No Regrets. JoAnn Ross

prayed, as she was so often forced to do, for patience.

      “Hello?” There was a slight pause. “Is this Mercy Samaritan Hospital?” Molly thought the hesitant female voice sounded slightly slurred.

      “Yes. You’ve reached the emergency department. How can I help you?”

      “It’s my husband.”

      Molly groaned inwardly, realizing this was going to be one of those calls in which she had to drag the information out one word at a time. Frustrated, she pushed a long jet curl that had come loose from the knot at the back of her neck.

      “Has he been injured?”

      “Not yet.” There was a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “Although I’m thinking about cutting his prick off with the electric carving knife.” The words were definitely slurred.

      “I’d advise against that, ma’am. The police frown on such things. Meanwhile, if your husband isn’t hurt right now, I’m afraid we’re very busy and—”

      “He’s got the clap. And he didn’t get it from me.”

      Molly rubbed unconsciously at her temples where a headache hammered. “I see.”

      “And now I have this goddamn rash, which is the only reason the son of a bitch confessed to screwing around in the first place. So, I guess I’d better come in for a test.”

      “That would be my suggestion. You need to be seen by a doctor and get started on antibiotic treatment,” she told the caller. “You should also have an AIDS test.”

      “You think I have AIDS?”

      Molly heard the sudden panic in the woman’s voice. “I’m only suggesting the test as a precaution,” she said as soothingly as possible. “Since your sexual relationship with your husband was not the monogamous one you believed it to be—”

      “I’m not taking any AIDS test.”

      “It can be done confidentially, if you’re worried about—”

      “If you have AIDS, you die. And if I’m gonna die, I damn well don’t want to know it. I’m also going to kill the bastard if he gave it to me.” That said, the woman slammed down the receiver.

      Her ears ringing, Molly took a deep breath, said a quick prayer for both the philandering husband and his angry wife, then returned to the fray.

      Her next patient was a two-year-old child who’d been nipped by the family’s new German shepherd puppy.

      “It’s okay, sweetheart,” Molly soothed as she cleaned the puncture wound, gave the little girl a tetanus shot and advised the mother to keep the child away from the puppy until things quieted down after the holidays.

      “I need a prescription for a seven-day course of penicillin,” she told Reece, when he paused at the desk to pick up the next chart. “It’s for a dog bite.”

      He pulled a prescription pad from a pocket bulging with tongue depressors, a pen light and ampoules of medications.

      “I wish people would listen when the Humane Society tells them this is the worst time of year to try to introduce a new animal into the home.” He scribbled the order onto the pad. “Was that a VD call I heard you taking?”

      “You’ve got good ears.” Molly wondered how he could have heard anything over the din.

      “Nah. I’m just nosy.” He ripped the script off and handed it to her. “So, have you heard the county health department’s new venereal disease slogan?”

      “I don’t think so. What is it?”

      “VD is nothing to clap about.”

      Although it was a terrible pun, an involuntary giggle escaped her lips. “You’re making that up.”

      “That’s the trouble with working with you, Sister Molly,” he said on an exaggerated sigh. “You make it impossible to lie. But it’s still pretty good, don’t you think?”

      “I think I should have Dr. Bernstein come down for a consult.” Alan Bernstein was the psych resident. “No one should remain this upbeat at the twenty-fourth hour of a thirty-six-hour shift.” Before he could answer, she was off to meet another paramedic who was wheeling in a woman on a gurney.

      The patient was dressed for a party in a thigh-high, formfitting red sequined dress and skyscraper heels, one of which had cracked in two. Her hair, the color of a new penny, had been fashioned in an elaborate upsweep and Christmas trees had been airbrushed onto each of her long, scarlet fingernails. Her dress had been torn up one side, and one sleeve had been cut open to allow for an IV drip.

      “She was crossing Sunset and got hit by a car,” the paramedic began. The man, whose badge read Sam Browning, had earned the nickname Big E his first night on the job when he’d excitedly radioed that he and his partner were bringing in a twenty-year-old male who’d been “ejaculated” from his Corvette.

      “It was my fault,” the patient interrupted, struggling to sit up. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

      “Fault’s for the cops to decide,” Big E said. “Why don’t you just lie down, ma’am, and let me tell the nurse what she needs to know to treat you, okay?”

      “I’m sorry.” The woman gave Molly an apologetic look through lashes coated with navy blue mascara. Molly was momentarily distracted by the thin row of rhinestones bordering her eyelids.

      “That’s all right,” she soothed. “I can understand you’ve suffered a great deal of stress.”

      “I just don’t want that poor driver to get in trouble. Especially on Christmas Eve.”

      “The driver’s pretty shook up,” Big E told Molly. “He insisted on coming along. He’s out in the waiting room. You might want to talk to him after you’re finished.”

      “I’ll do that.”

      “You won’t be sorry. He’s very handsome,” the patient informed Molly, earning a glare from the paramedic who was obviously frustrated at having been interrupted again. “A girl could certainly do worse.”

      “Anyway,” Big E doggedly continued, “according to witnesses, the patient suffered a brief period of unconsciousness—”

      “I suppose that’s why I can’t remember what happened.”

      “It’s possible you’ve suffered a slight concussion,” Molly said.

      “She had some labored breathing in the vehicle coming over here, which suggests a cracked rib,” Big E said, grimly determined to finish his report. “We started her on glucose, thiamine and naloxone. As you can see, there’s no loss of verbal skills and her only other symptoms are retrograde amnesia and a few scrapes and bruises.”

      “I skinned my leg when I landed,” the patient revealed as Molly took her blood pressure.

      Molly observed the red-and-purple scrape along one firm thigh. The skin around it was darkly bruised. “Don’t worry, we’ll have the gravel cleaned out in no time.”

      “But it won’t scar?”

      “No.” Molly smiled reassuringly. “It shouldn’t.”

      “I’m so relieved. I’m a dancer. My legs are my livelihood.”

      “When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a ballerina.”

      “Why didn’t you?”

      “My family couldn’t afford the lessons.”

      “Oh.” The woman pursed her vermilion lips and thought about that for a moment. “That’s too bad.”

      “Not really.” Molly began swabbing the wound while she waited for Reece to arrive. “Because I know now I was meant to be a nurse.” She didn’t