When One Night Isn't Enough. Wendy S. Marcus

sprinkles. He’s high-fiber cereal and skim milk for breakfast. You’re blueberry pancakes with warm maple syrup. You lost your spark when he came around. He’s so dull, he tarnished your shine. Are you so desperate to get married you’d settle for a lackluster, routine, boring life?”

      “I am not desperate to get married.” Holy cow. She’d actually stomped her foot. Well, she wasn’t desperate. Really. But after all her unstable mother had put her through, bringing a lineup of losers into their home, dozens and dozens of destined-for-failure relationships, new-romance euphoria followed by bitter breakup histrionics that enticed nosy neighbors out to gawk and brought the police around several times a year; a stable life, free from drama, with one trustworthy, committed man, held great appeal. “And my life is none of your concern.”

      “Over time he would have made you miserable. In return you would have made his life a living hell. I’ve seen it happen. Hell, I’ve lived it.”

      “The only one around here who’s making me miserable is you, Dr. Padget.”

      “You need a real man, Ali. Someone as passionate as you are, not Mr. missionary position, lights off, once a week on Wednesday night Shefford.”

      Ali gasped, couldn’t believe Michael had shared that with his friend.

      “Let me show you what it’s like to be with a real man,” he said with the cocky confidence that made him so appealing.

      He lowered his voice, adding, “And you will never again settle for mediocre.”

      God help her, she wanted to take him up on his offer. Every cell in her nervous system tingled with frenetic energy at the thought of spending the night in his strong arms, allowing his experienced fingers full rein over her body. Damn him! She refused to belittle herself for one night of pleasure, to allow him to assuage his lust with her, when any woman would do. “That hey-baby-I-want-to-fill-your-cannoli-with-my-cream personality get you a lot of dates?”

      Jared laughed.

      Ali plowed on. “If you ruined my relationship with Michael so you could have a crack at me, you’ve wasted your time. Because as wrong as you think Michael was for me, no man is more wrong for me than you.” A man like her philandering father. A flirt. A schmooze. A woo-a-woman-into-bed-using-any-means-necessary man.

      The door to the lounge opened, ending their private conversation. Tani, the E.R.'s unit secretary, popped her head in, her jet-black hair an interesting configuration of twirls and curls, in staunch contrast to her pale complexion. “Ambulance on the way. Forty-seven-year-old male, three hundred plus pounds, full cardiac arrest, CPR in progress, paramedics unable to intubate. ETA—four minutes.”

      Jared transformed back into a dedicated professional in an instant. “Clear—”

      “I’ll clear out Trauma Room One,” Ali finished for him.

      “I’ll need—”

      “ET tubes, assorted sizes on the tray by the head of Bed One, two pediatric, just in case, IV primed and the crash cart open and ready.”

      “Call—”

      “Respiratory Therapy and Radiology to let them know what’s coming.” Ali scooped up her charts and headed for the door. “I’m on it.” Their differences aside, they made a great team at work.

      Forty minutes later, Jared stood on the stoop in front of the E.R., arms crossed over his ribs, staring out into the dark parking lot, down the tree-lined hill to the distant lights on Main Street. The crisp November air cleared his head, the quiet calmed him. Slowly, his tension began to ease.

      “You were supposed to save him!” an irate male teenager yelled, disrupting Jared’s solitude. “It’s your job to save people!”

      Jared turned to his left. The fifteen-year-old son of the man he’d pronounced dead five minutes earlier stomped toward him. Baggy pants, long hair and pierced eyebrow aside, the kid looked ready to commit murder.

      Jared pushed off the pillar he’d been leaning against, thankful the blame game would be played outside rather than in the crowded E.R. corridor. Through the electronic glass doors he saw Ali with the boy’s distraught mother under one arm and his hysterical little sister under the other, trying to calm them. “I’m sorry,” Jared said.

      “You’re sorry?” the boy screamed, his voice cracking, tears streaming down his enraged face. “What good does that do me? My dad is dead because you …” he stopped in front of Jared and poked him in the chest with his index finger “… didn’t do your job.”

      Jared took a deep breath, channeling calm, understanding it was easier to blame the doctor, knowing that pointing out the obvious—his patient had been at least one hundred and fifty pounds overweight, smoked two packs of cigarettes per day and led a sedentary lifestyle—wouldn’t negate the fact that a forty-seven-year-old husband and father was dead.

      And, despite his best efforts, Jared had been unable to resuscitate him.

      “Sometimes,” Jared said, looking down into watery brown eyes, working hard to keep his voice calm so his own anger and frustration didn’t show, “no matter how hard we try, things don’t turn out the way we want them to.” Put those words to a nifty jingle, and they could be the theme song to Jared’s life. “I did everything within my power to save your dad.”

      As if someone had stuck him with a pin, the tough teen deflated against him. “I don’t want him to be dead. What am I going to do without him?”

      Jared grabbed the boy in a tight hug, holding him upright, which took a good amount of strength. “I’ve been where you are,” Jared said, agonizing over what the kid would go through in the next few days, weeks and months. “You’re going to get through this.” But it wouldn’t be easy, and he’d never forget this day.

      “He yelled at me to turn off my music,” the boy said in between sobs. “I didn’t listen. If only I had, maybe I would have heard him call for me. Maybe he’d be alive right now.”

      Jared remembered the “if only” scenarios that had run through his head when, at the same age, he’d been alone to deal with his own father’s heart attack. If only his mom hadn’t gone to the store to buy antacids, leaving him in charge of his sick father. If only he hadn’t listened when his dad had told him not to dial 911, the delay the reason the ambulance had arrived too late to save him. If only he’d taken the CPR elective offered the first quarter of his sophomore year of high school. If only he’d run next door to see if Mrs. Alvarez, a nurse, was home, instead of staying by his dad’s side, holding his hand, watching him take his last breath.

      “Your dad was not a healthy man,” Jared said, patting the boy’s back. “He suffered a massive heart attack. There’s nothing you or I or anyone could have done to save him.”

      “What do I do now?” the boy asked in a small voice.

      Jared placed both hands on the kid’s shoulders and took a step back so he could look him in the eye. “You go back into the E.R. You pick up your little sister and reassure her you’re still here, and you’ll look after her just as well as your dad would have. You kiss your mom on the cheek and tell her you love her, and you’re there for her, and you’ll do whatever you can to help her.” Jared shook the kid to make sure he had his full attention. “Don’t just say the words. Mean them. Live them. And no matter what happens, do not let your mother push you away.” If only Jared hadn’t, maybe things wouldn’t have fallen apart.

      Maybe he’d have been able to honor his father’s final plea: “Take care of your mother.”

      “There you are.” Ali walked over to them. He hadn’t heard the electronic doors open. How long had she been standing there? How much had she heard? “Are you Jimmy?” she asked the boy, who nodded. “Your mother’s looking for you.”

      Jimmy turned away from Ali, inhaled a shaky breath and wiped his eyes.

      “I’m so sorry about