to me. Tell me you’re going to be okay.
Cold air wafted from the AC vent, and she shivered in the flimsy gown. She glanced at her watch and found herself gazing, instead, at the plastic band around her wrist. Patient’s name: Rizzoli, Jane. Well, this patient is not particularly patient, she thought. Let’s get on with it, people!
The skin on her abdomen suddenly prickled, and she felt her womb tighten. The muscles gently squeezed, held for a moment, then eased off. At last, a contraction.
She looked at the time. 11:50 A.M .
SIX
By noon, the temperature had soared into the nineties, baking sidewalks into griddles, and a sulfurous summer haze hung over the city. Outside the medical examiner’s building, no reporters still lingered in the parking lot; Maura was able to cross Albany Street unaccosted and walk into the medical center. She shared an elevator with half a dozen freshly minted interns, now on their first month’s rotation, and she remembered the lesson she’d learned in medical school:
Don’t get sick in July.
They’re all so young, she thought, looking at smooth faces, at hair not yet streaked with gray. She seemed to be noticing that more often these days, about cops, about doctors. How young they all looked. And what do these interns see when they look at me? she wondered. Just a woman pushing middle age, wearing no uniform, no name tag with MD on my lapel. Perhaps they assumed she was a patient’s relative, scarcely worth more than a glance. Once, she’d been like these interns, young and cocky in her white coat. Before she’d learned the lessons of defeat.
The elevator opened and she followed the interns into the medical unit. They breezed right past the nurses’ station, untouchable in their white coats. It was Maura, in her civilian clothes, whom the ward clerk immediately stopped with a frown, a brisk question: “Excuse me, are you looking for someone?”
“I’m here to visit a patient,” said Maura. “She was admitted last night, through the ER. I understand she was transferred out of ICU this morning.”
“The patient’s name?”
Maura hesitated. “I believe she’s still registered as Jane Doe. Dr. Cutler told me she’s in room four-thirty-one.”
The ward clerk’s gaze narrowed. “I’m sorry. We’ve had calls from reporters all day. We can’t answer any more questions about that patient.”
“I’m not a reporter. I’m Dr. Isles, from the medical examiner’s office. I told Dr. Cutler I’d be coming by to check on the patient.”
“May I see some identification?”
Maura dug into her purse and placed her ID on the countertop. This is what I get for showing up without my lab coat, she thought. She could see the interns cruising down the hall, unimpeded, like a flock of strutting white geese.
“You could call Dr. Cutler,” Maura suggested. “He knows who I am.”
“Well, I
suppose
it’s okay,” said the ward clerk, handing back the ID. “There’s been so much fuss over this patient, they had to send over a security guard.” As Maura headed up the hall, the clerk called out: “He’ll probably want to see your ID as well!”
Prepared to endure another round of questions, she kept her ID in hand as she walked to room 431, but she found no guard standing outside the closed door. Just as she was about to knock, she heard a thud inside the room, and the clang of falling metal.
At once, she pushed into the room and found a confusing tableau. A doctor stood at the bedside, reaching up toward the IV bottle. Opposite him, a security guard was leaning over the patient, trying to restrain her wrists. A bedside stand had just toppled, and the floor was slick with spilled water.
“Do you need help?” called Maura.
The doctor glanced over his shoulder at her, and she caught a glimpse of blue eyes, blond hair cut short as a brush. “No, we’re fine. We’ve got her,” he said.
“Let me tie that restraint,” she offered, and moved to the guard’s side of
Cold air wafted from the AC vent, and she shivered in the flimsy gown. She glanced at her watch and found herself gazing, instead, at the plastic band around her wrist. Patient’s name: Rizzoli, Jane. Well, this patient is not particularly patient, she thought. Let’s get on with it, people!
The skin on her abdomen suddenly prickled, and she felt her womb tighten. The muscles gently squeezed, held for a moment, then eased off. At last, a contraction.
She looked at the time. 11:50 A.M .
SIX
By noon, the temperature had soared into the nineties, baking sidewalks into griddles, and a sulfurous summer haze hung over the city. Outside the medical examiner’s building, no reporters still lingered in the parking lot; Maura was able to cross Albany Street unaccosted and walk into the medical center. She shared an elevator with half a dozen freshly minted interns, now on their first month’s rotation, and she remembered the lesson she’d learned in medical school:
Don’t get sick in July.
They’re all so young, she thought, looking at smooth faces, at hair not yet streaked with gray. She seemed to be noticing that more often these days, about cops, about doctors. How young they all looked. And what do these interns see when they look at me? she wondered. Just a woman pushing middle age, wearing no uniform, no name tag with MD on my lapel. Perhaps they assumed she was a patient’s relative, scarcely worth more than a glance. Once, she’d been like these interns, young and cocky in her white coat. Before she’d learned the lessons of defeat.
The elevator opened and she followed the interns into the medical unit. They breezed right past the nurses’ station, untouchable in their white coats. It was Maura, in her civilian clothes, whom the ward clerk immediately stopped with a frown, a brisk question: “Excuse me, are you looking for someone?”
“I’m here to visit a patient,” said Maura. “She was admitted last night, through the ER. I understand she was transferred out of ICU this morning.”
“The patient’s name?”
Maura hesitated. “I believe she’s still registered as Jane Doe. Dr. Cutler told me she’s in room four-thirty-one.”
The ward clerk’s gaze narrowed. “I’m sorry. We’ve had calls from reporters all day. We can’t answer any more questions about that patient.”
“I’m not a reporter. I’m Dr. Isles, from the medical examiner’s office. I told Dr. Cutler I’d be coming by to check on the patient.”
“May I see some identification?”
Maura dug into her purse and placed her ID on the countertop. This is what I get for showing up without my lab coat, she thought. She could see the interns cruising down the hall, unimpeded, like a flock of strutting white geese.
“You could call Dr. Cutler,” Maura suggested. “He knows who I am.”
“Well, I
suppose
it’s okay,” said the ward clerk, handing back the ID. “There’s been so much fuss over this patient, they had to send over a security guard.” As Maura headed up the hall, the clerk called out: “He’ll probably want to see your ID as well!”
Prepared to endure another round of questions, she kept her ID in hand as she walked to room 431, but she found no guard standing outside the closed door. Just as she was about to knock, she heard a thud inside the room, and the clang of falling metal.
At once, she pushed into the room and found a confusing tableau. A doctor stood at the bedside, reaching up toward the IV bottle. Opposite him, a security guard was leaning over the patient, trying to restrain her wrists. A bedside stand had just toppled, and the floor was slick with spilled water.
“Do you need help?” called Maura.
The doctor glanced over his shoulder at her, and she caught a glimpse of blue eyes, blond hair cut short as a brush. “No, we’re fine. We’ve got her,” he said.
“Let me tie that restraint,” she offered, and moved to the guard’s side of
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