Family Practice by Charlene Weir Read Free Book Online Page B

didn’t function efficiently. They had to build protective walls around their emotions and keep them neatly inside. Her emotions were exposed and raw. The worry was, did it affect her competency?
    The hospital doors slid open as she hurried up. The seriousness of Jen’s condition, which she’d tried to push aside while she concentrated on her job, came rushing back. Damaged heart still beating? An irrational thought zinged through her mind; concentrating on the crime scene, questioning suspects, had deprived Jen of some crucial life force.
    She jabbed the elevator button. Jen’s mother was upstairs. Terry Bryant had gone with a friend to Topeka for the weekend, boyfriend actually, silly word for an adult.
    As a cop, she’d had occasion to inform a parent about the death of a child. Nothing was worse. She’d rather collect a floater three weeks in the water, bloated and reeking of putrefaction. With chunks falling off.
    Jen is not dead.
    She jabbed the button again, swore to herself when the doors opened and the arrow pointed down. She took the stairs.
    Terry Bryant stood by the high-railed bed where Jen lay with a sheet draped across her. Wires and tubes ran in all directions, a respirator hissed air into her lungs, peaked lines flickered and bleeped on the monitors above. Terry lifted her stricken face to look at Susan, and fury flashed in her eyes.
    A nurse, rightly expecting an outburst, spoke up in a soft voice. “It’s been five minutes.”
    Terry turned on the nurse as if she wanted to scream.
    â€œYou can come back every hour for five minutes,” the nurse said calmly. “But really, there won’t be any change for some time. You might want to go and get something to eat. Or even go home and get some rest. We’re taking very good care of her.”
    Susan took Terry’s elbow to draw her from the room. Terry jerked her arm away. She stomped across to a waiting area where three anxious-eyed people sat rigidly on vinyl and chrome chairs, sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups.
    She strode four paces, sandals clacking on the tiled floor, spun with flowered skirt swirling, and strode back to plant herself, face lifted, in front of Susan. “Don’t worry! Have a good time! She’ll be fine! Fine! ” Terry looked far older than her thirty-two years. Usually twinkly and bubbly, her face was slack and gray, except for the two red spots of anger on her round cheeks. Mascara was smeared, lipstick was chewed off, brown hair that fell in waves to her shoulders was tangled.
    â€œYou call that fine? That’s my baby in there! She’s dying. Oh, my God, my baby is dying.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. She buried her face in her hands.
    The waiting trio avoided looking at them, faces drawn in what sympathy could be spared from the relief that at least my spouse, child, relative, friend isn’t dying.
    Susan clamped down hard on her back teeth; her throat closed, and tears pushed at her own eyes. She wanted to offer comfort, put an arm around Terry, but knew that would simply make Terry angrier.
    Terry rubbed the heels of her palms over her eyes, distorting her face. Susan offered a tissue.
    Terry snatched it and blew her nose. “How could you let this happen? Shot! Jen! I don’t— I can’t—” Tears spilled over again.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Susan murmured. Stupidly inadequate. Throw out a few more meaningless phrases. Don’t worry, everything’s going to be all right.
    Terry’s anger was understandable. In her grief and despair, she needed someone to blame. Susan was handy for sloughing off guilt.
    â€œShe’s still alive,” Susan said softly. Another meaningless phrase. Stupid as it was, she felt they had to cling to it. If they didn’t, she feared in that same irrational way, their despair would permeate through the air into the intensive-care unit and leach away the thin spark of life pulsing