Megan There were days when the hospital felt less like a place where people came to be treated and more like a machine that wanted to swallow us whole.
Today was one of those days.
It was only Wednesday, by the way, but I was done with the week.
I sat behind my desk with three charts open in front of me, a fourth one waiting patiently on my computer screen, and a cup of coffee which had been cooling beside my elbow for the past hour.
I knew it was already cold now.
I also knew I was going to drink it anyway because I was too lazy to make the trip down for another one.
It was still perfectly good caffeine, and at this point in the day, caffeine was less of a beverage and more a medical necessity.
It should belong in a health kit.
I sighed, signing off on the first chart.
Mrs.
Darlene Matthews.
Emergency appendectomy.
Stable.
Transferred to general surgery.
My eyes moved carefully over the notes while my mind struggled to stay sane.
I was very tired, but my job didn’t leave much room for being tired.
Patients did not care if I had slept for four hours or eight, neither did they wait politely because their doctor needed a break.
Next, Mr.
Alan Brooks.
Emergency laparotomy following blunt abdominal trauma.
Still intubated.
Stable enough to remain in the unit.
Transferred to trauma surgery.
I read the surgeon’s notes twice before signing.
The third chart belonged to a young man who had come in after a motorcycle accident.
His injuries had been serious enough to require emergency surgery, but fortunately not catastrophic.
Stable vital signs.
Moved to orthopedics.
I signed off on it and added a note for the nurses’ station: Call family again.
One by one, I was closing the loop on patients who had arrived through the emergency department the night before and were now somewhere else in the hospital.
It was a part of the job I didn’t particularly like but had learned to appreciate.
At least it gave me a few minutes to sit.
Rubbing my sore neck, I reached for another chart, when my stomach growled.
I glanced at the clock.
3:43 p.m.
Great.
I had missed lunch.
Again.
I leaned back and stretched, groaning quietly when my stiff shoulder finally relaxed.
“Uh, Megan, you are an old woman.” At the far end of my desk, the intercom buzzed to life.
Without looking, I picked up the receiver.
“Dr Holt,” I answered, going back to filing.
“Dr.
Holt,” It was from the reception, “there’s someone requesting to speak to you.” I frowned, mostly at the chart than the receptionist.
Why was Dr Peterson’s patient chart among mine?
“If they wanted to, they could have called me directly.” A pause.
“Well, she says she doesn’t have your number, so she called the hospital instead.” Heart slamming against my ribs, my eyes lifted from the chart.
My pen held and my fingers tightened around the receiver.
“She?” “Yes, Doctor.
A she.” This time, my stomach seemed to drop straight to the floor.
My mother.
It had to be her.
She was the only one who didn’t have my contact information.
The only person I had cut out of my life.
The only person I did not want contacting me personally.
Carefully, I lowered my pen onto the desk, not wanting even that small sound to betray the panic rising inside me.
Why was she calling me?
How had she found me?
“Dr Holt?” I hadn’t spoken to her in years.
I had changed my contact number, blocked every number I knew belonged to her, even deleted my social media accounts, and ignored her messages and emails.
I had done everything I could to build a wall between my life and hers.
How did she find me?!
As soon as I thought about it I realized how ridiculous the question was.
Newlife Hospital was not a secret organization.
I was listed in the directory on the hospital’s website.
A simple search could have led her to me.
But how did she know to search for Newlife Hospital?
“Dr.
Holt, are you still there?” “Ye—yes.” My voice was almost a whisper.
“I’m here.
Um, who… who is it?” Please, no.
Please, no.
Paper rustled on the other end.
“A Miss Riley Sterling.” I blinked.
“Rile… Ril—Riley Sterling?” “Yes.
She says she was a patient here a few days ago.
Should I connect her to you?” I breathed out.
The relief was so sudden that I began to laugh.
“Dr Holt?” The receptionist asked.
She sounded more concerned than asking.
“Yes,” I said, still laughing.
“Yes, connect her to me.” “All right.
Connecting through line four.” The line clicked, and the call dropped.
I stared at the receiver.
It was not her.
She had not found me.
At the back of my mind, the word yet joined the sentence.
No matter how much I wished she wouldn’t, I knew it was only a matter of time before she did.
My mother had a talent for appearing whenever I had finally convinced myself I could breathe just a little.
Destroying my life was her favorite hobby.
But at least, today it was not her.
Line four rang.
I picked it up immediately.
“Hello?” “Hello, Dr.
Holt?
It’s me, Riley Sterling.
Do you remember me?” A smile tugged at my mouth before I could stop it.
Of course I remembered her.
The sassy patient with the rude—and ridiculously handsome—brother.
Mentally, I slapped myself.
That last part didn’t need to be acknowledged.
It certainly didn’t need to be repeated.
What was wrong with me?
“Yes, I remember you.” I heard her laugh softly.
“I’m so sorry to search for you like this, but I really wanted to talk to you.” I straightened in my chair, my smile fading.
“Is everything all right?” It had been days.
Was she still feeling sick?
“Yes, everything is alright,” she giggled.
“I just really wanted to talk to you, but I felt if I came down to the hospital and Roman found out, there’ll be too much trouble.
I really don’t want to go to Dr Ramos.” That made me laugh.
She sounded like a teenager.
No, a young girl, still hidden from the world and occasionally gifted lollipops for behaving at the doctor’s.
“He’s that scary, huh?” “Yes, but only because he is very scared of my brother.” I laughed again.
It was impossible not to.
Those brown eyes could definitely cause someone to run for dear life.
Those eyes and that voice.
Geez, Megan.