The Nurse's Not-So-Secret Scandal. Wendy S. Marcus

Roxie around.

      With the recovery room nurse’s help Roxie lined the stretcher up next to the bed and locked the wheels on both. “Welcome to 5E, Mrs. Flynn,” she said to her new patient. “My name is Roxie Morano and I’ll be your nurse until seven o’clock this evening.” She raised the bed so it was the same height as the stretcher, transferred the bag of IV fluid to the bed pole and placed the catheter drainage bag by the patient’s feet so it didn’t pull during transfer. As the recovery room nurse gave report, Roxie checked the patient’s right-sided chest dressing, which was covered by a surgical bra, and inspected the drains and tubing.

      “Fifty-nine-year-old, morbidly obese female. Status post right-sided modified radical mastectomy.”

      Roxie noted the drainage in each of the two bulbs, labeled R1 and R2, to establish a baseline and pulled her report sheet—which contained pertinent information on each of her patients—from her pocket. She unfolded the paper and set it on the over-the-bed table. In the blank box reserved for room 502A she wrote in the patient’s name and diagnosis, last set of vitals and time of last dose of pain medication. Then she jotted down her observations. Patient arousable to verbal stimuli. Catheter draining clear yellow urine. Dressing clean, dry and intact. Drains to self-suction with scant red drainage in each. IV infusing to left forearm.

      When Victoria and Ali—her other best friend and the nurse working in the district next to hers—arrived to help, Roxie directed, “One on the stretcher side, one over here by me.” She stood on the side of the bed, at the patient’s upper body, so she’d be responsible for pulling the heaviest part of her. As her colleagues got into position Roxie spoke to her patient. “We’re going to slide you onto the bed, Mrs. Flynn.”

      The groggy woman nodded in understanding.

      “Keep your hands at your sides and let us do all the work,” Roxie instructed.

      Each staff member grabbed a hunk of the bottom sheet.

      “Everyone ready?” Roxie locked eyes with each woman. Just last week a patient on 4B fell between the stretcher and the bed during a transfer, suffering a severe hip fracture as a result. Not on Roxie’s watch. “On my count of three. One. Two. Three.”

      Using every bit of strength she possessed, Roxie pulled. If the grunts around her meant anything, her coworkers were giving it all they had, too. Yet the patient barely budged.

      Fig entered the room.

      Victoria told him to leave.

      “What kind of man would I be if I let four lovely ladies struggle when I could help?”

      “Are you sure?” Victoria asked, handing him a pair of latex gloves from the box on the wall.

      “Scoot over.” He squeezed between Roxie and Ali, bumping Roxie’s hip with his as he did. “Now tell me what to do,” he said as he put on the gloves.

      “Ball the sheet like this.” Roxie showed him her hands. “Tight.”

      He took the sheet in his large hands. She remembered how they’d felt on her body, holding her just a few hours earlier, and realized how much she’d like to feel them again—and in more places. She shook her head to clear her thoughts.

      “And on the count of three,” she continued, “we pull and they—” she motioned to the women on the other side of the stretcher with her chin “—push.”

      “Got it,” Fig said, testing his grip on the sheet, looking so cute in his concentration.

      “Everyone ready?” Roxie asked again and waited for each woman and Fig to respond in the affirmative. “On my count of three. One. Two. Three.”

      Again Roxie pulled as hard as she could, and this time the patient slid toward her like she was on plastic liner slick with baby oil.

      “Wow. You are a strong one,” Roxie said to Fig.

      He smiled, a genuinely pleased smile, and winked. “Remember that.” He moved closer on his way to discard his gloves in the trash can and whispered, “Dream about it.”

      “As if any part of you registers with my subconscious.” Especially not his head—in the dream where she was a cat sleeping curled around it. Or his fair skin—in the dream where they’d lounged by a pool and she’d rubbed him with suntan lotion—repeatedly—to protect him from the harsh rays of the sun. Or his laugh, or the teasing twinkle in his green eyes, or the contagious smile that brightened his handsome face.

      Something about him had made her feel safe, like she could let her guard down. Thank goodness she hadn’t. He also made her want…things she didn’t usually crave without a couple of beers on board. Was it his slow, laid-back demeanor and quiet confidence? His quick, dry sense of humor? His build—a perfect complement to her large frame? His distinctive look or his air of reserved power?

      Whatever it was, it gave her an unsettling schoolgirl crush sort of feeling. And Roxie didn’t like it. In her experience men were unreliable, opportunistic and good for one thing only—sex. Add in emotion and the fun factor took a nosedive.

      “Thank you, everyone,” she said.

      Fig didn’t move.

      “Back to work, you,” she said, using her hands to shoo him along. “I hear a phone ringing.”

      He turned his back to the patient and leaned toward her. “Your mom called,” he said quietly. “She sounded upset.”

      Last night had been particularly difficult. Roxie hated to leave for work this morning but what else could she do? They both depended on her income.

      “She said she couldn’t find the knobs for the stove,” he added.

      Duh. Because last week she hadn’t turned off a burner, which caused the macaroni and cheese she’d made to burn and spew the smoke that prompted their obnoxious, constantly complaining neighbor to call the fire department. Which was the reason every damn thing in her not-so-terrific life had gone from “barely tolerable but afloat” to “she’s taking on water!” fast approaching “she’s going down. Abandon ship.”

      “There’s a perfectly logical explanation for that,” Roxie said. “Which is none of your business. Next time tell her to call my cell.” She turned to her patient.

      Fig reached for her arm to stop her. “She told me she’d tried but you didn’t answer,” he whispered.

      What? Roxie always answered Mami’s calls. She patted her breast pocket. Empty. Jammed her hands into both scrub coat pockets, rummaged through their contents. Bandage scissors. Alcohol prep pads. Tape. Three injectable Demerol cartridges. Damn it, she needed to get in to talk to Victoria. Two paperclips. Three pens. A box of thermometer probes. A roll of candies. And a breakfast bar she hadn’t had time to eat.

      No phone.

      She yanked her hands out so fast something went flying. A pen? It rolled under the bedside stand. She’d get it later. “Shoot. Where the heck did I leave my phone?” Mami panicked if she couldn’t reach her. How long had it been since she’d called?

      Roxie bent to look under the bed.

      “Hot-pink with crystals, right?” Fig asked.

      “Yeah.”

      “I’ll keep an eye out for it.”

      “Thanks.”

      “And you got these.” He handed her some slips of pink paper from his pocket.

      She looked at the male names on each of six message slips. So they’d seen the video. Perverts. She ripped the papers in half and tossed them in the trash. “Anything else?” she asked, losing patience, wanting to get finished admitting her patient so she could call home then find her phone. Which contained that link she should have deleted upon receipt.

      “You okay?”

      “I’m fine.”