It was too bad, because Anton had a decent brain and cared about people: he would have made an all right tech.
But the fact that I’d been partnered with a non-tech meant Marco, and more importantly, Barbara, thought I had the necessary skills and knowledge. Still, I learned a lot (some of them little things, like calling the bathroom “the facility” or “facilities”), and as my neck and shoulders strengthened, because I had to do a lot of lifting, my instincts sharpened.
I knew, for instance, that a patient with no legs in a closed room didn’t slip and fall in a shower and break their hip. I also knew that if their lips were blue and the paperwork mentioned a history of kidney failure, and their skin was clammy, then contrary to the report the orderly furnished me, something more than just COPD, or chronic obstructive pulmonary disorder, was going on.
I practiced what I’d learned: to look for the little things, the small clues, the color inside the lips and the eyelids, rebound tenderness of an abdomen or rigidity in one of its quadrants; to look at the extremities and really check for ascites, which was swelling of the hands and feet as well as abdomen in right-sided congestive heart failure; and to listen very carefully to not only what the patient or their family told me verbally, but also to their body. Sometimes the stories didn’t match, at all.
Which was how I ended up on a call that started out as an emergency pick-up at a private home for a suicide attempt.
Anton and I got tapped for an extra shift because there was no one else to work it, and we had the least seniority.
“Yeah, she took too many of her epileptic barbs,” a slender, short man said as he led us into the apartment. “She was trying to kill herself!”
We had many protocols for psych calls, especially suicides. Only an active attempt required a call to the police department. These people had called a private ambulance, which meant they wanted no record on their insurance files since they were paying in cash.
“Where is she?” I asked, expecting to find a blue-faced corpse.
“Here, here.” He led me to the bathroom. “Honey, the ambulance people are here!” he called as I followed him down the hall.
Female patient, approximately forty, conscious and sitting on the edge of the tub. She had a black gash on her nose, her lip was split in two places, and when she opened her mouth to say hello, I saw black between her teeth. There were brown-black stains on the gray sweatshirt she wore.
“Hi, I’m Scotty. I heard you may have accidentally taken one too many barbiturates for your epilepsy?” I asked carefully as I pulled a blood-pressure cuff out of my bag. Anton waited anxiously in the doorway with the stretcher and the portable oxygen tank.
I evaluated her respirations, her pulse, and her blood pressure. What the man had told us made no sense at all compared to the signals her body gave.
Her pulse was high but within normal range, her breathing also at the high end. It didn’t
seem
like a downer OD. Her blood pressure, however, was higher than normal, and her pupils were constricted and nonreactive to light.
“Is that what he said?” She sounded weary and resigned.
“Yes.”
I noticed the same dark stains along the waistband of her gray drawstring sweatpants. “Did you lose consciousness and fall?” I asked, keeping my tone even.
“She got her period!” the man called in from the doorway.
“Hey, Anton?” I called over my shoulder, and caught his eye. I nodded with my chin. “Would you take the gentleman to fill out the paperwork in the hallway while I finish my assessment?”
As the guy tried to protest that he wanted to stay, I answered flatly, “It’s protocol.” No way would I let him interfere with my examination. I didn’t have to be an EMT to know that most women don’t bleed on their shirts or up the front of their pants and along the waistband when they are menstruating, but a bloody nose could leave that trail.
“Whatever he says,” my patient said as I finished my exam. “What, I tried to commit suicide? Sure, whatever.”
Between the evaluation and the history, an ugly picture developed, and every instinct in my brain and body screamed the answer at me. She hadn’t tried to commit suicide; he’d beaten her bloody, and despite the fact that she was alert and oriented to person, place, and time, I suspected a concussion and the force-feeding of a few uppers, either that or she was still adrenalized from the fight to have her eyes react like that, but nothing, nothing at all, even came close to being a symptom of barbiturate overdose, although her pupil reaction was a narcotic one.
Either way, OD or head injury, she was getting supplemental oxygen, and I helped her get comfortable on the stretcher. She wouldn’t let me perform the rest of the exam, which would have required a head-to-toe evaluation; I didn’t wonder why.
When the same guy who had called us, whom I started mentally referring to as “jerk,” tried to climb into the back of the rig, I told him he wasn’t allowed, that protocol required he sit in the front, which was true.
If
he had told the truth, and
if
she had OD’d, then she
might
go into arrest, and I
might
have to do CPR or whatever, which meant he
couldn’t
be back there.
And the same reasoning and protocol followed when he tried to come into the emergency room; he would have to go in the front door and fill out her paperwork and wait, just like anyone else, since this was a potentially life-threatening emergency.
I reported my findings as well as the presenting story to the receiving nurse. “This is what they say, this is what I found,” I concluded.
The nurse reviewed my notes, glanced over at the patient, then fixed her eyes on mine. “You think he beat her?” She pitched her voice low so the patient wouldn’t hear us.
“Her face is all gashed up, dried blood on her clothes…and she refused a full assessment, so yeah, yeah I do.”
She nodded. “Okay. Thanks, good job,” and she handed me back a signed patient report.
I had a cigarette outside in the bay while I waited for Anton, and all he could talk about was the jerk’s annoying whine as we rode back to base. I agreed with him, and when we finally parked the rig, I put my feet up on the dash and slept for the rest of the shift.
When I got back to the house, I found a note on the kitchen table.
Tori, there’s a full meal for you in the fridge, and yes, you have the
other
turkey leg.
I smiled, because Nina had drawn a little picture of a turkey leg and a smiley face next to it—we always split them at family holiday meals. She got one, I got the “other.” My mom always said it was because we had the “right of primogeniture.”
We’re staying over at a friend’s in Manhattan tonight—do you remember Fran? You’ll meet her again sometime if you’re ever home!
By the way? The only thing left to do in the garden house is hook up the gas. Let me or Sam know if you want to go furniture shopping. Dude, your place should be totally ready in a few days!
Don’t stay up too late reading. Miss you, stranger.
Love, Nina and Sam
PS: Happy Thanksgiving!
PPS: You have our cell numbers if you need anything.
I’d completely forgotten it was Thanksgiving, though I should have remembered—Trace had called me earlier in the week to ask me if I had plans.
Staying away from Trace was hard, I reflected as I found the promised meal and, more importantly, my “other” turkey leg and the pecan pie.
And I hadn’t stayed too far away, either. I still met her for dinner on occasion, and when I’d drunk too much the last time I was there we’d ended up having sex that thankfully didn’t leave me marked in any way—well, not too badly, I mentally amended. In fact, it had actually been really nice, and not just the first time either. It had only gotten weird later, after however long it had been and she lay half on top of me, that she’d asked me if I’d given any thought to, uh, sharing.
I told her quite bluntly that I hadn’t, and she dropped the subject.
*
Jean left the company a week later; her acceptance to the academy had come through, and in seven days she started what would be several weeks of training to “do it city-style,” as she put it.
Barbara put herself in charge and took up a collection among the crews, and Marcus treated us all to dinner and drinks at Peggy O’Neills on a night a great Irish band was playing.
We were all a little trashed, and I can’t speak for anyone else, but as happy as I was for Jean, and I really was because this was a hell of a career step for her, I was a little down too, because I’d miss her. She’d been great to work with, great to learn from.
The jokes, the food, the banter, everything was tremendous fun, and the music was grand; but when I looked at my watch, I knew I had to go. I still had to get up the next day for work, and just as I was about to say my good-byes, Jean stood.
“I just want everyone to know”—she paused, with a pint held above her head—“that it’s been real, it’s been fun, it hasn’t been real fun, and you all kiss lousy!”
Everyone good-naturedly groaned, laughed, and protested.
“I’d like to amend that!” she added. “There’s an exception. Scotty, why don’t you tell them who it is?” Her eyes sparkled at me across the table.
“No, no. I’ve no clue.” I really didn’t.
“Hey, c’mon, Scotty, tell us,” Chuck asked.
“Yeah, Scotty, tell us,” Barbara seconded with a quickly hidden smirk.
“C’mon, Scotty, yeah!” everyone started insisting.
“Okay, okay! It’s you, Jean, I’ve seen you kissing that mirror!” I saluted her with my beer.
“I can’t believe you
told
them!” She laughed. “That was supposed to be
our
secret! And hey, I only did that so you’d know I was good at it.”
“Hey, you asked me to tell ’em.”
“What do I have to do?” She spread her arms. “Do I have to walk across the table on my knees?”
She pushed her plate aside. “Excuse me, Chuck.” She leaned on his head and jumped up on her chair. “I’ve shown you my tits, I’ve poured out my heart…”
She did it, I couldn’t believe she did it. She knelt on the table and crawled over. “I’ll even give you my beer,” she said as she carried the glass, held like a torch before her.
“Did you show her your pee-pee?” Barbara asked while everyone else hurriedly moved their beers and food out of her path.
Jean paused. “You know?” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I haven’t.” Carefully holding her beer up with one hand, she began to pull her shirt out of her pants with the other.
“Do I have to show you that too?” she asked me from three feet away.
“Yeah, show her!” somebody encouraged.
“Hell, show us!” another voice said.
“That’s not necessary,” I told her as she fumbled along her belt.
Finally I reached over and held her hand as she reached the top button of her fly. “Stop,” I said, looking up at her on the table. It was a very good thing, I thought, that it was solid oak.
“Stop,” I repeated quietly as her eyes shone down on mine.
The whole table quieted, waiting to see what would happen next. She put the beer down.
“You’re out of your fucking mind.” But I couldn’t help smiling as I said it.
“Yeah, yeah, I am,” she agreed, nodding. “I’m the psycho bitch…but I really like you.”
She covered my hand that still held on to the edge of her belt with her own and leaned down. “I really like you a lot.”
“And now all of Bay Ridge knows you like me too.”
“Everyone knows it but you, everyone but you.” She got off the table and stood before me.
She still smiled, but her eyes, her eyes held something that sparked, a deeper glow that told me there was more that she wanted to say. I spoke to that glow.
“I like you too, Jean,” I told her eyes, and reached for her face. As I stroked the smooth skin of her cheek, I could hear her sharp intake of breath. Then I kissed the spot my fingertips had traced. “I’ve got to go.” I grabbed my jacket and waved my good-byes.
*
Considering the drive home and the fact that beer was “something you rent,” as Roy, Bennie, and I often joked, I decided to visit the facilities before I left. Jean and I bumped into each other as I was coming out of the bathroom.
“Hey, sorry,” I said as I banged into her arm.
“Sorry,” she said at the same time, and we laughed.
I leaned back against the wall as we smiled at each other. She had very light lines in the creases around her eyes when she smiled, and they added character and depth to her beauty.
“I’m gonna miss you,” I blurted, then bit my lip before I said anything else I didn’t want to.
“Yeah?” she asked, almost a whisper, as she angled in closer. I had this insane urge to kiss her as she wrapped an arm around me and her chest brushed against mine when she reached into my back pocket and pulled out my cell.
“You can call me whenever you’d like,” she said into my ear before she straightened. It must have been the beers, because the few inches between us seemed really far.