Читать книгу Mac's Bedside Manner - Marie Ferrarella, Marie Ferrarella - Страница 8

There was no doubt about it, Harrison MacKenzie thought. He was one very lucky man.

Mac walked down the corridor past Blair Memorial’s MRI lab. He nodded at a hospital administrator he recognized by sight, though not by name. He knew he was one of the fortunate ones. He liked what he did for a living and he was good at it. Very good.

His skill wasn’t an overstated, overblown egotistical assessment of his capabilities; it was simply a given, a fact. He made sure of it. There was no excuse for seeking middle ground or being content with half measures. Mac didn’t believe in riding on yesterday’s accolades, of which there were more than a few. Yesterday’s accolades wouldn’t help today’s patient, or tomorrow’s.

And that was his business, his passion: Helping today’s patient.

He stopped a moment at the vending machine, feeding it quarters in order to feed his own sweet tooth. A small dark chocolate bar did a high dive from its position on the rack, surrendering itself to the inevitable. Mac retrieved it and peeled back the wrapper with relish. He’d never gotten over his love of chocolate.

The people who came to him carried baggage—hidden or in plain sight—that when unpacked ultimately contained some sort of crisis of self-esteem. Large or small, the content was always the same. Quite literally, they needed his help to face the world, needed him to rid them of some superficial flaw that had managed to get the better of them and interfered with their daily lives.

Never mind that they might be people of worth beneath their skins, they needed this badge, this emblem, this shield that he could give them through the skillful manipulation of his scalpel. All this in order to feel better about themselves.

So to the very apex of his ability, Mac gave it to them and let the magic of change do the rest. For his talent, he collected a very sizable fee.

The children were another matter.

The children he operated on came to him broken, scarred, either from birth or through some kind of horrific accident. Those were the cases that both broke his heart and buoyed his spirit. Because he could help. In some fashion, some manner, he could help. He made sure of that.

And he gave a piece of himself to everyone. Because he remembered Carrie.

Remembered his effervescent older sister and how after the car accident, the very light within her eyes had disappeared, like a candle being blown out by the wind. It had happened the night after the prom. The windshield had shattered, sending glass flying everywhere. Large shards had slashed one side of her face like a rapier, disfiguring her.

Traumatized, Carrie withdrew from the world and, most hurtfully, from him. She chose instead to exist behind her scars like a wounded animal imprisoned by circumstances, unable to free herself of the shackles fate had imposed and she had reinforced. Shame changed her from the outgoing, loving young woman she was to someone he didn’t begin to know. Eventually, when there was enough money to pay the fees, it was the unrelenting efforts of a plastic surgeon that had set Carrie free and returned her to the world of the living.

It was the kind of a difference he wanted to make. The kind of difference, Mac liked to think, that he did make. It didn’t matter if the families of the children could pay. He was paid in currency far dearer than paper or coin could ever be. His payment was the genuine smile of a child when he or she first looked in the mirror and truly liked what they saw.

Crumpling the wrapper, Mac tossed it into a wastebasket as he turned the corner. Reflexes had him coming to a skidding halt, narrowly avoiding an unintentional christening of his newly purchased shoes.

Jorge Ruiz plunged his mop into the bucket, dragging the latter back into a safety zone. The smile he flashed was neither sheepish nor apologetic, bordering instead on the amused.

“Sorry, Dr. Mac, you on duty today?” the ebony skinned orderly asked mechanically, knowing the answer before it was given. Jorge knew everything there was to know about the operation of one of Southern California’s most respected hospitals.

Mac nodded, then looked at his watch. “For another five minutes, Jorge, and then I’m off.”

It was Wednesday, known far and wide to a host of doctors as their unofficial day off. Mac’s observance of the day entailed keeping his office closed, but he still put in an E.R. shift, one of two he did on a weekly basis. He did more when a space needed covering.

Wednesdays was also the day when he liked to schedule most of his more difficult operations.

However, today had turned out to be incredibly light. His last patient had been seen to three hours ago, heavily bruised but now in possession of a new, far more delicate nose. The E.R. was quieter than a stadium two hours after a championship game had been lost, and Mac was looking forward to taking out Lynda Rogers, a curvaceous pharmaceutical representative for the Tyler & Rice Drug Company. He’d run into her at the beginning of the week when they’d shared a stuck elevator for the space of twenty-five minutes.

The ordeal had been far from unpleasant. Lynda, it had turned out, had a fear of small places and had literally clung to him for the duration of the elevator’s immobility. By the time it was running again, he’d gotten all her vital statistics, half her family history and knew he had an exciting evening ahead of him once they got together.

Which by his watch was in a little over four hours.

“Heads up, people,” Wanda Hanlon, the formidable-looking head nurse, called out as she replaced the receiver in its cradle and came around from behind the centrally located desk. At six-one, Wanda had a commanding presence the moment she entered a scene. Her booming voice did nothing to negate that impression. “We’ve got a crowd coming in.” She frowned, shaking her salt-and-pepper head.

“Some party-goers tried to see how many of them could fit on a balcony. The fools got up to twenty-three before the whole thing just collapsed under their weight.”

“Damn.” Jorge whistled and leaned on his mop, amused. “What makes people so stupid?”

“In this case, probably more than their share of cheap wine.”

The comment, stated in a soft voice that made Mac think of a silk scarf being lightly slipped along bare skin, came from behind him.

Turning, he saw a petite nurse with short, straight blond hair and flashing green eyes. She looked as if she had to place rocks in her pockets to keep from being blown away whenever the annual Santa Ana winds swept in from the California desert. At six-four, he could have easily walked right into her and not noticed unless he was deliberately looking down.

Mac’s mouth curved in appreciation. The woman didn’t smile in response.

First time that had happened, he thought.

“Not a very charitable attitude,” he observed.

The nurse spared him a half shrug. “No, but probably an accurate one.”

Aware that Jorge was taking this all in as if it were a spectator sport played out for his benefit, Mac opened his mouth to say something else, but the woman was already walking away as if he hadn’t even been there.

That surprised him even more. Her attention appeared riveted to the rear doors that would spring open any second, ushering in gurneys bearing wounded cargo.

Bemused, Mac shifted his gaze to Jorge. “And who was that little bright ray of sunshine?”

Jorge had been at Blair ever since it first opened its doors nearly thirty years ago. Unofficially he was known as the go-to man, an eternal source of information. He was also the man who could mysteriously come up with things that Administration maintained couldn’t be obtained for a variety of reasons and certainly not without a mountain of paperwork. Reasons never stopped Jorge, and paperwork was something that never obstructed his path. Mac had come to regard the man as nothing short of a national treasure.

“Pretty little thing,” Jorge agreed. Two even rows of gleaming white teeth reinforcing the pleasure he received from observing the woman. “Her name’s Jolene DeLuca. Fresh from San Francisco General. Divorced. Has a two-year-old daughter named Amanda. Lives near her mother, Erika. Erika’s a widow.”

Amused, Mac asked. “What’s her shoe size?”

Jorge kept a straight face. “Dunno, but I’m working on it.”

Mac shook his head in pure delight. “Tell me, Jorge, is there anything that goes on in this place that you don’t know?”

Jorge didn’t even pretend to think the question over. “Nope.” Eyes the color of midnight met Mac’s. “You wouldn’t be asking me if you thought I didn’t know.”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t. Thanks for the Cliff’s Notes.” Mac turned away, about to head in the direction of the rear doors.

“Oh, Dr. Mac, one more thing,” Jorge called after him. Mac looked at him over his shoulder, one brow raised in silent query. “Nurse DeLuca doesn’t much care for doctors.”

“Then she’s in the wrong profession.” Although that would explain the frosty shoulder, Mac decided. It was a condition, he was confident, that would change in the very near future. He’d never met a frosty shoulder he couldn’t warm up. Grinning, Mac gave the older man a two-finger salute. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Jorge went back to cleaning up the mess that had been left by a nine-year-old. The latter had discovered a neglected Easter basket filled with six-month-old, slightly melted chocolate and had decided to consume the entire contents in one sitting rather than share it with his older sister.

Mac noted that the nurse with the frosty attitude had sought out Wanda’s company. Probably thought she was “safe” there, he mused as he approached her.

By all rights, he knew he was free to go home and if he moved quickly, he could make good his escape before any of the ambulances arrived with the inebriated party-goers. But the world of medicine wasn’t something he chose to escape. He hadn’t worked damn hard to become a doctor just to shirk off the mantle at will. Being a doctor didn’t end the moment his shift was over or when he exited through the hospital’s electronic doors.

As far as he was concerned, being a doctor was like his being of Scottish descent. It was a twenty-four-hour deal. He was a Scotsman waking and sleeping. The same could be said of his being a physician. That meant helping whenever he could.

The rear doors flew open.

He was on.

So that was him, Jolene thought, walking away from the two men and toward the hospital’s rear doors. That was great Dr. Harrison MacKenzie, known far and wide throughout the county for his bedside manner. Both in and out of the hospital, to hear Rebecca Wynters tell it. And tell it and tell it.

Jolene smiled to herself. Rebecca was the reason she’d gotten this position at Blair in the first place, so she couldn’t be too hard on the woman. And besides, Rebecca was her friend, her very good friend. They went all the way back to third grade together.

Although at times, when Jolene thought of the romantic entanglements her friend got into, it seemed as if Rebecca hadn’t acquired any more brains since they played on the swings together in the schoolyard. She still fell for looks and forgot to factor in anything else—like character.

But then, she supposed on the plus side, Rebecca didn’t have a bad marriage behind her. Just a string of relationships that didn’t work out. Like the one with Dr. Wonderful. Although to hear Rebecca tell it—and she did—the tall plastic surgeon still owned that title. Rebecca had gone out with Harrison MacKenzie several times and had nothing but breathless words to say about him, even after they stopped seeing each other. Her eyes seemed to glow whenever she mentioned his name.

Jolene shook her head. Some people never learned.

However, that group didn’t, fortunately, include her. As far as she was concerned, Dr. Harrison MacKenzie was a player. She could spot one a mile away now.

Too bad her eyesight hadn’t been that good before she’d gotten involved with Matt and put him through school, she thought.

But then, she wouldn’t have had Amanda. Her little girl was worth any humiliation Jolene had had to endure. Like finding her husband breaking in his new couch after office hours with his squeaky voiced, mammary gland endowed receptionist.

Straw that broke the camel’s back, Jolene thought ruefully. At least her experience with Matt had taught her well. And if it hadn’t, her three years at San Francisco General would have. Doctors thought themselves a breed apart from the rest of humanity. The rules of society didn’t apply to them except when they wanted them to. They certainly believed themselves to be two cuts above the nurses they dealt with. And she was first and foremost a nurse, the way her mother had been before her and her grandmother before that.

It was what she was, Jolene thought as she watched the doors and waited for them to spring open, and what she would always be.

If she didn’t have Amanda to provide and care for, Jolene would have opted to go work in a third world country where her dedication and knowledge would have been truly appreciated and there wouldn’t have been a host of overbearing doctors to deal with. Just perhaps one within a thousand-mile radius.

Her grandmother had been such a dedicated woman in her youth, selflessly giving herself up to the hard life found in underdeveloped regions in Africa. She’d been a Red Cross nurse when her grandfather had met her.

Jolene smiled to herself. Her grandfather had been the one doctor that was the exception to her rule.

Just then, the rear doors burst open.

The next moment, the rear section of the emergency room was filled with the sight, sounds and smell of what had been a near fatal disaster.

“Kind of like when the Native Americans attacked the covered wagons in the old Westerns, isn’t it?”

The comment came from directly behind her. A shiver danced down her neck and shoulder blades in response to the whiff of warm breath that accompanied his words.

What was he, standing right on top of her?

Turning almost all the way around, Jolene saw that Rebecca’s knight in tarnished armor had somehow gotten directly behind her without her noticing. Served her right for letting her thoughts wander.

Jolene turned back toward the incoming gurneys a split second after giving the man a disparaging look.

“Except that we’re supposed to help them, not shoot at them,” she retorted icily.

Nurses and doctors were pairing themselves off, bracketing gurneys and the attendants that came in with them. Mac paused just long enough to look quizzically at the nurse with the killer body. “Have I offended you somehow?”

“I don’t think now’s the time to hit on me, Doctor,” she told him crisply. She was already hurrying away from him. “We have work to do.”

For a moment Mac was speechless. He’d been put in his place royally. Put in his place within a tiny, obscure box and had the lid slammed down on him. Tight.

His interest was seriously piqued.

But interest was going to have to wait. Though gifted at multitasking from an early age, Mac gave the emergency situation his entire focus. He fell into place beside the fourth gurney as it came through the doors and began shooting questions at the young female paramedic closest to him.

For the next hour, it felt as if someone had unleashed a dam. An endless stream of injured party-goers kept coming and coming. Each time it seemed as if that had been the last of them, another ambulance arrived, bearing another casualty.

“What are we, the only hospital in the area?” one of the doctors who had been called down groused.

Overhearing as she hurried to another bed, Wanda answered, “We’re the only ones whose trauma area is equipped to handle this kind of volume. Dr. Mac, they need you in Trauma Room Three,” she called out.

Mac looked at the nurse practitioner working with him on a twenty-year-old woman who seemed to have every part of her body pierced with something. The piercing in her thigh hadn’t been of her choice. He and Martha had worked for over ten minutes, making sure the wound the vocal party-goer had sustained wouldn’t begin to gush again. It appeared to be stable.

“Go ahead,” Martha urged. “I can handle this. It’s all over but the shouting.”

Considering that the young woman they were working on was hurling four-letter words at them regarding the man who’d thrown the party, Mac thought it rather an apt description of the situation.

“I’m all yours,” he told Wanda, hurrying behind her.

“Be still my heart,” the woman quipped, covering her ample chest with a rubber gloved hand. She brought Mac to a man, who looked as if he’d been on the bottom of the pile in the pyramid after the balcony’s collapse.

This, Mac quickly assessed, was going to take more than simple suturing and cleaning.

Someone brushed against his elbow in the tight space around the gurney and as he automatically looked, his eyes met the new nurse’s.

“How are you holding up?” he asked.

She seemed to take the question as an affront to her abilities. “Fine.”

Mac felt as if he’d just been fired on at point-blank range.

He looked at Wanda, who shrugged in response to his silent question. She didn’t seem to know what was wrong with the new nurse, either.

For the following three and a half hours, Mac found himself hip deep in sutures, X rays, blood and chaos. There was no time to think, only to react and pray that responses—correct responses—were ingrained. Several times during the frenetic dance from patient to patient, Mac had looked up to see the new nurse close by, ministering to the wounded.

Twice they found themselves working over the same injured victim.

She worked well, he noted. And quickly, as if she’d been in these situations countless times before. He’d known new nurses to buckle under pressure. But then, he remembered, Jorge had said she was a transfer from San Francisco General. That made her somewhat seasoned.

He couldn’t help wondering why she’d transferred. She was obviously good at her job, The brittle voice she’d directed at him was nowhere in evidence when she spoke to a terrified woman, who was afraid she was going to lose her leg. Jolene stood, holding the woman’s hand as he worked feverishly to stabilize the woman in order to rush her into surgery.

“Okay,” Mac announced the moment Wanda told him there was an O.R. free, “she’s ready to go up.”

Frightened brown eyes shifted toward him. “Am I going to lose it?” the woman cried, hysteria barely contained in her voice.

“Not a chance,” he told her, smiling. “You’ll be dancing in three months.”

His words earned him another cool look from Jolene as she helped push the gurney out into the hall and toward the elevator. Now what had he said?

He had no time to ponder on it. Someone else was calling for him. Stripping off the yellow paper gown, he slipped into the one that Martha Hayes was holding out for him.

“Let’s roll,” he said to the young nurse.

Eventually, just as Mac’s back was beginning to ache in fierce protest—reminding him of the strain he’d received over a dozen years ago on the football field—the chaos receded as abruptly as it had begun.

He glanced over toward the rear doors, holding his breath, unwilling to release his hold on the adrenaline that was keeping him going.

The doors remained closed.

“That’s the last of them, Dr. Mac,” Wanda told him wearily.

Mac rotated his neck, trying to reduce the tension that had knotted itself there. “Gee, just when we were beginning to have fun,” he muttered.

With relief, he shed the last of an endless series of yellow paper gowns he’d hastily put on these last few hours and then glanced at his watch. The balcony collapse had eaten away his time.

So much for a leisurely pace, he thought. If he was particularly quick about it, he had just enough time to go home, shower and change before he had to leave again.

As he turned to throw away the last gown, Jolene passed him on her way to the other end of the E.R. She spared him a look that could have served as the standard for temperatures used in cryogenic refrigeration.

Mac looked at Wanda. “Are there icicles on me?”

Wanda laughed, pouring herself a mug of coffee that had to be thicker than plasma by now. “She doesn’t care for doctors.”

He watched the way Jolene’s trim figure moved as she walked. Somewhere, there had to be a mold in God’s supply closet marked Perfect. “So I’ve heard.”

Wanda noted the way he looked after the other woman. She knew that look. It had interest written all over it. “But she’s a damn good nurse.”

“Looks it,” he agreed. He wasn’t thinking about the woman tending to his fevered brow. Not in that context, anyway.

Wanda chuckled and shook her head. “You’re wasting your time, Dr. Mac. That’s one lady who isn’t interested in you playing doctor.”

He grinned. “Yet,” he corrected.

Wanda counted herself among the number who formed Harrison MacKenzie’s fan club. Not because of his male appeal or the sexy way he could look at a woman—Wanda had been happily married to the same man now for thirty-two years—but because Dr. Mac was good people. The best. And excellent at what he did. She’d seen him walk that extra mile or so on more than one occasion. For that reason, she didn’t want to see his ego bruised.

“Dr. Mac, I wouldn’t want to see you fall flat on your—” Tilting her head, her eyes washed over his slim hips and taut posterior. She grinned broadly as she concluded. “Face.”

He patted her arm, still watching Jolene as she disappeared behind a curtained area. “Not to worry, Wanda. I have no intentions of doing that.”

“To stay on the safe side, I won’t watch.” Wanda laughed, turning back to her work.

Mac, on the other hand, had never played it safe. Not on this playing field at any rate. He didn’t intend to start now.