A Perfect Fit by Lynne Gentry Read Free Book Online Page B

the old man’s exam room fully aware that her lecture on the importance of taking the medication tablets regularly had fallen upon deaf ears. To rule out TB, she called medical service to admit him, then dropped the signed chart on the stack at the nurses’ station. Thankfully, there was no sign of Nelda. With any luck, she could disappear long enough to choke down her sandwich before Nurse Ratched cornered her again.
    Strong arms circled Lisbeth from behind, and she jumped with a start. “Hey, beautiful.” A male voice whispered in her ear, “I need an examination.”
    “Knock it off, Craig.” Lisbeth wiggled free before Nelda appeared and caught her making out with her fiancé, a handsome first-year surgery resident on an ER rotation. “Nurse Ratched has spies everywhere.”
    “You speak Arabic, right?” Craig Sutton’s dark eyes were too darn dreamy for a surgeon. Every time he came around she melted like one of his many drooling fans.
    “Yeah.” Her aptitude for languages had been a leg up when she interviewed for this residency, but whenever the attendings needed a translator stat, she felt it a curse. “So?”
    “A triple gunshot just came in.” He cranked up the charm. “You know I want in on this surgery, love. But Nelda dumped an Arabic lady and her baby on me. Projectile vomiting.” Nose wrinkled, Craig thrust a triage chart into Lisbeth’s hands. “Women are better at this kid stuff than men.”
    “What?”
    He held up his hands to block the possibility of her slapping him, which she was seriously considering. “You know what I mean: more nurturing.”
    “A baby?” Pediatrics wasn’t her specialty. In fact, she didn’t do kids. She liked the idea of them, even wanted a couple someday, but she’d been too busy climbing sand dunes and charting stars with Papa to develop her nurturing skills. What would her future husband think if she confessed babies made her squeamish?
    Craig kissed her hard on the lips. “You’re an angel. No wonder I love you.” He spun on his heels and plowed through the congested hall. “Got her vitals, but no history,” he shouted over his shoulder.
    “You owe me.” Lisbeth’s protest got lost in his hasty retreat. “A baby? What was I thinking?” She gave a quick tug to her sagging ponytail and stepped inside exam room 1.
    An anxious woman dressed in a black silk abaya , a dark veil covering all but her face, perched on the edge of a straight-backed chair. She rocked a crying infant wrapped neck to toe in a blanket. Inky ringlets capped the child’s scrunched features and stuck to its olive skin.
    Shouting to be heard over the piercing wails, Lisbeth introduced herself in Arabic.
    The mother’s almond eyes brightened. She obviously understood the Carthaginian dialect Lisbeth had chosen. “My Abra cannot keep anything down. Help, please.”
    “How old is—” In midyawn, Lisbeth realized the action must have seemed rude, because the mother’s confidence level dropped dramatically. Lisbeth covered her mouth, applying extra pressure to her cheeks in the hopes of jump-starting blood flow to the few remaining brain cells she had left. “How old is your”—she glanced at the chart—“daughter, right?”
    The woman nodded. “Eight months.”
    Lisbeth skimmed the vitals recorded on the chart. Numbers and letters blurred together. She blinked in an effort to fight back the fog of exhaustion. Low-grade fever at 100.4 degrees F. Slightly tachycardic for an eight-month-old. Decent blood pressure and good O2 sats on room air.
    “How long has she been vomiting?”
    “Two days.” Worry weighted the mother’s voice.
    Lisbeth set the chart on one end of the exam table. “May I take a look?”
    Abra’s mother nodded consent, then carefully placed the screaming infant on the crinkly white paper. Keeping a firm grip on her child, she looked to Lisbeth, expecting a magical end to the little one’s suffering. Four years of med school had not prepared Lisbeth