Thursday Afternoons Page 5
“I-I don’t know what the hell happened,” Atkinson sputters. “This patient was such a mess, I couldn’t see the field properly. I—”
“Please step back, Dr. Atkinson.”
The best thing, the only thing, she can do right now is to drain the leaking bile from the patient’s abdomen and complete the removal of his gallbladder, which she does over the next fifteen minutes. She orders a nurse to call the nearest big teaching hospital in London, Ontario, which is a good ninety-minute ride away by land ambulance. The patient is going to need bile duct reconstruction surgery, which she’s not prepared to do here because she, the hospital, and its staff are not equipped or trained for such a specialized procedure.
Once her patient is wheeled out of the OR and into the small ICU to await transfer, she takes her colleague aside in the hallway. Not for the big talk that she, as chief of surgery, is going to need to have with him (that will come later, probably tomorrow), but to find out everything she can about the patient before they talk to the family. The patient is a retired cop in his late fifties; an infected gall bladder brought him to the ER earlier in the day, and Atkinson was the surgeon whose turn it was to take emergencies. Amy performed a scheduled mastectomy this morning before diving into a pile of paperwork for the afternoon. If she’d been this patient’s surgeon, she too might have made the same mistake, but probably not. She’s done hundreds of laparoscopic cholecystectomies and has never sliced through the common bile duct. Atkinson, on the other hand, has made several serious mistakes the last few months. Two weeks ago he perforated his patient’s bowel during a regular colonoscopy; a few weeks before that he nicked a bladder. His once solid reputation for competence is increasingly in tatters, his mistakes no longer a matter of coincidence or bad luck. Amy knows something must be going on with him, though now isn’t the time to figure out what.
Atkinson remains in denial, a stream of excuses falling from his mouth. “I didn’t even feel anything when I cut through it. Somehow I—”
“How well did you prepare the family for complications?”
The better prepared, meaning the more details that have been shared about what could go wrong, the better the bad news will go down with the family. The worst is when the family and the patient are expecting the procedure to be a breeze. And then it isn’t.
“I…I told them there’s always the risk of complications with any surgery.”
“Specifically, did you discuss a severed bile duct as a complication?”
Atkinson is pale. He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I can’t be sure.”
Goddammit. “All right, let’s go find them.” Every surgeon strives for that moment of looking into a loved one’s eyes and saying that everything went well, that everything’s going to be fine. This won’t be one of them.
Days later as Amy drives to the city for her weekly rendezvous with Ellen, she’s still grumpy as hell and can’t shake her bad mood. Dr. Atkinson broke down and cried in her office the day after the botched surgery. He couldn’t shed any light on why he’s been less than stellar in the OR. Said he’s sleeping fine, isn’t having marriage or financial difficulties, said his memory is fine, that he doesn’t feel unwell. But Amy isn’t so sure. His skills might be declining because of his age, but there could be something more sinister responsible. After a private meeting with the chief of staff, the director of human resources, and one of the hospital’s lawyers, she was forced to place him on light duties and ordered him to get a full medical workup before he’d be allowed back in the OR. And then she went home and poured a huge glass of wine.
She thinks now of her father, a family practitioner for more than forty years in the town this very same hospital serves. He didn’t retire until he turned seventy and only because he too was starting to slip. That was a decade ago and six years before Amy decided to return home and take a surgical position at the hospital. She knows firsthand how distraught her father was at having to give up medicine, how difficult it was to give up something that so deeply defined him. Now he barely remembers that he was a doctor. Could the same thing be happening to Atkinson? She hopes not. Hopes there’s a simpler explanation, but regardless, patients come first and she will not let Atkinson become a greater liability. It isn’t the lawsuits she is afraid of, but the very integrity of the hospital’s surgical service. She’s fully aware that small hospitals such as this one struggle to meet targets set out by the government, struggle to keep their accreditation. If a hospital doesn’t perform a certain number of particular procedures in a year and perform them well, funding for those procedures can be cut. And if their funding is cut, that means the entire department—the surgical service—is left vulnerable.
She doesn’t want to be the kind of hard-ass supervisor who doesn’t appreciate what her colleagues might be going through. Doctors aren’t machines. People aren’t perfect. She knows this all too well. All she has to do is look at her father, at the immense pride he used to have in being a doctor. When Amy was a kid, it struck her that medicine was the noblest profession on earth, that doctors and nurses were true heroes because they saved people’s lives. All she wanted to do was to join that elite club. To help people, to be a hero like her dad. No one told her, until it was far too late, about the failures, the mistakes, about the people you can’t help or can’t help enough, about all the grey areas in a profession she once naively thought was mostly black and white.
Amy pulls into the hotel parking lot, parks her SUV, and sits for a minute, contemplating what the hell she’s doing here. First off, she’s not really in the mood for sex. Secondly, she’s not even sure she wants to keep seeing Ellen. Ellen who’s probably married and shouldn’t be having hot, dirty sex in a hotel with an almost-stranger. I’ll break it off with her, Amy decides on the spot. In person. Right now. I’ll tell her that what we’re doing is wrong and that we’ll never see each other again. There. Problem solved.
Ellen’s ready to confront Abby for lying to her about being single, but she waits until Abby’s fixed them a drink first. It’s become their little ritual—a Jack and soda or cola, just one drink, and then sex. Except there’ll be no sex this time, and this will be the last time they’ll have a drink together, though she could use the hit of bourbon before she breaks off this thing with Abby. So she takes a long, bolstering sip and gathers her courage.
Abby beats her to it. “So,” she starts. “The other night at the restaurant.”
Good, Ellis thinks, they’re on the same page about this. Maybe Abby will save her the trouble of being the bad guy and confess that she’s been two-timing on her girlfriend or wife, that she was wrong to do so, and that they can’t keep doing this.
“Was that your daughter with you?” Abby asks pointedly.
“Not…exactly. More like stepdaughter. Mia is her name. She’s fifteen.”
“And the older couple? In-laws?”
Ellis nods.
Abby has an aha look about her, like she’s caught Ellis at something. “Your husband. Or wife. I was expecting them to join your family gathering. Something delay them?”
Ellis is in no mood to humor Abby’s poor attempts at an inquisition. “What is it that you’re trying to get at?”
“I’m trying to get at the fact that you’re married and have a family. That we’ve been…that you’ve been unfaithful to him. Or her. With me. And that’s not cool, Ellen. I’m not okay with that. I will never be the other woman.”
“Wait. What?” She thinks I’m the one who’s two-timing? Ellis jumps up from the sofa, sets her drink on the coffee table and paces. She tries to keep the anger from her voice but isn’t very successful. “You think I’m the one who’s married? Who’s being unfaithful? What about you?”
“What about me?” Defensive, but then, so is Ellis.
“You lied before, when you said you didn’t have a girlfriend.”
“I didn’t and I don’t.” Abby gets up and walks over to Ellis, but Ellis can’t stand still. Fury keeps her moving.
“You’re changing the subject. And that was my sister.”
A leak has sprung in the well of Ellis’s anger, but she holds onto every last drop of it. “I’m not changing the subject. You accused me of being married. And guess what? You were wrong.”
“All right. So you really are single?”
“Yes. But what does it matter to you?” It’s not like this thing they’re doing is going to lead anywhere.
“It matters.”
“I see. So it’s okay for us to show up here every Thursday afternoon and fuck like it’s our last day on earth or something when we hardly know each other. And that’s okay as long as we’re single?”
“Yes. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
Dammit, Abby’s being so fucking calm, so reasonable, so infuriatingly in control. And it’s in such contrast to the tears Ellis feels pressing behind her eyes. Because you know what? This screwing-a-stranger-in-a-hotel doesn’t feel so good anymore. It feels like, okay, they’re not lying to a third party, to a spouse or girlfriend or whatever—they’ve cleared all that up at least—but it sure feels like they’re lying to somebody. Because what Ellis really wants, even the pretense of it for ten minutes, is for Abby to care for her. To care about her. To not be a stranger. To not have to hide this thing they’re doing, to not have it feel so dirty. Perhaps the whole anonymous sex thing has grown old already, but if she’s being honest with herself, it’s only part of what’s bothering her. Hooking up with Abby once a week is every bit as shallow and empty as her pattern of drifting from job to job every year or two, as unsatisfying as moving to different cities and having to travel regularly for business. And then there’s the disheartening mess with Mia and Ellis thinking she could repair something that’s so obviously irreparable. There’s barely anything about her life right now that she feels good about.
“What is it that you want?” Abby whispers, stepping closer. So close that Ellis has to stop her pacing or she’ll step on Abby’s feet.
“I…” Ellis is being selfish. And weak. She doesn’t need anything more from Abby than what she gets. That was the deal, after all, the deal they both agreed to in advance. No-strings sex. And she’s not about to try to change the rules now. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” A tear, a single, stupid, betraying tear rolls down her cheek, horrifying her. Pissing her off. She can’t even remember the last time she acted so weak in front of anyone.
Abby reaches out a thumb to Ellis’s face and wipes the tear away, the act so tender, so kind, that another tear chases the first one down. Goddammit! The one thing in her life that was supposed to be uncomplicated is turning out to be anything but.
“It’s okay,” Abby whispers, and then her lips are on Ellis’s. Lips that are as soft as the petals of a rose—velvety with exactly the right amount of moisture. Warm too, and tasting slightly of the honeyed bourbon. Ellis sinks into the kiss and then into Abby’s arms. Yes, she thinks with relief and wonder. This is exactly what I need because it feels…safe, reassuring, perfect in its own uncomplicated way. Abby deepens the kiss, tightens her embrace, and Ellis has never wanted another woman this way, this much, before. It’s as though Abby is some kind of lifeline and Ellis, Ellis who doesn’t normally need lifelines, is grabbing on with all her might.
Abby’s voice is against her ear, sending warm pulses up and down Ellis’s spine. “You feel so good. I want to touch you. Can I touch you?”
Something bursts inside Ellis. Something warm and full of want. “God. Yes, please. Please touch me.”
“Here?” Abby’s mouth slides down to her throat, sucks gently.
Ellis’s eyes snap shut. She wants all her powers of concentration on what Abby’s doing to her. “Yes, there.”
Abby unbuttons Ellis’s blouse as her mouth trails kisses down her chest. “Here too?”
Ellis swallows, can barely speak. “Yes. More.”
Her bra is released and Abby’s mouth is on her breasts, on her nipples, doing glorious things that make her want to beg. She needs Abby to be the one in charge, and Abby does not disappoint. She backs Ellis up against the wall, hikes up her skirt, and then looks at her with those stormy grey eyes that pose a question, as though she doesn’t entirely want to assume what Ellis wants. Ellis nods because she can’t speak.
Abby unceremoniously drops to her knees, pulls Ellis’s panties down—bright red silky ones that Ellis figured would be a waste of time because they were supposed to be ending this little affair. Except they aren’t doing any such thing now, and all Ellis can think about, can anticipate, is Abby’s mouth on her. Oh, she’s so wet already, vibrating like a tuning fork, and then Abby’s tongue finds her. Yes yes yes yes. Abby’s giving it to her with her mouth—sucking, licking, running her tongue over her clit fast, then slow, then fast again, then mashing her mouth against her. Ellis puts her hand against the wall for support. This whole oral thing, Jesus, what a surprise, she thinks, what a fucking spectacular surprise! And Abby, of course, is as adept as this as is she is with her hands.
Ellis gives herself over to the power of her arousal, to the pure bliss, the joy Abby’s mouth offers. For a moment she’s untethered from everything: from the stresses of her job, the stress of Mia, even this room. She’s floating, her body turning to something intangible, something fluid, with a kind of abandon she hasn’t felt in years. And then her orgasm sends her ever higher before it crashes over her, through her, bringing her back to the present with an insanely pleasurable jolt. She has to work at keeping her knees from buckling, moves her hands to Abby’s shoulders not only for support but because she needs to touch Abby, needs to dig her fingers into the muscles below her collarbone, needs to root herself.
Abby looks up at her with a grin that’s not so much cocky as knowing. “Was that okay?”
“No. It was a thousand times better than okay. Come here.” Ellis pulls Abby to her feet and steers her toward the bed, holding her hand. “Now that we’ve broadened the menu, I can’t wait to sample you.”
Abby laughs, and it’s the most relaxed Ellis has seen her. They’ve come a long way from their first time, when they were all nerves and lame bravado. She takes her time now removing Abby’s clothes. She wants to savor every second of this, wants it to be enough to help get her through the next week.
Chapter Six
Amy has had to fight to keep her Thursday afternoons and evenings free, thanks to Dr. Atkinson being on the shelf while the hospital figures out what to do about him. Amy knows it means he’ll probably be given a no-refusal incentive to retire, and then it will be more months before a replacement is hired. She and the other general surgeon on staff, Judy Warren, are picking up the slack, doing the work of three. And it couldn’t come at a worse time. On Amy’s to-do list is figuring out how to get more help for her parents because there’s not much more she can give. She’s used to not having a life for herself, but she won’t—can’t—give up these Thursdays with Ellen. She can’t even say why. Sex is a big part of it, and while it’s good sex, Amy has gone months, even years without sex. She and Ellen hardly even talk, know almost nothing about one another, and yet…their time together represents something precious, something weirdly necessary to Amy. It feels like some crucial connection to the outside world—to sanity—that she can get nowhere else, while at the same time it’s a cocoon that’s anything but a connection to the outside world. It’s her salvation, the thing that reminds her she’s human, and she’s pretty sure Ellen feels the same way.
She thinks back to their last assignation two days ago, when Ellen had looked at her with such need, with such raw emotion, it had set Amy’s heart thudding like a runaway motor. Ellen had even shed a few tears, and the display reached in and touched something inside Amy that had gone dormant. For that moment at least, she’d wanted to be Ellen’s rock, Ellen’s comfort. Wanted to soothe and pleasure her, and she’d done so, using her mouth on Ellen for the first time. They were both
single and otherwise celibate, so it was safe, or reasonably so. And oh, how sweet Ellen had tasted, how intensely she’d responded to Amy’s lovemaking. And when Ellen had made love to her, using her mouth as well, Amy had completely let herself go, holding nothing back. The resulting endorphins had made her fall asleep afterwards, and she’d awakened an hour later in Ellen’s arms. Ellen’s warm, soft arms. And to those green, misty eyes, there to catch her. It was too much, too wonderful, and Amy resorted to cowardice, muttering a lame excuse for having to rush out.
If Ellen was hurt by Amy’s quick exit, she covered it well, but there was no mistaking that something of a deeper dimension had begun inserting itself in their time together, a bond that went much deeper than sex. If it got much deeper, there was no question Amy would have to end things. Oh, she’d had the kind of love people dream about, beg for, spend all kinds of time and money and energy trying to find. And keep. The rush of excitement, the endless string of sacrifices you make without thinking or caring, the branding of your soul that is both thrilling and terrifying. Oh, she’d had it once. And it’d nearly destroyed her. She would not be somebody’s rescuer again, and the thing is, she knows so little about Ellen. Does she need rescuing? Saving? Amy’s too good at doing the saving, and that’s the problem.
The pager on her hip chimes, saving her from further brooding. She’s the surgeon on call for the weekend and has already repaired a man’s thigh ripped up from the slip of a circular saw. So much for her plans for a quick visit with her parents followed by a quiet dinner at home.
“What have you got?” she says into the nearest wall phone. A seven-year-old boy, the nurse explains, shot in the head with a .22 while he and another boy were playing with a gun they’d found in a barn. ETA five minutes out.
She spies her young resident, Erin Kirkland, exiting a patient’s room and flags her down. “Come with me,” Amy says, explaining the case while they sprint down a set of stairs, her voice echoing in the cinder block void. Mike Connors is the ER doc on duty today, but a case like this demands all hands on deck. Mentally she goes over what she knows about neuro and about gunshot wounds to the head. She did a year of trauma surgery at St. Mike’s in Toronto as part of her surgical training, plus another year as a surgical fellow at Cook County Hospital in Chicago. But those two hospitals have experienced neurosurgeons on staff. Such specialized help for her now is in the city of London. Windsor, a little less than an hour’s drive away, has neurologists on staff but no neurosurgeons. Air ambulance is an option, but you don’t get a chopper in the air in ten seconds. The bird also has to come from who knows how far away, since none are stationed locally. She is going to have to be it until a transfer is available.