Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance (6 page)

We get the gurney into a room and really get to work. The paramedics who brought him in are assisting. Delaney is calling the shots as the senior nurse on duty, and I’m hooking up Malcolm to the monitors.

He’s gushing blood from at least four different entry wounds, despite the triage efforts by the paramedics to slow the bleeding. One to the chest, two to the stomach, a fourth in the thigh. It’s a miracle he’s even conscious, let alone lucid. Little fighter.
 

“Do you know where she is?” I have to keep him talking, keep him awake. “Malcolm? Does your mama know you’re here?”
 

He cries out as Delaney stabs a local anesthetic into his chest around the sucking wound there. He cries out again as she probes into the wound, digging in before the medicine has a chance to take effect.
 

“No, no—Mama…Mama’s at work. I was s’posed to be at school.” He’s trying like fuck to be a man, I can see it. Refusing to cry, refusing to scream. God, if I had half the courage of this little guy. “She’s gonna be so—so mad at me.”

“No, honey, no. She won’t be mad. She’ll just be glad you’re okay, all right? I promise, your mama won’t be mad.”
 

Delaney glances at me, and I really don’t like the look in her eyes. Nor do I like the slowing beeps of the heart monitor. His eyes roll back into his head. The godawful whistling from his chest wound can be heard over the ambient noise. But it’s the stomach wounds that are killing him. Stomach acid is leaking into his body.
 

“I’m dying, ain’t I?” He looks up at me, and even after three years of ER triage, it never gets easier, the lying to patients.
 

“No, Malcolm, baby. Delaney is fixing you up, okay? We’re gonna take care of you. I promise.” I’m working like crazy, trying to stop the bleeding in his thigh. It’s not stopping. The paramedics slowed it, but it’s not stopping. I’m in his thigh, hunting for the severed artery that’s spouting blood like a fountain. “Where were you, Malcolm? If you weren’t at school, where were you?”

He’s fading. My heart squeezes. Going to have nightmares about this tonight. His eyes, scared, beg me to save him.
 

“Playing—ball.” He blinks hard, sucks in a breath. Finds my eyes. “It hurts. I’m cold. I don’t want to die. I don’t…Mama?”

He’s got brand new Jordans on. The pristine white leather is dotted with blood. Basketball shorts. A little big. Why do I notice these things? He’s tied his shoes in a big fat triple knot, to keep the laces up out of the way. There’s a big perfectly round drop of blood right on the tip of his left shoe. I watch his toe flex in the shoe, flexing the leather.
 

“Malcolm? Stay awake for me, baby.” I’ve found the artery. I pinch it off with hemostats, but it’s not gonna save him. Delaney is still working on his chest. “Malcolm? Who’s your favorite basketball player, Malcolm?”
 

He’s not responding. He sees me, but he looks confused. Blinks become flutters. Then a long unfocused stare, his eyelids fluttering. Breath slowing.
 

We keep working.
 

You don’t ever stop, not even when you know it’s hopeless.

Delaney watches the monitor as it flatlines. She shouts for the paddles, calls out the charge setting.
Clear!
We all back away.
Pop!
Nothing.
Pop!
Nothing. A few more times, but we all know he’s gone.
 

Finally, Delaney has to back away, panting from the exertion. It’s over.

Delaney wipes the sweat off her forehead with the back of her wrist. Checks her watch, the face of which is on the underside of her wrist. “Time of death—eleven twenty-three a.m.”
 

I’ve only cried at work two other times. Once when it was a girl I knew, a good friend from nursing school. Suicide. Slit her wrists. Nobody had any clue she was struggling. The other time was when there was a fifteen-car pileup on the 210. Dozens of injuries, six fatalities, two of which were little babies.
 

Whom I treated.
 

And lost.
 

Something about losing Malcolm…I can’t handle it.

Delaney sees it. “Take ten, Niall.” I hesitate, and she makes the face that says
don
’
t argue, bitch
. “Go.
Now.
Ten minutes.”

“All right, all right. Ten minutes.” I’m just repeating it, because I’m dizzy and it’s what you do, repeat orders. Make sure you’ve got it right.

I’m almost outside when an orderly grabs me. “Ummm…Niall?” I pause, try to focus on her. Blink back tears. A young woman, green scrubs, Asian, gesturing at my hands. “Maybe give me those, huh? I’ll take care of them.”
 

I don’t know what she’s talking about. I glance down and see that I’m still wearing the bloody latex gloves, the hemostats in a death grip. I turn around and see that I’ve dripped a trail of blood all the way here. I let her take the hemostats, duck into a bathroom and strip off the gloves, wrap them in a brown paper towel and discard them. I wash my shaking, trembling hands.

I always get the shakes after surgery or an emergency. Never during.
 

Finally outside, I wander aimlessly. Looking for somewhere quiet. I want to be alone. Away from the ambulances arriving at the ER entrance. Away from the patients and visitors at the main entrance. Finally, I just collapse on the curb underneath a towering palm tree. I bury my face in my hands and try to keep from actually sobbing. I try to banish the vision of Malcolm fading, confused, afraid.
   

I become aware of the sound of soles scuffing on the concrete, and I blink through my salt haze to see a big pair of tan combat boots, and the faded, torn cuffs of blue jeans. The guy sits down beside me. I clear my throat. Blink away tears, rub at them quickly.

“Here.” Smooth, attractive male voice. Not deep, but smooth.
 

I glance, and see a large masculine hand, hair and scars on the knuckles, proffering a cigarette.
 

“I don’t smoke.”

“Neither do I.” He reaches over, bold as you please, and places the filter between my lips. Sparks plume, and it’s lit. “But you need it at times like this.”
 

I take it between my index and middle fingers, like I’ve seen Delaney do on countless occasions, and pull it away from my mouth. Finally I take a look at my companion.

Oh. Whoa. Okay. He looks like McDreamy from
Grey
’
s Anatomy
. Early thirties, thick black hair swept back, streaks of silver at his temples. Ten-day scruff, not quite a beard, also salted with silver. Brown eyes, the corners wrinkled from smiles and the sun.
 

“Puff.” He commands it. Soft, but insistent. “Trust me.”
 

I take a puff.

“Now inhale. You’ll cough, but it’ll be worth it.”
 

I inhale. Taste mint…menthol. Then I cough like I’ve got emphysema, but the subsequent rush is…worth it. Just like he said. I extend the cigarette to him, but he shakes his head.

“I only smoke after an operation, and then only after the really gnarly ones.” He rubs at the corner of his mouth with a big thumb. “That’s the trick to not getting addicted. You only have one when you’re cracking up.”
 

“You’re a doctor?”
 

He nods. Watches me take another hit, and hack again. “A surgeon with MSF.”
 

“MSF?” It sounds like something I should know.
 

“
Médecins Sans Frontières
,” he clarifies, in a flawless French accent. “Doctors Without Borders.”
 

“I’ve heard of it for sure, but I don’t know much about it.”
 

“Non-profit, international humanitarian aid. We put together teams of medical personnel from all over the world, and we go into nasty situations, provide medical treatment. Civil wars, natural disasters, disease outbreaks.”

“Where have you been?”
 

His eyes reflect the fact that he’s seen hell. “South Sudan, Uganda, Cambodia, the quake in Haiti. I was stationed in
Côte d
’
Ivoire for a couple of years.” He points at my still-shaking hands. “I get those, too. The shakes, after it
’
s all over.”
 

“Lost a patient.” It
’
s all I can get out.

He nods, squinting as the sun peeks out from behind a cloud to shine in our faces. It
’
s L.A. hot. “Never gets easier. Harder, if anything.”

“He was twelve. Shot four times. Just…bled out.”
 

“And you promised him you
’
d save him.” I can only nod, and he manages to be a little closer to me without moving, somehow. Nudges me with his shoulder. “Never stop making that promise. They need the lie, and so do you. We have to lie to ourselves, just so we
’
ll keep trying even when it
’
s hopeless. We lie, and work so that maybe it won
’
t be a lie after all.”
 

“I hate that lie.”
 

“Me too.” He extends his hand to me. “I
’
m Oliver James.”

I take his hand. Don
’
t really shake, just hold it. Like a needy dumbass. “Niall Mackenzie.”

A silence, then. Comfortable. I don
’
t really smoke the cigarette, just hold it. Take a puff now and again, but the act is soothing. Comforting. The pretense is…necessary. I see what he means.
 

Oliver stands up after a few minutes. “Got to go back inside, check on my dad.”

I stand up too. “Is he a patient?”
 

A nod. “Yeah. Bypass. Second one. Stubborn old goat won
’
t quit the Big Macs, y
’
know?”
 

“Thank you, Oliver.”
 

He grins, and god, is that smile gorgeous. McDreamy, even.
 

He turns serious, then. “You make a difference. Every patient, save
’
em or lose
’
em, you make a difference.”

That doesn
’
t help my still-roiling emotions. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

He waves, an easy toss of his hand. Only makes it a few steps before he turns back around. “I don
’
t suppose you speak French, do you?”

I frown. “Um, actually, I do. Not perfectly, but pretty well. Took it all through middle school, high school, and college. My roommate in nursing school was from Quebec, so I
’
m conversational to a certain degree.”

“My MSF team, we
’
re short-staffed and shipping out for the Central African Republic in a couple months. We desperately need French-speaking nurses trained in emergency triage.” He strides over to me, hands me a card, and scribbles a phone number on the back. “Call this number tomorrow morning if you’re interested, ask for Dominique. I
’
ll put in a word for you tonight.”
 

I consider his offer. “Is the work like that?” I gesture at the hospital.

He shakes his head. “Worse. You
’
re there when the guns are going off. When the mines are exploding. When the endemic is sweeping like wildfire through entire towns. What
’
s going in Africa right now? It
’
s gonna be gnarly. But if you can do that—” he jerks his head at the ER entrance, “—you can do it. Plus, I
’
ll be there and we
’
ll be on the same team. I
’
ll always be right beside you, if you ship out with us.”
 

He doesn
’
t give me a chance to respond, he simply strides away. Not quite a swagger, but close. A sexy walk, a man who is utterly self-confident, but not arrogant.
 

I tuck his card into the back pocket of my scrubs and go back to work.

And the next morning, over a cup of coffee, I stare at that card. I
’
ve got my cell phone in hand, thinking hard. Then I dial the number.

“’Allo?” Strong French accent.
 

“Hi, is this Dominque?”
 

“
Oui, c
’
est moi
.”
 

I start the conversation by speaking in English, hoping she can understand me, “My name is Niall Mackenzie. I, um, I met Dr. Oliver James yesterday. He said he
’
d talk to you and, um, I
’
m a nurse. An ER nurse. He said you needed—”

“Ollie did indeed speak to me,” Dominque replies in rapid French. “What are your qualifications?”

I have to switch mentally into a French-speaking headspace. It takes a second to translate my thoughts. “I
’
m an RN, received my degree from UCLA. I have three years experience in the ER at Los Roboles.” The fact that I say this in passable—if not flawless—French is evidence of my qualification in that language, so I don
’
t mention it.
 

“Why do you want to work for MSF?”

Why
do
I? I don
’
t answer right away; take a moment to formulate my thoughts.
 

“I want to make a difference. Save lives. Help as many people as I can. It
’
s why I became a nurse.” I say this in English. Saying that I also want to go because I want to be close to Oliver probably isn
’
t a good idea.

What I
’
ve said is true, but there
’
s more…I haven
’
t mentioned the down-deep reason for wanting a change like this. And it doesn
’
t have anything to do with Oliver at all, to be honest. I mean, yeah, he
’
s hot, sexy, and who wouldn
’
t want him? But…I have this need. I don
’
t know how to fully explain it to myself other than to say it
’
s a need to take things farther, a drive to push myself to my limits.