’t be coming in here to work.” It’s an order.
I’m grateful as hell that Cleo is my manager. The woman’s hard work kept me from living here the way I thought I would. Because of her, I didn’t need to. However, there were things, such as charts and some paperwork, that only I could do. I often came in on Sundays to finish everything I hadn’t completed for the week to start Monday off right.
Reviewing the file, I see she also has an ear infection. Tomas noted the fever had lasted four days, and she was in so much pain from her throat she wasn’t even aware of her ear infection. This is exactly the kind of patient I opened the clinic for—people who needed to be seen and were afraid of going to the emergency room because they couldn’t afford it.
I open the door to room five and find a woman curled onto her side.
“Ma’am?” I say loudly as I close the door behind me. Damn, she is dead to the world.
The woman’s olive skin is flushed from fever. Her features are delicate. A heart-shaped face with a small chin is tucked into her chest. Her mouth is full and wide beneath a cute, upturned nose. Long, pitch-black hair is in a frayed braid.
I study her. Her black leggings, which cling to her short legs, are worn. The plain black shirt she’s wearing swamps her. Small holes are scattered throughout the shirt, and the hem is worn. Her small hands are rough from work, and her inexpensive shoes are more worn than both her shirt and leggings.
A little sigh pulls my attention to the baby in the carrier at my feet. On my haunches, I study the baby. She’s adorable, her mother in miniature down to the thick black hair. I run a hand over her forehead, checking for a temperature. There isn’t one. I’m glad she’s not sick too.
The baby is wearing a faded yellow sleeper, slightly stained. A large black purse is gaping open in the baby’s lap. There’s a lone diaper, a baggie of wipes, a tired wallet, a bottle, and another baggie, this one half-full of formula. A thick bundle of yellow folded paper catches my eye, I take it out. They are receipts for a room at the weekly motel a few blocks away.
The place is a shithole. Only people who were desperate lived there. She’s definitely living there because there are multiple receipts dating back ten weeks.
What’s worse, and tells me she’ll be trapped there, are the receipts showing as housekeeping. She’s trading housekeeping for a place to live. The pay would be so little that she would barely exist on it. It wouldn’t be enough for her to save to leave.
There’s a burner cell phone. I turn it on. Thankfully, it isn’t locked. Not everyone remembered to add in the ICE—in case of emergency. I’m not too surprised to find hers empty. Only there’s no one in her contact list to call in an emergency at all. There are no entries for mom, dad, or even the name of a friend—someone who cared she was here and needed help. All the contacts are for staffing agencies.
Is she really all alone? Where is the father of the baby? The only way to find out is to wake her up and ask her.
Louder, directly above her. I try again. “Ma’am. Hello. Ma’am.”
I’m relieved when she blinks blearily up at me. She pushes up from the bed. It takes a few attempts for her to sit up completely. If the wall weren’t behind her, I have no doubt she wouldn’t be able to stay up in the position.
“Who are you? Oh.” The words are barely a whisper.
Her eyes are dark chocolate. I feel them as heavy as a touch as they run over me. They widen at the sight of my white coat and the stethoscope around my neck.
I’ve never been able to leave the lesson of dressing professionally from my grandfather behind. I wear a suit every day and leave the jacket off once I begin seeing patients. Today, I’m wearing a dark blue button-down shirt, a light blue tie to go with my navy wool suit, and a blue and silver checked vest where my tie is tucked to stay out of my way.
Meeting those dark eyes head-on sends a frisson of electricity down my spine. For the first time since my patient died more than four months ago, I’m feeling something. Something I don’t understand.
The electricity has shocked every cell in my body to life from a long-dormant sleep that I had no idea they were in—or maybe it’s they are alive for the first time. Whatever it is, those cells need to be fed. A fierce hunger claws at me from deep inside, desperate to get out. They recognize she is the reason they’re awake. Everything in me longs to touch her, to taste her, to consume her.
This is nothing I’ve felt before. My libido—even before the loss of feeling—would embarrass most men. Sex was like my other appetite, it didn’t happen often. Once it was satisfied by a woman or my hand, I rarely thought of it again for another few weeks or even months.
She runs a hand over her face, breaking the connection. The loss of it is abrupt, and I immediately want it back. When her mouth opens only to close again, it’s clear her attempt to speak causes her pain. The thought of her in pain yanks me out of the chaos rioting within me and causes a tug to my chest. What the hell is that—any of what’s happening to me?
A hand goes to her throat. Pain, she’s in pain. I need to fix it. Forcing it all down, I go into doctor mode of professional and polite. “Hi, I’m Matteo Castillo. I’m a doctor here at the clinic you came to. Your culture came back, and you have strep throat. I’d like to give you a penicillin shot. Are you allergic to penicillin?”
Shaking her head. “No.” Is croaked out.
Relieved, I nod. “Good. Is it okay if I give you a shot? I need to make sure you know it’s going to hurt. However, even if we weren’t running low on pills, I would want to administer a shot. It will help you feel better in only a day or so. The best place would be your hip, which should help with the pain—for some patients. If you don’t feel comfortable with that, I can write a prescription for an oral antibiotic.”
Some patients were afraid of needles, and when it came to the penicillin shot, it was understandable. The solution is thick, so a bigger gauge needle is necessary. I’ve found the pain was less if given on the hip—not the buttock the way some still gave it.
She considers the question.
“I’m sorry there’s no one else to administer the shot. Everyone has left for the day.”
Her eyes widen. “It’s not. Pain.” She shakes her head. Pointing to her throat, “I want a shot. No pills.”
“Ah, you were more worried about the pain of the shot than me being the one to give it to you.”
She’s nodding before I finish.
I make the decision—it’s not something I usually offer, but I hate the idea of the shot hurting her. “Are you allergic to lidocaine?”
Another shake of her head.
“Good. I’m going to add a little lidocaine to help with the pain then. I’ll be right back with the shot.”
Her eyes are on her daughter. “Is she okay?”
I nod. “She’s good, no fever. I’ll be right back.”
Closing her eyes, she lets her head fall back against the wall. “Okay.” Is nothing more than her lips forming the word.
Her eyes slide closed, and I hate it. I want to see her beautiful eyes again, to feel them on me. What the hell is the matter with me?
Prepping the shot takes a few minutes. I should be ecstatic I’m feeling something. Except it’s wrong. Because a patient made me feel it, patients are off limits. Whether I’m treating her once or on a regular basis. As in, I could be facing sanctions if I do anything my body is begging me to do.
Back in the room she’s managed to fall asleep again. Unable to take my eyes off her if I wanted to, I spot the thin line of sweat along her hairline from her fever. While the shot can work as quickly as eight to ten hours, she let it go too long. It’s unlikely she will recover soon enough to be up to take care of herself—let alone her daughter as soon as the baby needs her to.
The plan solidifies. It’s not because of the weird feelings thrumming through me. I’ve taken patients and their families home with me when they had nowhere else to go. She’s no different from any of the others. I can give her a safe place.
My home as a safe place has to come without strings. And it will. All I want is to give her a place to recover. I’ll take care of the baby while she does. She doesn’t need to worry about anything but herself, which will make it easier for her to get better. At least Javier left all the furniture in the place. There’s even a crib for the baby. It’s just until she’s strong enough to find something else.
“Ma’am, it’s best if you lay back down so I can give you the shot.”
Her eyes pop open, meeting mine without searching. Chocolate disappears as her pupils dilate. I read it as clearly as I feel it in my bones—she felt the crazy feeling, too. She blinks, and it’s gone.
Nodding, she lays back down and pulls down her leggings and plain white cotton underwear several inches past mid-hip.
I focus on finding the perfect spot, not on the skin on show. Rubbing the site with the alcohol swab to clean it, I remind myself that she’s off-limits.
“Sorry,” I mutter, hating the idea of hurting her as I depress the plunger. I’m ready to hold her down if I need to.
All she does is moan and whimper.
When I remove the needle, she goes to touch it.
“Hold on. Let me get a band-aid on it.” I show her the little round band-aid I stuck to my thumb. Placing the band-aid in place, I rub gently, and she sighs. Trying to ignore the way the sigh slides down my spine, I cover her again.
“Being a baby, sorry.” The words clearly cause pain as she swipes at her throat.
“Don’t apologize. It’s a painful shot. I’m going to get the car seat out of your car and put it into mine. Give me a few minutes.”
Her eyes pop open wide. “What? Why?”
“Because you don’t have anyone to take care of you and watch your daughter while you’re sick.”
Double blinks and her mouth opens wide, then slams shut, confirming it. “What makes you so sure?” The words are nothing more than a croak.
I send an eyebrow up. Daring her to lie to me. “I checked your phone to get the number of an emergency contact I could call to come get you and your daughter. There are no contacts besides staffing companies. Which tells me there’s no one to call. I found the receipts for the motel you’re living in. It’s not a good place for you or your daughter, even if you were healthy.”
She pushes off the exam bed. Once her feet hit the floor, she sways. It takes everything in me not to grab her. Her hand is already on the bed to keep her standing before I can get to her. “I can take care of myself and Layla.”
I’ll give her points for trying. Both eyebrows up, I run my eyes over her. She’s not quite as small as I thought, five foot three, maybe five-four. Still almost a foot smaller than my own six foot two.
“I’ll tell you what. I won’t argue with you. I’ll even drive you back to the motel myself if you are able to stand on your own for longer than sixty seconds.” I bring up my watch to time her. “Push away now.”
Sweat collects along her brow. She tries. More points for trying. She falls back. Her hand goes down to catch herself. “I can take care of myself.”
I shrug. “Maybe yourself, but not your daughter too. This isn’t charity. It’s also nothing I haven’t done for other patients before. My first time since I’ve been back in Dallas. However, it’s far from the first time. You will each have your own room, and they come with locks on them.”
Tension eases in her ever so slightly when she hears the lock thing.
“Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face. That’s only allowed when it comes to you. Right now, this is about your daughter and what she needs.”
My words hit home. Her eyes fall to her sleeping daughter.
“Or I can take you to a shelter.” I offer. Despite the fact that I don’t want to. Shelters are no place to recover, and sure as shit, no one will take care of her there.
She flinches and shakes her head. “Okay, your house.”
“Good. Can I get your name now?”
She blushes and nods. “Amy.”
“Hi, Amy. I’m going to grab some diapers and other things for her. What size is she, and which formula does she prefer?”
It’s hard for her to speak as she gives me the information. The baby is nine months old? She seems too small for her age.
I grasp her arm to guide her to the chair beside the bed, worried she’ll keel over without support. Holy fucking shit. This is worse than I thought. The hunger is back—I’m desperate for more of the feel of her skin beneath my fingertips.
She jumps at my touch. Fucking hell. This is not good. Not good at all. I don’t dare let her see it, keeping my face as bland as I can.
“I’ll be right back. Let me get your keys to grab the base of the car seat.”
“Wait.”