2. Dr. Beckett Whistler
Dr. Beckett Whistler
When I bought my house, I thought I’d be gaining peace and quiet after busy shifts in the E.R.
It’s idyllic, halfway up a mountain with a view of the New River below, and shares a drive with my neighbor.
I did not anticipate my neighbor, a seventy-something-year-old woman, to be a source of constant annoyance.
Make no mistake, my dad taught me manners before he passed, and I will not be letting Miss June know how much her antics irritate me, but she is distinctly a thorn in my side.
Is it too much to ask for a neighbor who doesn’t call me at two a.m. on my night off?
But she’s also older, and she lives alone, and she tricked me into being her emergency contact when she brought me the absolute best fried chicken I’d ever eaten on the day I moved in. She’s crafty.
As an E.R. doctor, I’m no stranger to long hours and late nights. In the next month, I’m finally transitioning to the day shift. Maybe then my sleep will become normal. For now, I’m awake.
I slide out of bed and throw on a pair of worn blue jeans, a black t-shirt, and a flannel shirt. I take a breath and run my hand through my short beard. I can’t believe I’m doing this, but my conscience won’t let me do anything else guilt-free. I’ll never get any sleep if I don’t.
I pull my phone from the charger and dial the number of Rejuvenate, the inpatient physical rehabilitation center June is staying at after her ankle surgery.
It’s after hours, but someone should be at the desk. I follow the menu of options presented by the entirely too-chipper-for-the-middle-of-the-night recording. Does no one realize no one wants to be in these places ?
By the time I’m connected to an actual human—because, of course, that’s the last option and not the first—I’m already in my car and driving down the road.
“Hello, Rejuvenate In-Patient Physical Rehabilitation Center. This is the front desk. How can I help you?”
The woman’s boredom grates on me. I grumble. Must be nice . There’s never been a boring night in the E.R.
My voice comes out more gruff than I intended. That tends to be the way of things, if the nurses are to be believed, and the E.R. manager, and all my medical school evaluations…
I help people in emergencies. I have manners, I just don’t have patience.
“I’m calling because June MacCord phoned me. Clearly there was an incident, and I need to check on her.”
“Oh.” There’s murmured conversation on the other end of the line, and then, “Who is this?”
“Dr. Whistler. Miss MacCord’s … emergency contact.”
“Oh. Dr. Whistler. Sorry about that. Let me check with the charge nurse about Miss MacCord. Can I call you back?”
“No,” I grumble. “I’m on my way.”
“Oh. But it’s late.”
“Mmhmm.”
“But…”
I hang up.
Twelve minutes and three hairpin mountain road turns later, I pull into the parking lot.
I mutter a silent plea that June will be on her best behavior and everything will have been a mistake before killing the engine.
Even as I hold out the tiny thread of hope that it was nothing more than an accidental pocket dial, I know it wasn’t.
There’s always more to the story when June’s involved.
Still, I’ve seen enough in my years of medicine to know that I need to check on her in person.
The door to the reception area slides open, and the woman at the front desk doesn’t bother looking up. “Visiting hours are over,” she says stiffly.
I fix her with a stern glare. “I’m Doctor Whistler. And I need to talk to the charge nurse and see Miss June MacCord before I leave.”
“You’re Doctor Whistler?” Her eyes rove over my body in appraisal. She leans forward, and I hate the not-so-subtle signals she’s sending.
I force her gaze back to my face. “Yes.” I’m curt. “The charge nurse, now.”
She frowns before she steps away from the desk and through a door. I hear her, because she is clearly not trying to hide her words. “Dr. Whistler insists on seeing the charge nurse. And by the way, he’d be hot if he wasn’t so … grumpy.”
“Difficult patients, difficult doctors, is there anything beneath a charge nurse?”
“I’m not talking to him anymore. I mean if he’d apologize, I would go home with him in a heartbeat, but not with that attitude.”
I roll my eyes. The desperation of this woman is something I would not touch while wearing a hazmat suit.
A half moment later, the charge nurse walks behind the desk. She’s probably close to forty, and has the look of someone who’s worn out from how taxing her job is.
“Dr. Whistler?”
I cross my arms over my chest and nod.
“Can I see some ID?”
I hand over my license and hospital ID.
She holds a blue file folder in her left hand and flips it open. “You are Miss MacCord’s…”
“Emergency contact.”
“Right.” The charge nurse quirks a brow at me. “And you’re here because…?”
“Miss MacCord called me half an hour ago. It’s unusual to receive a phone call from a person in the middle of the night when they’re in an in-patient facility after surgery.”
“Well…” The charge nurse grimaces. “There was a small incident with Miss MacCord and two of our nurses not that long ago.”
“An incident?” My eyes narrow. “What kind of incident? Did she reinjure her ankle? Her surgery was less than forty-eight hours ago.”
The charge nurse levels me with a stern glare. “Miss MacCord does not want to be here. She attempted to leave the facility by way of an emergency exit. She was found before she caused any damage to her ankle or the facility.”
“I’d like to see her.”
“She’s asleep. Visiting hours are over.”
I stare her down.
“Fine.” She sighs. “Just not long. She’s in Room 63.”
She buzzes me back into the facility, and I pass by the desk, keeping my eyes on the hall in front of me and definitely not turning back to the receptionist with the wandering eyes and suggestive—and unwelcome—invitation.
I follow the numbers down the linoleum hallway with the scuffed walls and dents common in medical facilities where people can’t walk without equipment as they recover from surgeries. At Room 63, I stop and knock once. I open the door quietly, in case she’s asleep.
She’s not.
Just my luck .
“Beckett!” she exclaims, clapping her hands. “I knew you’d come and get me.”
Her words hit me with the force of a truck. I reel back. “Get you?”
“That’s why you’re here. I called, and you came to get me.” She drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “This place is unAmerican.”
I rein in a snort. “UnAmerican?”
“They do not uphold the Constitution. Freedom, liberty, and justice for all . They’re restricting my rights to freedom.”
“Miss June.” I bite down on my teeth so hard that I’m speaking through a clenched jaw, but I have to say something. “Do you realize you just had surgery less than two days ago?”
She shakes her head. “Of course I realize that. I am completely all there.” She taps her head with her knuckles as she speaks. “Now take me home, young man.”
I turn to find the charge nurse and two other male nurses standing in the hallway, smirking at our conversation. This is what I get for leaving the door open .
“Pull out her release paperwork,” I say. “I’ll supervise her in her own home recovery and connect with the surgeon.”
“That’s my grandson,” June says with pride.
I spin on my heel. “I’m not your grandson. I’m your emergency contact and neighbor.”
She shrugs. “Taters and onions go together.”
The nurses snort behind me.
The charge nurse hands me June MacCord’s file, along with a stack of Against Medical Advice release papers.
It’s thirty more minutes before I’m wheeling June out to my old truck.
“Dabnabit,” she says when she sees me pull the key out of my pocket.
“What?”
“I was hoping to hot-wire a car to get out of here.”
I scrub a hand down my face, letting my fingers tug slightly on my beard.
This woman is going to be the death of me .