doctor picked up the paramedic’s notes and read them. Finished, she said, “I want that woman in there.” She pointed at Mike then at Trauma 2.
He nodded, grabbed the gurney and pushed it into the cubicle Dr. Ramírez had indicated. On the count of three, he and a nurse’s aide named Gracie moved the woman to the trauma bed. Gracie cut and peeled off the woman’s blood-soaked clothing, then put her in a gown. The patient closed her eyes, whimpered a little and bit her lower lip.
“Get a drip started,” Dr. Ramírez told a nurse. Then, her voice soft and low, she said to the patient, “¿Le duele mucho, Señora Sánchez?”
Mike remembered enough of his college Spanish to know that she’d asked the elderly woman if she hurt. The patient nodded.
The doctor pulled the blanket and gown down to study the area on the patient’s right shoulder the paramedics had treated. “¿Aquí?” She gently pressed on the area around the wound which had begun to seep blood.
“Ay, me duele mucho.”
He could tell from her expression that the pressure had hurt the woman, a lot.
“Help me turn her on the left side,” Dr. Ramírez said to Mike. “Slowly and carefully.” Once Mrs. Sánchez was turned, Dr. Ramírez ran her hand over the patient’s shoulder and back. “No exit wound,” she said.
“Okay.” Dr. Ramírez glanced up at Mike. “After the IV is going, take her to the OR. I’ll call the surgeon.”
Before Mike could transfer Mrs. Sánchez to a gurney, the doctor took Mrs. Sánchez’s hand and said, “Señora, todo va a estar bien. Cálmese. El cirujano es buena gente.”
Something about everything being okay, to calm down because the surgeon was a good guy, Mike translated for himself. The elderly woman took a deep breath and unclenched her fists as Mike rolled the gurney away.
Seemed Dr. Ramírez was more than a tough professional. She cared for her patients, understood what they needed. That was the kind of doctor he wanted to be, the kind he would be if he could get the money together to go back to med school.
Because he’d been in foster care, the state had paid college and medical school tuition. During four years of college and one of medical school, he’d roomed with four guys in a cheap apartment and worked part-time to make it through. But with the extra money he needed to rent the house, buy food and cover whatever expenses came up until his mother and little brother could get on their feet, he had to work full-time. No way he could go to medical school and support them, which he had to do. After his father had deserted them almost twenty years earlier, Mike was pretty much the head of the family.
He’d considered other options but couldn’t afford the time off and the seven-hundred-dollar fee for paramedic training. With overtime, he’d make more as an orderly than teaching high school, plus he’d be in a hospital. All that made the decision to be an orderly easy.
By seven the next morning, he was so worn-out he moved in a fog. This was hard work, but he loved the feel of the hospital, the certainty that amid the commotion, all the patients would be helped, that he was doing good, meaningful, healing work.
The sight of Dr. Ramírez added a lot to that positive feeling. After all, he could appreciate the view, if only from a distance. At this moment and maybe for several years, with the mess that was his life, all he could enjoy was the view.
A week after his first day in the E.R., the phone rang in the small house Mike rented. When he answered, his younger brother, Tim, said in a shaky voice, “I had an accident, but it wasn’t my fault.”
Mike held the telephone tightly. “Are you all right?”
Tim cleared his throat and spoke without the quiver. “Yeah, I’m fine. It was minor.”
Knowing Tim, a minor accident meant the car still had most of the tires and not all the glass was broken. “And you’re really okay?”
“The paramedics checked me over. No problems.”
“Where are you? How will you get home?”
“The cops’ll bring me. Talk to you then.” Tim hung up.
Mike disconnected the phone, put it on the end table, and dropped onto the sofa. He was glad Tim was okay. Mike whispered a quick, “Thank you, God, for taking care of Tim.”
Sometimes Mike wondered if God ever got anything done while watching over Tim.
Even with a minor accident, the insurance company would total the car which meant he wouldn’t get enough money to buy another anytime soon.
Mike hadn’t been in a fix like this since he was eighteen. Of course, this time he wouldn’t take a gun and hold up a convenience store, which showed he had learned something over the past six years. And this time most of the problems weren’t his. He’d inherited them from other people.
Thank goodness the wreck hadn’t happened last week when he’d moved from his apartment to this rental house. Now, for the first time in eight years, he’d be living with his family: his eighteen-year-old brother, who’d just been released from the state foster care system, and their mother, who was getting out of prison where she’d served time for fraud. He wouldn’t want the living arrangements any other way, but it was still a big change.
He leaned back and put his feet up on a cardboard box marked Kitchen. He was supposed to take his cousin Francie to the doctor in an hour and the hospital had called and asked him to come in early for his shift. In a few days, he had to meet his mother’s bus and get her settled in the house.
But he had no car.
No, he hadn’t caused most of these problems, but he couldn’t shift them to his much-loved but equally scatterbrained mother or his absentminded and immature younger brother.
He couldn’t lean on Francie. She had enough to deal with, what with the baby coming, fixing up her house and finding time to be with her husband. Besides, he owed her big-time. She’d put her life on hold for him, taken the rap for him when he’d been young and almost irredeemably stupid.
No, he couldn’t toss this on Francie, which left him in charge. Not a prospect that filled him with joy.
When the phone rang again, he picked it up and hoped it wasn’t more bad news. “Hey.”
“How’s it going?” Francie asked.
“Tim wrecked my car.”
“How is he?”
“He says he’s fine, but I can’t take you to the doctor’s office. No car.”
“I’ll pick you up. After you bring me home, you can use my car as long as you need it.”
“Francie, should you be driving? Didn’t you say your doctor had some concerns?”
“The doctor hasn’t told me to stop driving. Besides, if you have my car, I can’t drive.”
“But…”
Ignoring the interruption, Francie said, “You have to have a car. Brandon will agree with me. If it makes you feel better, you can be my chauffeur, take me anywhere I want to go,” she said in her don’t-argue voice. “See you in twenty minutes.”
After Mike hung up the phone, he went to the window to watch for the cop car bringing Tim home.
When the police arrived, he moved to the front door and held it open for Tim. “Let me look at you,” Mike said as his brother sauntered inside, bravado showing in his swagger.
“This time it wasn’t my fault.” When Tim stumbled a little and put his hand on the wall to steady himself, he lost a lot of his macho attitude. “It really wasn’t, Mike.”
Tim was tall with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Two years of lifting weights had put some muscle on him. Now he had wide shoulders with an even wider chip perched