“I’m sorry. Everybody’s jumpy right now, and you have the most right to be.” The hand on her shoulder and the voice in her ear belonged to Dr. Jay Carpenter, the chief of general surgery. He was tall and rumpled, as usual the only neat thing on his body seemed to be the expertly knotted bowtie he wore. It was amazing how many docs still didn’t realize their conventional ties could fall on a patient or a surface, picking up bacteria to be deposited elsewhere. Dr. Carpenter always wore a bowtie. Above it was a goatee of gray and brown, setting off a creased, craggy face, all topped by thinning white hair. His voice was always ready to assume its distinctive thundering tone. He was a notorious and highly successful ladies’ man.
“Any Christmas plans?”
“I guess I’ll go see my brothers in Kentucky.”
“Walk with me, Cheryl Beth.”
Visiting hours were coming to an end, so the halls were emptying out.
“Were you in the ER for the shooting du jour?”
She had been called in. The aftermath of gunshot wounds could be especially painful. The patient was a fifteen-year-old with a stomach wound. As usual, poor and black. As usual, from the violent ghettoes that separated downtown from the hospital district on Pill Hill.
“It’s going to be a pain grenade,” she said. “You know he’s probably not opiate naïve.”
“Not with all the addicts in that neighborhood.” They knew the drill: a patient with a history of addiction didn’t respond to doses of painkillers that would work in a normal, or “naïve,” patient.
“So there’s a good chance he won’t be adequately medicated,” she said. “I’m going to go back and check on him, post-surgery.”
“That’s good,” he said, pausing to lean against a wall, his voice assuming its full freight-train tone. “If his doc isn’t doing the right thing, you do what you need, and you have my verbal orders.” He looked around and spoke more quietly. “The last thing we want is to have another African American kid screaming in pain in this hospital. Lord, this city is so tense. They won’t admit it, of course. Everybody is so nice in Cincinnati.” He paused. “They could have used you in peds today.”
“I can’t do peds.” She spoke quickly.
“I know.” He gave a gentle smile. “I’ve been worried about you.”
“Me? I’m all right.”
“I know, you’re the tough one. But your job can get pretty lonely. Why don’t you come up with me to the stroke floor? They’re having their Christmas party tonight.”
“Maybe I will, if I’m not persona non grata. Stephanie Ott is out to get me.” Cheryl Beth said it lightly but the words still sounded dark. She sighed. “Things aren’t right.”
