Chapter Forty-Seven. Riley, Present Day
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
RILEY, PRESENT DAY
I pace the ER’s waiting room, guilt lying heavily in my gut. I’m supposed to be a caretaker, yet my client got hurt on my watch.
The waiting room is a circus—a toddler is using a couch as a jungle gym while his mother half-heartedly reprimands him, an old man argues with the receptionist about insurance forms, and a woman hunches over, moaning, while her partner rubs her back.
At least a dozen others, some in clear distress, are waiting.
Yet Betty was rushed back to be evaluated immediately.
With every passing second, my imagination creates darker scenarios.
Finally a young nurse with tired eyes comes into the waiting room, calling, “Ms. Bell?”
I hurry toward her.
“Follow me,” she says, using her ID to swipe through a door.
“Is Betty okay?” I ask.
“She’s conscious. Head injuries can be tricky, especially in the elderly. We’re going to do some tests.”
The inner chamber of the ER is sterile and chaotic, with nurses in salmon-colored scrubs clicking on computers or treating patients, an aide wheeling a rattling cart down the hall, and the chorus of dozens of conversations.
In the distance, a man is yelling that he’s going to sue someone if he doesn’t get taken to a bathroom.
We pass by several exam rooms before the nurse stops at one and pulls back the light blue curtain that serves as a door.
I step inside and see Betty on a narrow gurney. A monitor beeps steadily beside her and an IV line snakes into her wrist. A raised purple bruise, the width of a fist, is already forming on her temple.
When she opens her eyes and I see recognition in her expression, relief pours through me. At least she’s alert.
“Riley,” she says. “What happened?”
“Your wheelchair caught a curb and you tipped over,” I explain. “I didn’t have time to catch you. I’m so sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
It’s perhaps the kindest thing she could have said to me. Betty doesn’t even remember what happened, yet she’s absolving me of blame.
There’s a thin white blanket at her feet. I’m reaching for it to tuck it around her when the curtain is yanked back.
“Mrs. Sadler? I’m Dr. Hernandez.”
The doctor doesn’t look older than twenty-five, and she’s barely five feet tall, but she carries an air of competence and authority.
“Track my finger,” she instructs Betty as she moves it from side to side, then up and down. “Can you tell me what day it is?”
Betty frowns. Finally, she answers, “I’m not quite sure. Thursday?”
“And who’s the president?”
“The president?” Betty echoes.
“Of the United States,” the doctor clarifies.
Betty looks lost. “I can almost picture him,” she says unconvincingly.
Dr. Hernandez makes a note in her chart. “Hold on a moment.” She ducks out of the room.
I wonder if I should explain that Betty’s responses are due to her isolation and lack of a TV and smartphone. Before I can do anything, though, a male technician comes into the room.
“I’m taking you for a CAT scan,” he tells Betty as he releases the brakes on her gurney.
I know I won’t be permitted to go with her, so I tell Betty I’ll be here when she gets back. I sit down on the lone chair in the room and wait. When the curtain is pulled back a little later, I look up to see the young nurse again.
“We were having some difficulty getting the CAT scan,” she says. “Betty was uncooperative.”
It’s difficult to imagine; Betty is always so polite. “What happened?” I ask.
“When the technician tried to put on her earphones and eye mask to wear for the scan, she became hysterical. We needed to do the scan, so we sedated her.” The nurse looks down at the chart she’s holding. “Does she have claustrophobia? Or any other mental health condition we should know about?”
“Not that I know of,” I say. “But she just hired me as a caregiver recently. Did she say anything else? It could help me in the future if she has more appointments.”
“Yeah, there was one odd thing. She was talking about something called Ganzfeld. The technician said she’s the second one this week. Do you know what she meant?”
I shake my head. “The second one?”
A speaker crackles overhead and a woman’s voice says, “Dr. Roberts to trauma bay one, Dr. Roberts to trauma bay one.”
The nurse turns to leave and I leap to my feet.
“Wait! What do you mean, the second one? It could help me figure out what’s going on with Betty.”
“A young woman came in earlier this week, I think the victim of a hit-and-run. She had track marks in her arms but she wasn’t on anything when we saw her.
When the technician tried to put on her earphones and eye shield to scan her for a brain injury, same thing happened.
She started screaming about Ganzfeld and ran out of the hospital. ”