Two days later . . .
Kerry Weaver stood behind the Admit Desk, feeling awkward at being the center of attention. She wouldn't describe herself as shy. She liked being in charge, having others follow her lead. But, right now, the attention was more personal than she was accustomed to. Instead of looking to her for orders or advice, several ER staff members were looking at pictures of her baby son. Kerry had really only planned on showing the photos to Carter, but he told Abby, and she told Susan, and before Kerry knew it there was a crowd ooh-ing and ah-ing over Henry's chubby little face.
The baby-admirers were distracted by a new arrival: Dr. Romano entered the ER for the first time since his helicopter ride. As he approached the desk, Susan Lewis cheered, "Woo hoo!" Gallant, Abby, and some of the others laughed and clapped good-naturedly. Pratt grinned, calling out, "He came, he saw, he kicked its ass!"
Kerry was struck by the basic decency of the people working in the ER. Despite the secrecy and unusual circumstances surrounding Henry's birth, they all seemed genuinely delighted about him. Well, all except Frank, who at least had the sense to keep his mouth shut. And now, they were willing to extend their good will toward Romano, a man who had devoted himself to torturing them. Regardless of his behavior, they were able to celebrate his (somewhat reckless) personal victory. Kerry hoped that he, and she, would remember this moment the next time an ER staffer screwed something up. Smiling ruefully, she guessed that they probably would not.
Kerry's contemplative smile turned into a wicked grin as she observed the effect the group affirmation was having on her cantankerous colleague. Bright red washed over Robert's face and forehead, darkening to almost mauve on his ears and over his cheekbones. He looked deeply uncomfortable. In all the years she'd known Robert, Kerry had never seen him blush. It was truly a sight to behold!
Pratt snickered, letting Kerry know she wasn't alone in enjoying the ornery ER chief's discomfiture. Their fun was cut short when Robert beat a hasty retreat to the lounge, griping, "Don't you people have any work to do?"
Shortly thereafter, Kerry went into the lounge, hoping to catch Robert before he began his shift. When she entered, he had already hung up his coat and donned his lab coat, and was pouring himself some coffee. She commented, "I heard about your adventure on Monday."
Robert shrugged, obviously not interested in discussing the matter with her. Kerry studied his face and noted that his eyes were framed by dark circles. But as she watched, a mischievous glint emerged in them. He glanced over at the envelope Kerry was holding and asked lightly, "Pictures of the little nipper?"
Kerry nodded. She couldn't bring herself to share the whole roll of pictures with her sometime-nemesis. But she pulled out the top one, her favorite: Henry was sitting in his car seat, smiling, the bright sun bringing out the copper highlights in his dark hair.
Romano smirked and began, "Now, if I was a lesbian lookin' to procreate . . ."
Kerry cut him off with a sigh, rolling her eyes. Was it even possible this sentence would end non-offensively?
"Hey, I know it's a stretch," he conceded, his taunting grin growing, "I was just thinking, since you're no spring chicken, you probably used your little hot-tamale girlfriend's eggs. So, for the sperm donor, you might've tried to pick somebody who looked kind of like you . . ."
Kerry considered threatening him to keep his thoughts far away from her and Sandy's reproductive systems. But she didn't want to dignify his line of reasoning with a response – 'It's like shaking a stick at a yapping dog – it'll only encourage him.'
Robert continued, "You know, maybe someone who could pass for your brother. Fair skin, reddish hair, not too tall, smart, ambitious . . . Hey, maybe even someone in the medical profession! Which sperm bank did you say you used?"
"I didn't," Kerry replied, simultaneously disgusted and amused by his implication.
Robert cocked his head expectantly, as if waiting for her to supply the missing information.
"I'm not going to tell *you*," she snorted.
From Kerry's perspective, the conversation was irritating, yet oddly reassuring – like putting on an old sweatshirt you haven't worn in a long time and feeling the scratch of the tag at the back of your neck. Additionally, the fact that Robert was being such a pain in the ass made the news she had to deliver next more satisfying:
"If you're done with the juvenile innuendo, I need to introduce you to the consultant that Risk Assessment sent to observe in the ER today . . ."
*****
'Piss off one lousy nurse and I get stuck with Mr. Touchy-Feely- Psychobabble-Asswipe!' Robert fumed. Scowling, he recalled the barely concealed smirk on Kerry's face when she introduced them that morning.
Robert had actually been in a good mood when he arrived at work. He was still a bit wired from his experience with the chopper, which meant sleep was hard to come by. But, despite the fatigue, he felt . . . capable. This was who he really was: someone who doesn't take no for an answer, who plows down obstacles, who doesn't let a senseless phobia control him.
His buoyant mood was somewhat deflated by Arnie Nadler, from Risk Assessment. In the past few hours, Nadler had proven himself to be, quite possibly, the most annoying person on the planet. He asked dumb questions at inopportune times, distracting the staff – who were, let's face it, not always the most focused group to begin with. As Robert was named in the lawsuit, Nadler took a special interest in anything he said to his underlings, hovering nearby and making him crazy. 'Hostile work environment . . . I'll show them hostile . . .'
Robert's angry thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of four patients from an MVA: Hummer vs. family sedan. The Hummer driver wasn't too badly off. Mom would be OK. Dad and Junior, not so good. Robert entered the room where Gallant, Abby, and Sam were treating the boy, Ethan. As they confirmed the neck fracture, scalp lac, and internal injuries, Ethan opened his eyes and asked plaintively, "Where's my Mommy?"
Caught off guard, Robert's reply was a curt, "Next door." Sam shot him a dirty look, and Abby soothed, "Your Mommy is in the next room and we're taking good care of her. As soon as she can, she'll come and see you. Your Daddy is here too."
Although Robert appreciated Abby's attempt to comfort the boy, he mused darkly, 'Might as well tell 'im that Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny are right around the corner – the kid's toast.' He wished that Ethan had never regained consciousness, though he wasn't sure if it was for Ethan's sake or because of his own discomfort at looking into the eyes of a child who would soon die, or, at the least, would be catastrophically disabled.
Ethan wasn't awake for long. As they screwed the tines of the neck brace into his skull, Robert withdrew. It was a two-handed procedure – one to hold, one to screw – so he was useless. His attempts to help out peripherally were met with a protective glare from Sam, as if his unwieldy prosthesis, or his evil intentions, could somehow harm the boy. He would have snapped at her for her attitude, but, recalling her tone when she noted that Ethan was the same size as her son, he decided he didn't want to deal with irate maternalism.
He went out to check on the other patients. Dad was circling the drain, as the trauma team struggled valiantly to get him back. Robert discerned that he would only be in the way in there, too. Elsewhere, Mom was screaming about her family, half of which were dying and the remaining quarter of which, her daughter, was missing in action. Comforting hysterical women was not his strong suit, so he left her to Kovac's ministrations.
Since he couldn't be much help with the critical patients, Robert attended to the non-criticals. He tried to amuse himself by answering all of Nadler's questions with double-entendres, but it didn't work. The guy took everything at face value and seemed to completely lack a sense of humor. He wouldn't know subtext if he sank into it up to his knobby little knees. 'God, he's not even fun to make fun of . . .'
Some time later, Robert approached just as Sam bluntly informed the Hummer driver, Gus, that his dream car had mowed down a family of four. Up until now, the man had been pathetically oblivious, and, as far as Robert was concerned, he could stay that way. 'Hell, they pay us to tell people they have cancer or their wife died. But if it isn't medically relevant, it's not our job to share.' Sam obviously felt otherwise. Idiot.
Predictably, Gus' heart gave out and he dropped to the floor. As Sam sprinted down the hall and brought back the crash cart, Robert crouched next to the fallen man, determined that he had no pulse, and growled sarcastically, "We didn't have enough unstable patients on our hands, so you thought you'd make us one more?"
Dr. Kovac ducked his head out of a nearby trauma room. Robert instructed him, "Stand by for compressions."
Sam, holding the charged paddles, called out "Clear."
Robert removed his hand from the pulse point on the patient's neck and Sam pressed the paddles against Gus' chest. As expected, his body jerked on contact. Unexpectedly, so did Romano's. He stiffened abruptly, let out a breathless "nnnhh" sound, then fell backwards, crashing into a supply cart on the other side of the hall.
For a moment he lay there stunned, his head and shoulders propped against the cart. Sam stepped over him as she confirmed that Gus now had a normal sinus rhythm. Then Sam and Luka looked at each other, trying to figure out what had happened. They smelled burning circuits and it dawned on them: Romano's myoelectric arm must have been in contact with Gus when the current hit. "Dr. Romano, are you alright?" Luka asked.
Romano's eyes were closed, but he curled up onto his right side and began swearing softly, ". . . son of a bitch goddamn it. . ."
"I said 'Clear'," Sam put in defensively.
Romano opened his eyes and glared, "Was I talking to you?" Sitting up, he tried to flex his prosthesis, but nothing happened. Under his breath he whispered, "Fuck . . ."
Noticing the others staring at him, he nodded at the patient and asked Sam caustically, "So, are you gonna get him a gurney, or do you want to try to bump him off via pneumonia next?"
From down the hall came a voice that set all their teeth on edge. Arnie Nadler had heard the commotion and was coming to investigate. "Oh my, what was that?" he inquired of nobody in particular.
Romano flinched, muttered, "God," and abruptly dragged himself to his feet. Ignoring Kovac's words of caution, he gestured for the Croatian doctor to take charge of the patient. Then he brushed past Nadler, his upraised hand and steely expression momentarily deterring the obnoxiously inquisitive visitor from asking any questions, and disappeared down the hallway.
*****
About 15 minutes later, Susan Lewis was in the corridor just off the admit area, making notes on a patient's X-ray. She glanced to the side and was surprised to find Dr. Romano standing next to her. She was actually a bit relieved to see him, having heard about the electric-shock accident. Luka said that Robert didn't appear to be seriously hurt and had walked away on his own power. Still, she had been worried enough to send Gallant looking for him.
Susan joked, "Oh, there you are. I was about to tell Nadler that you were dead and that the rest of us get along just fine – maybe then he would leave us alone."
Romano snorted, "Fat chance." Then, in a tone that was somewhere between a request and a demand, but closer to the former, he added, "Cover for me? I need to get out of here for an hour or two. I'm going upstairs to see if Prosthetics can do anything about this," he nodded toward the Utah arm, "then I want to drop in on a patient over at Mercy."
"Well, I suppose getting electrocuted warrants taking a couple hours off," Susan smiled, "No problem. But I wanna check you out first, make sure you don't have a concussion. Luka wasn't sure if you lost consciousness or not."
Irritably, he replied, "That would be 'not'. I'm fine. You don't need to . . ."
"You know, I could do it in the time it takes you to whine about me doing it," Susan interrupted, taking out her pen-light.
"Fine," he sighed, "Knock yourself out." He cooperated as she had him follow her finger with his gaze then shined the pen-light into his eyes.
"Equal and reactive. Yep, your eyes look normal. Except, of course, for the seething hatred."
Robert chuckled, "Nah, that's my baseline."
Just then, Arnie Nadler walked into view in the Admit area, about 10 yards away. His grating voice was directed at Michael Gallant, who answered his questions with remarkable patience and politeness. Robert closed his eyes, as if trying to block out unpleasant stimuli, and Susan realized that he was probably a bit more upset than he was letting on. Trying to draw him out again, she said dryly, "We've gotta teach that boy how to be rude like the rest of us."
Looking at Nadler, Robert responded, "Hmpf. That's the other reason I have to go. If I don't get out of here for a little while, I think I'm going to deck him. Which, ironically, would probably do wonders for workplace morale."
Susan laughed, and Robert continued, "Unfortunately, it would get me fired . . ."
Grinning, Susan interjected, "Which, ironically, would also do wonders for workplace morale . . ."
Robert made a face at her over his shoulder as he headed toward the elevator. He quipped, "Lucky for me, I don't give a flying fuck about workplace morale. If you don't hate your job, you're not working hard enough!"
*****
Three hours later, Sam was sitting in the meeting from hell. The meeting that would decide whether she could continue at County, or whether she and Alex would be moving on yet again. The meeting that seemed to go on forever . . .
Kicking Dean's ass had been the high point of an all-around sucky day. The prick had let his friends gang rape his girlfriend, and then he had the nerve to grab Sam's arm when she went to report him to the authorities. She recalled with satisfaction the look on his face when she delivered the uppercut that put him down for the count.
Naturally, the dweeb from Risk Assessment got all worked up over the incident. (Hell, he got worked up over a French fry . . .) So, Dr. Weaver had called an emergency meeting to discuss Nadler's concerns. When Romano returned from Mercy – bringing the daughter from the MVA family back with him – he went straight up to the meeting. About half an hour later, Dr. Weaver called down for Sam to join them.
Sam supposed they wanted her to act apologetic. She didn't.
Nadler was agitated, calling for her dismissal, as well as that of about half the ER staff. Dr. Weaver was shrill with irritation – at Sam, but also, increasingly, at Nadler. The Nursing Director clearly wanted to wash her hands of Sam, but she also seemed annoyed with Nadler's meddling. Dr. Romano looked bored and barely participated in the discussion. Really, the only person who made progress toward resolving the situation calmly was a psychiatrist whom Sam had met, briefly, when he was down in the ER for a consult: Dr. De Raad. De Raad validated Nadler's concerns, but gently steered him toward less hysterical conclusions.
Finally, the meeting was over. Or, at least it was over for most of them – Nadler remained in the conference room with Dr. Weaver. Presumably, Dr. Weaver would decide Sam's fate in private.
As they exited the room and proceeded toward the elevators, Romano looked at Sam sternly and said, "I'm very disappointed."
'Can this day get any worse?' Sam thought, 'Bad enough I have to listen to the lecture from Weaver, but I'll be god-damned if I'm gonna hear about impulse control from a guy who gets his jollies groping women!'
She was about to tell him as much, when his serious expression morphed into an enigmatic grin, "Here I was, thinking I'm special. Then it turns out you get physical with *every* guy who lays a hand on you . . ."
As her anger subsided, Sam exhaled the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. More nervously than she would have liked, she asked, "Am I going to get fired?"
"I dunno," he shrugged, "Not up to me. My best guess would be no, but we'll probably make you do some horrible penance for your transgression."
Romano was distracted from his path to the elevator by De Raad, who asked him if he had a minute. He nodded and turned to walk toward the psychiatrist. But then he paused, looked back at Sam, and added softly, "The fucker deserved it."
*****
Karl De Raad had been less than thrilled when Kerry had called on him to help out with the Risk Assessment meeting. He didn't know Mr. Nadler or the nurse in question well, and the ER wasn't his responsibility. But, he surmised, Kerry wanted another mental health professional there to balance out Nadler's view. It seemed to work. And, it gave him an opportunity to touch base with Robert, who had been avoiding him. 'He probably agreed to come back to my office so that he can make snide comments about the meeting in private.'
As they entered De Raad's office and sat down, Robert deadpanned, "So, that Nadler – I understand he has a master's degree in occupational psychology. I'm sure you were impressed by his insight into human relations. Really reflects well on your profession."
De Raad smiled and said nothing.
It took about a second for Romano's serious demeanor to crack. He laughed and said, "He's a tool. You've gotta think he's a tool, right?"
Karl chuckled and responded, "You know, it is possible to have a negative assessment of somebody's skills, and not share it."
Robert mock-pouted, "You're no fun."
De Raad continued, grinning, "On a slightly different subject, the recommended treatment for phobias is GRADUAL desensitization. Did you even *do* a psych rotation?"
"Eh, that slow stuff's for wimps," Robert crowed.
"You're a lunatic."
Robert laughed, "Yeah, I've been hearing that a lot, lately. But it's nice to have it confirmed by an expert."
Despite his laughter, there was a tightness to Robert's posture that suggested he might have something more on his mind. So De Raad asked, "How are you doing, you know, afterwards?"
Robert shrugged, "Fine," looking down as he brushed off the inquiry.
De Raad fixed him with his gaze and asked quietly, "Let me guess. You thought after you did this everything would be better, right?"
Robert looked up sharply and retorted indignantly, "Yes!" Then he corrected himself, "No." Finally, he mumbled, "Maybe."
De Raad marveled at how somebody could be so cynical, and yet so naive. Briefly, Robert's guard came down, and the psychiatrist saw him struggling against disappointment and frustration.
In a small voice, very unlike his usual tone, Robert said, "It's not fair."
"No, it's not," Karl agreed.
They sat quietly for a moment. Then Karl said, "Robert, I want you to come see me regularly, to talk.
Romano's response was instantly negative. He raised his hand in a backing- off gesture and shook his head, saying, "I'm not interested in therapy . . ."
"Look, I know your first impulse is to say 'no'," De Raad interjected, "But please fight it. At least think about letting me help you."
Robert protested, "I can manage on my own."
"I know you can," the psychiatrist responded. "You can tough it out. You can go to work every day and force yourself to not back down from things that scare you. Through sheer willpower you can function pretty normally. That's a significant achievement. But I want better for you than that."
"Like what?" Robert asked, his expression wary.
"That depends. What do *you* want?"
For a moment, Robert looked like he was going to shut down and either not respond at all, or else use some distraction tactic to change the subject. But, instead, he blurted out, "I want things to be like they were before all this happened. I want to have a reason, other than spite, to get up in the morning . . ." He trailed off raggedly, fighting for control.
Karl replied gently but firmly, "Your life is never going to be the same as it was before – and I don't just mean your physical capabilities. Making it into something that you think is worthwhile won't be easy, but I believe it can be done. We can work on that."
Robert's eyes were cast downward, studying the carpet; he looked fragile and uncertain. Karl felt bad about causing his colleague distress, but he knew that Robert's bull-headed personality sometimes necessitated a very direct approach. Though stubborn and prone to knee-jerk reactions, Robert had already shown himself capable of making tough choices in dealing with his situation – choices that must have gone against his natural inclinations. Karl hoped he could make one more.
De Raad continued, "You don't have to decide right now. But you do have to decide, not just put it off until procrastination replaces an actual decision. How about you let me know some time this weekend?"
"OK," Robert replied quietly, not looking up.
"You know," said Karl a moment later, lightening his tone, "If you say 'yes' it's not like I'm going to make you lie on a couch and talk about why you hate your mother."
"Hey, I *like* my mother," Robert shot back irritably, but with a trace of humor in his eyes, "And not in some creepy oedipal way, either!"
*****
Author's note: Sorry about the delay – I can't keep up with "February Sweeps"!
Kerry Weaver stood behind the Admit Desk, feeling awkward at being the center of attention. She wouldn't describe herself as shy. She liked being in charge, having others follow her lead. But, right now, the attention was more personal than she was accustomed to. Instead of looking to her for orders or advice, several ER staff members were looking at pictures of her baby son. Kerry had really only planned on showing the photos to Carter, but he told Abby, and she told Susan, and before Kerry knew it there was a crowd ooh-ing and ah-ing over Henry's chubby little face.
The baby-admirers were distracted by a new arrival: Dr. Romano entered the ER for the first time since his helicopter ride. As he approached the desk, Susan Lewis cheered, "Woo hoo!" Gallant, Abby, and some of the others laughed and clapped good-naturedly. Pratt grinned, calling out, "He came, he saw, he kicked its ass!"
Kerry was struck by the basic decency of the people working in the ER. Despite the secrecy and unusual circumstances surrounding Henry's birth, they all seemed genuinely delighted about him. Well, all except Frank, who at least had the sense to keep his mouth shut. And now, they were willing to extend their good will toward Romano, a man who had devoted himself to torturing them. Regardless of his behavior, they were able to celebrate his (somewhat reckless) personal victory. Kerry hoped that he, and she, would remember this moment the next time an ER staffer screwed something up. Smiling ruefully, she guessed that they probably would not.
Kerry's contemplative smile turned into a wicked grin as she observed the effect the group affirmation was having on her cantankerous colleague. Bright red washed over Robert's face and forehead, darkening to almost mauve on his ears and over his cheekbones. He looked deeply uncomfortable. In all the years she'd known Robert, Kerry had never seen him blush. It was truly a sight to behold!
Pratt snickered, letting Kerry know she wasn't alone in enjoying the ornery ER chief's discomfiture. Their fun was cut short when Robert beat a hasty retreat to the lounge, griping, "Don't you people have any work to do?"
Shortly thereafter, Kerry went into the lounge, hoping to catch Robert before he began his shift. When she entered, he had already hung up his coat and donned his lab coat, and was pouring himself some coffee. She commented, "I heard about your adventure on Monday."
Robert shrugged, obviously not interested in discussing the matter with her. Kerry studied his face and noted that his eyes were framed by dark circles. But as she watched, a mischievous glint emerged in them. He glanced over at the envelope Kerry was holding and asked lightly, "Pictures of the little nipper?"
Kerry nodded. She couldn't bring herself to share the whole roll of pictures with her sometime-nemesis. But she pulled out the top one, her favorite: Henry was sitting in his car seat, smiling, the bright sun bringing out the copper highlights in his dark hair.
Romano smirked and began, "Now, if I was a lesbian lookin' to procreate . . ."
Kerry cut him off with a sigh, rolling her eyes. Was it even possible this sentence would end non-offensively?
"Hey, I know it's a stretch," he conceded, his taunting grin growing, "I was just thinking, since you're no spring chicken, you probably used your little hot-tamale girlfriend's eggs. So, for the sperm donor, you might've tried to pick somebody who looked kind of like you . . ."
Kerry considered threatening him to keep his thoughts far away from her and Sandy's reproductive systems. But she didn't want to dignify his line of reasoning with a response – 'It's like shaking a stick at a yapping dog – it'll only encourage him.'
Robert continued, "You know, maybe someone who could pass for your brother. Fair skin, reddish hair, not too tall, smart, ambitious . . . Hey, maybe even someone in the medical profession! Which sperm bank did you say you used?"
"I didn't," Kerry replied, simultaneously disgusted and amused by his implication.
Robert cocked his head expectantly, as if waiting for her to supply the missing information.
"I'm not going to tell *you*," she snorted.
From Kerry's perspective, the conversation was irritating, yet oddly reassuring – like putting on an old sweatshirt you haven't worn in a long time and feeling the scratch of the tag at the back of your neck. Additionally, the fact that Robert was being such a pain in the ass made the news she had to deliver next more satisfying:
"If you're done with the juvenile innuendo, I need to introduce you to the consultant that Risk Assessment sent to observe in the ER today . . ."
*****
'Piss off one lousy nurse and I get stuck with Mr. Touchy-Feely- Psychobabble-Asswipe!' Robert fumed. Scowling, he recalled the barely concealed smirk on Kerry's face when she introduced them that morning.
Robert had actually been in a good mood when he arrived at work. He was still a bit wired from his experience with the chopper, which meant sleep was hard to come by. But, despite the fatigue, he felt . . . capable. This was who he really was: someone who doesn't take no for an answer, who plows down obstacles, who doesn't let a senseless phobia control him.
His buoyant mood was somewhat deflated by Arnie Nadler, from Risk Assessment. In the past few hours, Nadler had proven himself to be, quite possibly, the most annoying person on the planet. He asked dumb questions at inopportune times, distracting the staff – who were, let's face it, not always the most focused group to begin with. As Robert was named in the lawsuit, Nadler took a special interest in anything he said to his underlings, hovering nearby and making him crazy. 'Hostile work environment . . . I'll show them hostile . . .'
Robert's angry thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of four patients from an MVA: Hummer vs. family sedan. The Hummer driver wasn't too badly off. Mom would be OK. Dad and Junior, not so good. Robert entered the room where Gallant, Abby, and Sam were treating the boy, Ethan. As they confirmed the neck fracture, scalp lac, and internal injuries, Ethan opened his eyes and asked plaintively, "Where's my Mommy?"
Caught off guard, Robert's reply was a curt, "Next door." Sam shot him a dirty look, and Abby soothed, "Your Mommy is in the next room and we're taking good care of her. As soon as she can, she'll come and see you. Your Daddy is here too."
Although Robert appreciated Abby's attempt to comfort the boy, he mused darkly, 'Might as well tell 'im that Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny are right around the corner – the kid's toast.' He wished that Ethan had never regained consciousness, though he wasn't sure if it was for Ethan's sake or because of his own discomfort at looking into the eyes of a child who would soon die, or, at the least, would be catastrophically disabled.
Ethan wasn't awake for long. As they screwed the tines of the neck brace into his skull, Robert withdrew. It was a two-handed procedure – one to hold, one to screw – so he was useless. His attempts to help out peripherally were met with a protective glare from Sam, as if his unwieldy prosthesis, or his evil intentions, could somehow harm the boy. He would have snapped at her for her attitude, but, recalling her tone when she noted that Ethan was the same size as her son, he decided he didn't want to deal with irate maternalism.
He went out to check on the other patients. Dad was circling the drain, as the trauma team struggled valiantly to get him back. Robert discerned that he would only be in the way in there, too. Elsewhere, Mom was screaming about her family, half of which were dying and the remaining quarter of which, her daughter, was missing in action. Comforting hysterical women was not his strong suit, so he left her to Kovac's ministrations.
Since he couldn't be much help with the critical patients, Robert attended to the non-criticals. He tried to amuse himself by answering all of Nadler's questions with double-entendres, but it didn't work. The guy took everything at face value and seemed to completely lack a sense of humor. He wouldn't know subtext if he sank into it up to his knobby little knees. 'God, he's not even fun to make fun of . . .'
Some time later, Robert approached just as Sam bluntly informed the Hummer driver, Gus, that his dream car had mowed down a family of four. Up until now, the man had been pathetically oblivious, and, as far as Robert was concerned, he could stay that way. 'Hell, they pay us to tell people they have cancer or their wife died. But if it isn't medically relevant, it's not our job to share.' Sam obviously felt otherwise. Idiot.
Predictably, Gus' heart gave out and he dropped to the floor. As Sam sprinted down the hall and brought back the crash cart, Robert crouched next to the fallen man, determined that he had no pulse, and growled sarcastically, "We didn't have enough unstable patients on our hands, so you thought you'd make us one more?"
Dr. Kovac ducked his head out of a nearby trauma room. Robert instructed him, "Stand by for compressions."
Sam, holding the charged paddles, called out "Clear."
Robert removed his hand from the pulse point on the patient's neck and Sam pressed the paddles against Gus' chest. As expected, his body jerked on contact. Unexpectedly, so did Romano's. He stiffened abruptly, let out a breathless "nnnhh" sound, then fell backwards, crashing into a supply cart on the other side of the hall.
For a moment he lay there stunned, his head and shoulders propped against the cart. Sam stepped over him as she confirmed that Gus now had a normal sinus rhythm. Then Sam and Luka looked at each other, trying to figure out what had happened. They smelled burning circuits and it dawned on them: Romano's myoelectric arm must have been in contact with Gus when the current hit. "Dr. Romano, are you alright?" Luka asked.
Romano's eyes were closed, but he curled up onto his right side and began swearing softly, ". . . son of a bitch goddamn it. . ."
"I said 'Clear'," Sam put in defensively.
Romano opened his eyes and glared, "Was I talking to you?" Sitting up, he tried to flex his prosthesis, but nothing happened. Under his breath he whispered, "Fuck . . ."
Noticing the others staring at him, he nodded at the patient and asked Sam caustically, "So, are you gonna get him a gurney, or do you want to try to bump him off via pneumonia next?"
From down the hall came a voice that set all their teeth on edge. Arnie Nadler had heard the commotion and was coming to investigate. "Oh my, what was that?" he inquired of nobody in particular.
Romano flinched, muttered, "God," and abruptly dragged himself to his feet. Ignoring Kovac's words of caution, he gestured for the Croatian doctor to take charge of the patient. Then he brushed past Nadler, his upraised hand and steely expression momentarily deterring the obnoxiously inquisitive visitor from asking any questions, and disappeared down the hallway.
*****
About 15 minutes later, Susan Lewis was in the corridor just off the admit area, making notes on a patient's X-ray. She glanced to the side and was surprised to find Dr. Romano standing next to her. She was actually a bit relieved to see him, having heard about the electric-shock accident. Luka said that Robert didn't appear to be seriously hurt and had walked away on his own power. Still, she had been worried enough to send Gallant looking for him.
Susan joked, "Oh, there you are. I was about to tell Nadler that you were dead and that the rest of us get along just fine – maybe then he would leave us alone."
Romano snorted, "Fat chance." Then, in a tone that was somewhere between a request and a demand, but closer to the former, he added, "Cover for me? I need to get out of here for an hour or two. I'm going upstairs to see if Prosthetics can do anything about this," he nodded toward the Utah arm, "then I want to drop in on a patient over at Mercy."
"Well, I suppose getting electrocuted warrants taking a couple hours off," Susan smiled, "No problem. But I wanna check you out first, make sure you don't have a concussion. Luka wasn't sure if you lost consciousness or not."
Irritably, he replied, "That would be 'not'. I'm fine. You don't need to . . ."
"You know, I could do it in the time it takes you to whine about me doing it," Susan interrupted, taking out her pen-light.
"Fine," he sighed, "Knock yourself out." He cooperated as she had him follow her finger with his gaze then shined the pen-light into his eyes.
"Equal and reactive. Yep, your eyes look normal. Except, of course, for the seething hatred."
Robert chuckled, "Nah, that's my baseline."
Just then, Arnie Nadler walked into view in the Admit area, about 10 yards away. His grating voice was directed at Michael Gallant, who answered his questions with remarkable patience and politeness. Robert closed his eyes, as if trying to block out unpleasant stimuli, and Susan realized that he was probably a bit more upset than he was letting on. Trying to draw him out again, she said dryly, "We've gotta teach that boy how to be rude like the rest of us."
Looking at Nadler, Robert responded, "Hmpf. That's the other reason I have to go. If I don't get out of here for a little while, I think I'm going to deck him. Which, ironically, would probably do wonders for workplace morale."
Susan laughed, and Robert continued, "Unfortunately, it would get me fired . . ."
Grinning, Susan interjected, "Which, ironically, would also do wonders for workplace morale . . ."
Robert made a face at her over his shoulder as he headed toward the elevator. He quipped, "Lucky for me, I don't give a flying fuck about workplace morale. If you don't hate your job, you're not working hard enough!"
*****
Three hours later, Sam was sitting in the meeting from hell. The meeting that would decide whether she could continue at County, or whether she and Alex would be moving on yet again. The meeting that seemed to go on forever . . .
Kicking Dean's ass had been the high point of an all-around sucky day. The prick had let his friends gang rape his girlfriend, and then he had the nerve to grab Sam's arm when she went to report him to the authorities. She recalled with satisfaction the look on his face when she delivered the uppercut that put him down for the count.
Naturally, the dweeb from Risk Assessment got all worked up over the incident. (Hell, he got worked up over a French fry . . .) So, Dr. Weaver had called an emergency meeting to discuss Nadler's concerns. When Romano returned from Mercy – bringing the daughter from the MVA family back with him – he went straight up to the meeting. About half an hour later, Dr. Weaver called down for Sam to join them.
Sam supposed they wanted her to act apologetic. She didn't.
Nadler was agitated, calling for her dismissal, as well as that of about half the ER staff. Dr. Weaver was shrill with irritation – at Sam, but also, increasingly, at Nadler. The Nursing Director clearly wanted to wash her hands of Sam, but she also seemed annoyed with Nadler's meddling. Dr. Romano looked bored and barely participated in the discussion. Really, the only person who made progress toward resolving the situation calmly was a psychiatrist whom Sam had met, briefly, when he was down in the ER for a consult: Dr. De Raad. De Raad validated Nadler's concerns, but gently steered him toward less hysterical conclusions.
Finally, the meeting was over. Or, at least it was over for most of them – Nadler remained in the conference room with Dr. Weaver. Presumably, Dr. Weaver would decide Sam's fate in private.
As they exited the room and proceeded toward the elevators, Romano looked at Sam sternly and said, "I'm very disappointed."
'Can this day get any worse?' Sam thought, 'Bad enough I have to listen to the lecture from Weaver, but I'll be god-damned if I'm gonna hear about impulse control from a guy who gets his jollies groping women!'
She was about to tell him as much, when his serious expression morphed into an enigmatic grin, "Here I was, thinking I'm special. Then it turns out you get physical with *every* guy who lays a hand on you . . ."
As her anger subsided, Sam exhaled the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. More nervously than she would have liked, she asked, "Am I going to get fired?"
"I dunno," he shrugged, "Not up to me. My best guess would be no, but we'll probably make you do some horrible penance for your transgression."
Romano was distracted from his path to the elevator by De Raad, who asked him if he had a minute. He nodded and turned to walk toward the psychiatrist. But then he paused, looked back at Sam, and added softly, "The fucker deserved it."
*****
Karl De Raad had been less than thrilled when Kerry had called on him to help out with the Risk Assessment meeting. He didn't know Mr. Nadler or the nurse in question well, and the ER wasn't his responsibility. But, he surmised, Kerry wanted another mental health professional there to balance out Nadler's view. It seemed to work. And, it gave him an opportunity to touch base with Robert, who had been avoiding him. 'He probably agreed to come back to my office so that he can make snide comments about the meeting in private.'
As they entered De Raad's office and sat down, Robert deadpanned, "So, that Nadler – I understand he has a master's degree in occupational psychology. I'm sure you were impressed by his insight into human relations. Really reflects well on your profession."
De Raad smiled and said nothing.
It took about a second for Romano's serious demeanor to crack. He laughed and said, "He's a tool. You've gotta think he's a tool, right?"
Karl chuckled and responded, "You know, it is possible to have a negative assessment of somebody's skills, and not share it."
Robert mock-pouted, "You're no fun."
De Raad continued, grinning, "On a slightly different subject, the recommended treatment for phobias is GRADUAL desensitization. Did you even *do* a psych rotation?"
"Eh, that slow stuff's for wimps," Robert crowed.
"You're a lunatic."
Robert laughed, "Yeah, I've been hearing that a lot, lately. But it's nice to have it confirmed by an expert."
Despite his laughter, there was a tightness to Robert's posture that suggested he might have something more on his mind. So De Raad asked, "How are you doing, you know, afterwards?"
Robert shrugged, "Fine," looking down as he brushed off the inquiry.
De Raad fixed him with his gaze and asked quietly, "Let me guess. You thought after you did this everything would be better, right?"
Robert looked up sharply and retorted indignantly, "Yes!" Then he corrected himself, "No." Finally, he mumbled, "Maybe."
De Raad marveled at how somebody could be so cynical, and yet so naive. Briefly, Robert's guard came down, and the psychiatrist saw him struggling against disappointment and frustration.
In a small voice, very unlike his usual tone, Robert said, "It's not fair."
"No, it's not," Karl agreed.
They sat quietly for a moment. Then Karl said, "Robert, I want you to come see me regularly, to talk.
Romano's response was instantly negative. He raised his hand in a backing- off gesture and shook his head, saying, "I'm not interested in therapy . . ."
"Look, I know your first impulse is to say 'no'," De Raad interjected, "But please fight it. At least think about letting me help you."
Robert protested, "I can manage on my own."
"I know you can," the psychiatrist responded. "You can tough it out. You can go to work every day and force yourself to not back down from things that scare you. Through sheer willpower you can function pretty normally. That's a significant achievement. But I want better for you than that."
"Like what?" Robert asked, his expression wary.
"That depends. What do *you* want?"
For a moment, Robert looked like he was going to shut down and either not respond at all, or else use some distraction tactic to change the subject. But, instead, he blurted out, "I want things to be like they were before all this happened. I want to have a reason, other than spite, to get up in the morning . . ." He trailed off raggedly, fighting for control.
Karl replied gently but firmly, "Your life is never going to be the same as it was before – and I don't just mean your physical capabilities. Making it into something that you think is worthwhile won't be easy, but I believe it can be done. We can work on that."
Robert's eyes were cast downward, studying the carpet; he looked fragile and uncertain. Karl felt bad about causing his colleague distress, but he knew that Robert's bull-headed personality sometimes necessitated a very direct approach. Though stubborn and prone to knee-jerk reactions, Robert had already shown himself capable of making tough choices in dealing with his situation – choices that must have gone against his natural inclinations. Karl hoped he could make one more.
De Raad continued, "You don't have to decide right now. But you do have to decide, not just put it off until procrastination replaces an actual decision. How about you let me know some time this weekend?"
"OK," Robert replied quietly, not looking up.
"You know," said Karl a moment later, lightening his tone, "If you say 'yes' it's not like I'm going to make you lie on a couch and talk about why you hate your mother."
"Hey, I *like* my mother," Robert shot back irritably, but with a trace of humor in his eyes, "And not in some creepy oedipal way, either!"
*****
Author's note: Sorry about the delay – I can't keep up with "February Sweeps"!