Chapter 2 Emma
EMMA
“So Laddie and I are sitting at dinner the other night,” I say, grabbing a sip of lukewarm coffee as Mel and I take a rare breather from the chaos of the ER.
“He begged me to get pizza, and apparently, takeout wasn’t cutting it.
No, he had to sit in the booth, with the leather seats, and have the pizza come out still sizzling in the deep dish pan. Full experience.”
Mel chuckles as she files her nails. “I remember that, though. Going to Giuseppe’s and having a Pepsi in one of those tall, red cups. And the pizza would come out still steaming, so hot you’d burn the roof of your mouth.”
“Exactly,” I say, laughing. “So, there we are, living his little dream, and he just rips one. Loud enough to rattle the salt shaker. I swear it echoed off every wall in that place. I look around, and there’s this old couple in the next booth, and the woman’s staring at us like I just committed a felony.
So I’m like, ‘Laddie, buddy, we don’t fart at the dinner table. ’”
Mel laughs so hard she nearly drops her nail file. “Oh, come on—he’s what, five? Six?”
I roll my eyes. “That’s not even the story. He farts all the time. The fart wasn’t the issue. I just didn’t want a lecture from the old bat about my unruly child or whatever.”
I pause, grinning at the memory. “And somehow, the kid summons a perfectly decent British accent, like, straight out of Buckingham Palace, and repeats me. ‘Laddie, we don’t fart at the dinner table.’”
Mel covers her mouth, already losing it.
“Wait, it gets better,” I say. “Because then he lifts a cheek, Mel. He lifts a cheek and lets another one rip while doing the accent again.”
Mel is wheezing. “No!”
“It was horrible and wonderful at the same time, and I couldn’t help but laugh, and before I knew it, I was crying, my stomach hurt, and I couldn’t stop laughing, which of course only spurred him on.
And finally, the old couple just gets up and leaves.
They left their half-eaten pizza, threw down a few bills, and just walked out. ”
“Good riddance, ya old fuckers,” Mel snorts. “Power to the people.”
“Power to the farts,” I say, and we both dissolve into another round of laughter that earns us a glare from the charge nurse.
“Maybe he’s got a future in theater,” she suggests.
“Ya think?” I ask, shaking my head. “He’s already asked if he can do children’s theater.”
“Maybe he should,” she says.
I sigh. “Maybe. It’s just hard to figure out how to make it work.”
She shrugs and checks her watch. “Better head back out.”
“Yep,” I say. “It’s been so crazy busy tonight. Is it a full moon or something?”
We both wash our hands and then head out to the floor.
“Who knows,” Mel answers. “Maybe we’re past the worst of it.”
“I hope so,” I say. “I have to try to get out of here on time today, or my sister’s head will explode.”
The charge nurse, Maureen, hands us both charts and jerks her chin toward the triage area. “We’re backed up. Go.”
I take the first bay. A teenage girl who’s been vomiting uncontrollably and is barely conscious, her mother hovering beside the gurney.
I pull on gloves and start hunting for a vein so we can get fluids into her, but she’s so dehydrated that her veins are nearly shriveled.
She groans weakly and then goes limp. “Hey,” I say, tapping her cheek, “stay with me, sweetheart.” I manage to thread the needle on the third try, hook up the fluids, and glance at her mom.
“How long has she been vomiting?”
“Hours,” her mom says, wringing her hands. “She has bad anxiety, and she just gets in these cycles where she can’t stop vomiting, can’t keep anything down.”
I nod, checking her pupils, her pulse. “Does she smoke marijuana?”
Her mom stiffens like I just accused her of selling crack. “No. She’s fifteen.”
“Right,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “We’ll run some labs anyway.”
I don’t say more. No point.
Cyclical vomiting isn’t rare in teens who smoke too much weed, but that’s a conversation better left to the doctor. Let him deal with the mom’s disbelief and the denial, I suppose.
I get the fluid started and say, “Once you get some fluids in you, you’ll start feeling much better. We’ll also provide you with some Zofran to help alleviate the nausea. The doctor will be here in a few minutes to determine steps beyond that.”
The girl gives me a weak thumbs-up and lays her head back on the pillow, closing her eyes, while the mom glares at me.
Oh well.
Mel’s already back out at the nurses’ station when I come out of the bay.
“You done already?” I ask. “What did you have?”
“Oh, a homeless guy with a head laceration. I cleaned up the wound, but when I suggested stitches, he told me to go fuck myself and walked out.”
“Lovely.”
“Yep. So Talia’s still living with you?” Mel asks.
“Mmmhmm,” I hum. “A godsend sister. A saint, really.”
“You’re lucky. My sister is a twat.”
I snort. “Twat.”
“She is. A smelly one, too. I hate that bitch.”
“Well,” I say, trying not to laugh, “Mine is the nicest person who saves me a ton of money by watching my kid while I work these twelve-hour shifts.”
“Do you two ever see each other, though?”
Talia is a nurse, too, and we both work three twelve-hour shifts a week.
“We do,” I say. “We’re both off on Sundays, and we catch up in between shifts.”
“Do you ever get to have fun? Go out? Go on dates?” Mel asks. “I feel like you never talk about dating anyone.”
“I do sometimes, but nothing serious. And my sister is an overprotective stalker. She never thinks anyone is good enough for me. As such, I never bring anyone home for any serious scrutiny.”
“Does she date?”
“She also prefers to keep it casual,” I answer. “She’s into sex but not commitment.”
“Why’s she against you having someone, though?”
“I don’t think it’s that,” I say. “I don’t know.”
Maureen takes a call at the desk, listens for a few seconds, then straightens, her tone shifting.
“We have an incoming emergency. Patient is a white male in his mid-twenties. He was found beaten in a parking garage near Windy City Arena. Witness says two men ran from the scene, one carrying what looked like a baseball bat.”
Mel and I lock eyes. The casual chatter evaporates.
“Let’s move,” I say, already grabbing gloves.
We’re outside when the ambulance screeches into the entrance, siren still wailing. The doors slam open, paramedics shouting vitals over the noise.
“Twenty-five-year-old male, multiple contusions, probable nasal fracture, head trauma, and possible broken ribs,” one calls as we grab the gurney.
His voice competes with the chaos around us—the hydraulic hiss of the doors, the squeal of wheels on tile, the steady beep of the monitor.
“BP’s dropping, ninety over fifty!” someone yells.
“Let’s get him inside!” I bark, pushing the gurney through the automatic doors.
The guy on the stretcher is massive, built like a linebacker, but his face is barely recognizable. I can’t imagine how a guy this big could get jumped this badly.
Blood streaks his hairline, eyes swollen shut, nose bent and bleeding. There’s a jagged cut on his forehead and road rash down one cheek.
“Jesus,” Mel mutters. “He looks like he went through a damn windshield.”
“Or a couple of bats,” I mutter, checking his pulse. “Strong but thready. Let’s get an IV started.”
The doctor joins us, and we get to work.
Mel moves fast, cleaning the lacerations to see if he needs stitches while I check for signs of concussion or brain injury. His pupils react to light. Good. He follows my finger sluggishly.
“No obvious sign of head trauma or concussion,” I announce.
I lean close. “Can you hear me, sir? You’re at Chicago General. You were attacked. Can you tell me your name?”
“Yes, I…uh I,” he rasps, voice gravelly, but at least it’s there.
“Patient’s lucid and responsive,” I confirm, glancing up at the doctor.
The doc presses along his arms, chest, and abdomen methodically. “Anything hurt?”
The guy barely reacts until the doctor hits his ribs. Then he flinches, jaw tightening, a sharp breath through his nose, but no sound.
Stoic as hell.
“I think you’ve got a broken rib or two,” the doctor says. “But everything else seems intact. We can get a few X-rays to confirm, but let’s get that nose reset, okay? I can do a closed reduction. Might hurt, but it will be fast. You down, sir?”
The guy nods, and a quick pop later, the nose is reset, and Mel is placing a cold pack on the man’s swollen face.
“He’s a little blue,” I say. “He was wheezing when they brought him in.”
The doctor feels around and then places his stethoscope on the man’s chest, asking him to take deep breaths.
He can’t, and the rattling wheeze gets worse when he tries.
“I think his lung is punctured,” he says. “He’ll need a chest tube for his pneumothorax.”
Mel cuts away the man’s shirt, and I nearly stop breathing. He has a tattoo on his chest. A shield with the number nineteen on it. A familiar tattoo.
Too familiar.
It can’t be.
I don’t know how long I stare before the doctor’s voice snaps me out of it.
“Iodine. Scalpel,” he barks. “I know it’s the end of shift, but stay with me, please.”
“Sorry, Doc.” My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I scramble to hand him what he needs.
We work fast. Mel is steady at his side while I provide traction. The doctor makes a small incision and slides the chest tube in, air hissing as it escapes—the monitor steadies. The line flattens into rhythm.
Once he’s stabilized, we wheel him off for X-rays and further testing. I strip off my gloves, toss them in the bin, and head to the nurses’ station, still half in a daze.
I look over Maureen’s shoulder as she completes the man’s admissions paperwork.
My eyes go straight to the name at the top of her intake sheet, and my hand automatically covers my mouth. It takes all my self-control not to let out an audible gasp of surprise.
The man’s name? Liam Callaghan.
Every cell in my body goes cold.
I knew, though.
I knew the second I saw that tattoo.
Liam Callaghan.
The love of my life.
The man I left heartbroken more than six years ago.