This chapter takes place at the time of "Where There's Smoke." Neela and
Gallant's Demerol fiasco never happened. Susan is pregnant, but only five
months (or so) along.
XXXXXXXXXX
"I know what it's like to be the best. Now, I can't do half the procedures. I'm not even average. Am I supposed to just accept that? I don't think I can."
Karl De Raad sat in Robert Romano's living room, listening to the other man talk. At the beginning of the session, he'd observed that Robert seemed relatively calm and happy. With his new puppy alternating between skidding across the hardwood floor after toys and draping himself across Robert's lap on the couch, the ex-surgeon was able to let down his defenses a bit and consider issues that were outside his comfort zone. Such as what the hell he wanted to do with the rest of his life.
De Raad replied, "I don't think you can either."
Romano scoffed, "Well, that's encouraging. So, I'm supposed to not accept it and be miserable?"
"There might be other options, besides resigning yourself to mediocrity or banging your head against the wall," Karl suggested.
"You know I hate it when you say cryptic shit like that."
Smiling, Karl explained, "What I mean is, most people can't be the very best in their field of choice, yet many are satisfied with their lives."
"Yeah, they're losers who don't know any better, or else they're deluding themselves."
Karl sighed at his colleague's glib dismissal of the coping strategies of the bulk of the human race.
"No, I'm serious," Robert said, "I'm surrounded by people like that – so-so doctors who convince themselves they're special: Pratt thinks he's hot 'cuz he takes risks; Carter thinks he's wise; Kovac thinks he's gonna save the world."
"Hmmm . . . somehow we seem to have drifted over to the topic of putting down your co-workers."
"What can I say? It's a hobby," Robert smirked.
Reorienting him, De Raad began lightly, "OK. I understand that you want to be the best of the best, and have all us lesser mortals bow before you . . ."
Robert chuckled, "Now you're getting it."
". . . That's what you want. But what do you need? For example, could you be satisfied with being useful – being part of a system that produces good results?"
Robert shook his head, "Nope. Cog in the machine? Not enough for me."
De Raad wasn't surprised. It would be easier on Robert if he could identify with the success of the medical team as a whole and take satisfaction from his supervisory role in the process. But, given his egotistical personality, such an attitude shift might not be feasible. The psychiatrist asked, "So, what would be enough?"
With a wry grin, Robert said, "I'm liking that 'everybody bows before me' scenario . . ."
Karl returned the smile, but wouldn't let him off the hook that easily. He waited for a real answer. Meanwhile, the dog plopped his chin on Robert's knee. Robert looked down and petted him, murmuring, "Good boy, Rupe." Finally, after a long moment, he said softly, "I need the patients to be OK because of me. I need to be the one who saves them when nobody else can."
"Having competent colleagues might be an obstacle to that," Karl teased gently, "If they can save the patients too . . ."
"Not much of a problem at County, where competence is in short supply," Robert quipped. Then he went on more thoughtfully, "Alright, I guess it doesn't have to be 'me or the morgue'. But I need it to be that the patients are better off having me than having another doctor. And not in some piddley way, like they have another hour or two to wank away at home, since I push the staff to dispo faster."
De Raad responded, "Not sure I buy into your picture of medicine as a competitive sport, but that's a good start. Can you think of situations . . ."
Looking away, Robert interrupted, "There's something I've been kicking around trying. Maybe not permanently, just to see how it goes . . ." he trailed off, uncharacteristically awkward.
"What?" Karl encouraged.
"You have to promise not to laugh . . . much."
XXXXXXXXXX
Just before the beginning of the morning shift, Greg Pratt was engaged a battle that had taken days to arrange. After some synchronizing of schedules and moving of furniture, Pratt, Gallant, and Jerry sat on the couch facing a table with three chess boards on it. Lester stood across from them, going from board to board, playing three games at once.
"Check," came Lester's gravelly voice, addressing Jerry. Jerry pouted as he made his counter-move.
Romano entered the lounge, sneered at the set-up, and said to Lester, "You've got two minutes to whup them."
Looking at his watch, Lester replied agreeably, "OK."
"No way, man," Pratt bragged, "This time we've got you surrounded."
"One monkey at a typewriter, three monkeys at typewriters," Romano commented dryly, "You still won't get Shakespeare."
In a fluid motion, Lester made a move on each board, saying to the cadence of 'Duck, Duck, Goose,' "Check, Check, Mate."
Lester smiled at his own joke. Pratt sensed that the weird medical student was just amusing himself, not mocking the others. Romano, on the other hand, was clearly mocking them as he snorted and left the room.
A few minutes later, Pratt followed, contemplating what loathsome task he could assign to the thrice victorious Lester. His thoughts were interrupted by EMTs bringing in a group of patients: two men in their 50s and a woman in her 40s. Apparently, Mr. Eviccio had surprised Mrs. Eviccio in bed with Mr. Saunders. The ensuing melee had been complicated by the fact that Mr. Eviccio was a triple amputee and Saunders was a double amputee. All three ended up with lacerations and contusions. And Mr. Eviccio's hook prosthesis was protruding from Mr. Saunders' chest.
"Heh," Pratt snickered toward Romano, "Bet you hadn't thought about its potential as a weapon."
"I'm thinking about it now," Romano shot back, glaring pointedly at Pratt.
Pratt thought he detected a trace of humor in his supervisor's tone, but it was hard to tell. Then, he got to watch something that never failed to entertain: Romano not getting what he wants. Dr. Weaver was on the phone behind the desk, talking to her girlfriend – something about schedules and pumping. As Romano handed off cases to the residents, he was trying to get Weaver's attention. But, despite his attempts to interrupt, Weaver ignored him and focused on her conversation.
When Dr. Weaver finally got off the phone, Romano addressed her snidely, "If you're done playing house, I need to talk to you."
"Talk quickly. I'm late for a meeting."
"Not here," he clarified.
Dr. Weaver answered irritably, "You know what, Robert? If you want a private meeting you can make an appointment like everybody else."
She turned and crutched toward the elevator, leaving Romano fuming behind her. Pratt quickly split for an exam room with his charts, before Romano had a chance to take his frustration out on him. With any luck, the ER chief would find another sucker to pick on. Heading down the hall, Pratt laughed as he heard Romano laying into Morris.
45 minutes later, Pratt had dispoed most of his first batch of patients, and was waiting on a consult for the last one. He approached the admit area, where Chuny and Sam were behind the desk, watching the door to the nearest exam room, cackling quietly. Curious, Pratt asked, "What's up?"
"Romano's in there with Mrs. Eviccio," Sam supplied, trying unsuccessfully to keep a straight face.
Confused at what was supposed to be funny about this, Pratt said, "The cheatin' wife? A few cuts and bruises, right? I don't get it."
"Don't you think it's kind of strange how she ended up with two guys who are, you know, missing parts?" Chuny prompted.
"They're both vets, right? Did they serve together? Sleeping with your old man's buddy isn't that unusual," Pratt reasoned.
"Nope. They didn't even know each other until this morning," said Sam.
At Pratt's puzzled look, Chuny blurted out, "The lady's got a thing for amputees. Like a fetish or something." She broke off giggling, "Stumps make her horny."
"She told you this?" Abby asked, frowning as she approached the group.
"Oh yeah. More than I wanted to know," Chuny laughed.
"So, we got Morris to pass her off to Romano," Sam put in, smirking, "Want to bet she hits on him?"
Pratt whistled, "That's cold," his tone conveying ambivalent admiration for their scheme.
"What?" Chuny retorted, "He gets lucky, maybe he'll leave us alone a bit."
Shaking his head, Pratt countered, "Robo-doc ain't even comfortable with homosexuality. . ."
Just then, Dr. Corday walked over to Pratt and reported on the patient for whom he'd requested a consult, "Mr. Mather's belly is benign. He doesn't need surgery." After a beat she asked, "What's everybody staring at?"
Abby looked away, maybe fearing guilt by association in the eyes of the surgeon, who was known to be the closest thing Romano had to a friend. Pratt had no such qualms. Gesturing at Sam and Chuny, he answered, "They sicced an amputee fetishist on Romano."
Before Elizabeth could respond, the exam room door opened. Out walked Mrs. Eviccio, followed by Dr. Romano. Even from a dozen feet away, Pratt could tell that Romano was creeped out. The older doctor's gaze was cast down, none of his usual bravado evident in his posture. When he glanced up briefly, Greg saw revulsion in his eyes, only some of which was directed outward toward his patient. Pratt couldn't blame the nurses and Morris for wanting to get back at Romano for the shitty way he treated them. But, personally, he preferred pissing the guy off to making him feel like a freak.
Mrs. Eviccio turned back and re-approached Romano, asking about when her husband would be released. Even though the woman wasn't standing very close to him, Romano visibly recoiled and stammered a little as he answered her. Chuny and Sam snickered; Abby looked pensive.
Pratt jumped when Dr. Corday abruptly dropped the chart she was carrying onto the counter, gave Sam and Chuny an icy British glare, then headed directly toward the pair on whom all their attention was focused. She walked right up to Romano and Mrs. Eviccio, interrupting politely, "Pardon me."
As the others watched, Elizabeth grabbed Romano by the lapel of his lab coat, pulling him slightly toward her. When he tilted his face up in surprise, she kissed him, full on the lips. By the time they broke apart, Mrs. Eviccio had walked away, bewildered, and the onlooking staff were laughing their asses off.
Grinning broadly, Romano said, "I don't know what you've been smoking, but keep it up."
"You owe me. I'm calling you the next time I'm stuck on a bad blind date," Elizabeth replied, her eyes bright with mischief.
As the two doctors walked off together, chuckling companionably, Pratt overheard snatches of their retreating conversation:
Corday: "You're not going to believe what Weaver just dropped on me without any warning. It's like she took a page out of the Romano Book of Psychotic Management."
Romano: "I left a copy in her desk . . ."
When they were gone, Chuny smiled smugly, as if she'd planned the whole thing, and said, "Told you he'd get lucky."
XXXXXXXXXX
A few hours later, Robert and Abby were talking with a young patient and his parents. The boy, Justin, had arrived in anaphylactic shock, after having lunch at Red Lobster. A dose of epi had resolved the reaction.
"Looks like you're allergic to seafood," Romano told his patient. Then, to the parents, he added, "He's fine for now. I'll give you a prescription for an emergency dose of the same medication we gave him today. Follow up with an allergist."
Justin whined, "I don't want to be allergic to anything."
"Uh, you don't really think I can just cross it off your chart and make it go away, do you?" Romano asked in a mildly sarcastic tone. He wasn't trying to be mean to the kid. After all, it must suck to learn that shrimp can kill you. And if you can't be immature about your health problems when you're nine, when can you?
Justin grinned sheepishly. Cocking her head toward Romano, Abby requested, "Please don't encourage him to believe that he's God."
Robert wasn't sure if Justin understood Abby's crack, but the boy laughed at the exaggerated scowl Robert shot in her direction. He was still giggling when Jerry knocked and poked his large frame through the door, saying, "Dr. Romano, they just brought in Sandy Lopez – Dr. Weaver's . . . friend."
Robert headed for the trauma room; he was there when Kerry arrived a short time later. Susan Lewis, running the trauma, gave Kerry the rundown on her partner's condition.
"She wouldn't let us tube her," Robert added, "Seemed to think she had something to say to you that's more important than, oh, BREATHING."
"You were right," Sandy gasped, smiling at Kerry, "He is an asshole."
Robert withdrew to get on the phone to Dr. Anspaugh, telling him that Lopez would be up shortly. He hated having to call on Anspaugh for help, and compensated by being especially rude to the older man. As he hung up the phone, Sandy started crashing.
"She needs to be intubated NOW," Susan insisted.
"I'll do it," Kerry asserted firmly.
Susan began, "Dr. Weaver, I don't think that's such a good idea . . ."
"She's my wife."
The words, 'I bet the state of Illinois would disagree with you on that,' were almost on Robert's lips when he was struck by the complete lack of defiance, only desperation, in Kerry's voice. Instead, he said quietly, "That's why you're not tubing her."
Kerry started to protest, but Robert cut her off with, "Look, if Susan doesn't nail it, you're next in line, OK?" Then, aside to Susan, he quipped, "No pressure, Lewis."
Susan wrinkled her nose at him as she skillfully slid the tube into Sandy's throat.
XXXXXXXXXX
Robert peeked into the now-quiet operating room containing Elizabeth, a resident, and Sandy Lopez's body. News of Sandy's death had already reached the ER. Robert surmised that Kerry was off talking to the family. He wasn't quite sure why he was here. In part, he wanted to check on Elizabeth – it must have been tough on her to lose the patient with Kerry sitting right there. But, besides that, he just felt a need to be where the action was, to see the results for himself.
As he entered the room, Elizabeth was on her way out, called in to another emergency surgery. She instructed Jensen, the resident, to finish closing. Jensen pointed out that they had already wired Sandy's chest closed, but Elizabeth insisted that he do a more thorough cosmetic job than normal. He didn't seem too keen on this, but kept his mouth shut.
Passing each other just inside the doorway, Robert and Elizabeth shared a silent glance. He saw regret in her eyes. It wasn't the kind of regret where you're kicking yourself, 'if only things had gone a little differently.' Rather, it was the kind that wells up when you realize that despite your best efforts, in the end, nothing could be done: regret for the fragility of human bodies and the limits of human power to repair them. Robert could see that she was shaken, but handling it. Other lives needed saving. He nodded to her understandingly as she left the room.
Robert planned to stay for a few minutes, maybe rattle Jensen a bit. But just moments after Elizabeth departed, the resident got paged. He covered up Lopez's body and started putting things away.
Romano demanded, "Where do you think you're going?"
"Liver transplant. I get to scrub in."
"They need you to assist, or you just want to observe? If it's the latter, you've already got a job to do here."
Jensen replied flatly, "They said I can scrub in," as if it really wasn't any of Romano's business.
Robert was annoyed. Sure, from a resident's perspective, closing up a corpse wasn't the sexiest of assignments. But Lizzie had told him to do it, and, anyway, Robert didn't like Jensen. However, he knew he had no authority over the little twerp, so he had to let him go. "Fine. Leave her. I'll finish up," he growled.
At Jensen's dubious look, Robert rolled his eyes and snapped, "I'm allowed to sew dead people."
Twenty minutes after Jensen left, Robert was still sewing. Absent the pressures inherent in working on a live patient, his progress was slow, but the results were good. He used strips of surgical tape to hold short stretches of skin closed, then methodically placed perfect little stitches between them. Absorbed in this task, he didn't look up immediately upon hearing the door quietly open and close. When he did raise his eyes, he found himself face to face with Kerry Weaver, across the table on which Sandy lay.
For once in his life, Robert had no idea what to say. His relationship with Kerry was defined by conflict – sometimes playful, sometimes deadly serious. They'd had temporary truces before, but Robert didn't know how to initiate one. Honestly, on such occasions, it was usually Kerry who took the high road.
Concerned that, given their history, Kerry might not want him handling her lover's body, he wanted to assure her that he meant no harm. Not finding the right words for that, he just said, "I can get somebody else to finish."
Kerry wasn't quite looking at Robert as she shook her head and sank into a chair near Sandy's head. Her eyes looked old, hollowed out. Robert didn't know whether her gesture was responding to his statement, so he asked her directly, "Do you want me to leave?"
Kerry stroked her lover's face, her fingers stopping at the breathing tube apparatus. In a meek, completely-not-Kerry voice, she asked, "Can you take it out?"
It was against the rules, but Robert couldn't see any harm in complying with her request. He nodded, and, as carefully as possible with one hand, removed the apparatus from Sandy's throat. A little blood dripped from the tube onto Sandy's face, mingling with traces of soot. Kerry gently closed the other woman's mouth, and, with her hand, tried to wipe away the grime from her face.
Seeing his sometime-opponent sitting there, rubbing ineffectually at her lover's face as tears streamed slowly down her own, Robert thought that, perhaps, he should go. 'You wouldn't want her to see you weak,' he told himself, 'so extend her the same courtesy.' That made perfect sense, but at the same time it was bullshit. He couldn't just leave her alone like this. When good friends aren't plentiful, sometimes a good enemy is better than nothing.
Having decided to stay, Robert still wasn't sure what to do with this broken creature wearing Weaver's form. Normally, he wouldn't let a family member see the patient's body until it was closed up and cleaned up, but Kerry had been present during the actual surgery, so it seemed pointless to try to shield her now. Taking his cue from her behavior, he went over to the sink, filled a small basin with warm soapy water, and placed it on the gurney above Sandy's head.
Kerry's gaze flicked toward the sloshing water distractedly. She accepted the washcloth Robert handed her, looking through him rather than at him. Then, with exquisite tenderness, she began washing Sandy's face. Hands moving reverently over the cold, still face and hair, Kerry seemed fragile, bereft. But as she cleaned, the emptiness in her eyes fell away, replaced by a muted intensity, as if all that was left of her spirit was focused on caring for this one precious person.
Robert had occasionally seen his colleague morph from screeching bitch to kind doctor, so her gentleness did not come as a complete surprise to him. Still, the intimacy of the moment transfixed him momentarily. Swallowing hard, he pulled his gaze away and arranged the surgical drapes so that there was a small gap between the one covering Sandy's chest and shoulders and the one covering the lower half of her body. Coming around to stand beside Kerry, he used that opening to continue sewing the remaining inches of the incision on Sandy's midsection.
People always seem more alive when in the company of corpses. Although she was out of his line of sight, Robert was acutely aware of Kerry's presence – her shallow ragged breathing, the sound of the washcloth dipping into water, even the warmth of her body just inches from his own. Were she similarly aware of him, working next to her, Kerry gave no sign.
XXXXXXXXXX
A few days later, Kerry Weaver sat at her desk, awaiting her next appointment. The time surrounding Sandy's death was a blur. If she tried, she could fix on particular events: seeing the relief in Sandy's eyes when she arrived at her side, falling apart in Abby's arms, hearing Henry's cry muffled behind glass and wood. But focusing on these memories brought more pain than she could bear.
So, instead, she worked. Her job was the only part of her life that still made sense. Donald Anspaugh had told her that she should go home, take time to recover. Kerry supposed that he knew what he was talking about, having lost his teenage son not that long ago. But being at home meant thinking about the smell of smoke that always lingered in Sandy's hair; it meant looking at Henry's empty crib; it meant contemplating a bleak future without them. Running the hospital was easier than that.
Kerry's next appointment was with Robert Romano. She'd recalled that he'd wanted to talk to her about something the morning before . . . everything happened. Since other well-meaning staff members had postponed their appointments so as not to burden her with anything non-essential, she let him know that she had an opening. Hopefully, she could count on the man who once wrote an entire quarterly report from his hospital bed to not try to deter her from burying herself in her work.
After knocking, Robert entered with a subdued greeting. He approached tentatively, as if he realized that his usual abrasive style was inappropriate, but didn't really have anything else to fall back on. Kerry saw him run his eyes over her appraisingly. Instead of the dreaded, 'How are you?' he asked, "What's up?"
"You wanted to speak to me about something in private . . .?" she prompted. She saw his eyebrows go up, the corners of his mouth quirking just a little, and could almost hear him thinking, 'Sure – I'll take advantage of your grief-fueled efficiency.'
He replied, "Oh yeah, uh, there's this workshop I want to go to. Well, actually, it could be part of a longer program. Here, I'll show you."
Robert came around behind the desk, standing off to the side a little, and pulled up a website on Kerry's computer. She scanned the description of an intensive course in pediatric emergency medicine, intended for doctors with expertise in either pediatrics or general emergency medicine. The program started with a 4-day workshop next month, which, for selected applicants, could lead into more in-depth training via a correspondence course.
Kerry noticed her colleague shifting uncomfortably next to her as she read. When she looked up at him, he blustered, "I can bring along a couple of med students to the workshop – make it worth County's dime sending me."
"Who did you have in mind?"
"Lockhart and Rasgotra. They'll be just finishing up with their rotations in Psych and Pediatric Surgery, respectively."
"Did you ask them if they're interested?" Kerry inquired, knowing that it would be just like Robert not to do so.
"Why would I do that?" Robert replied. Then, after smirking at Kerry's reproachful expression, he went on, "I ran it by Abby. While she's understandably wary at the prospect of having to spend extra time with me, she didn't run screaming into the night. I told her that Neela can help her study for her boards during the car ride. She's gotta re-take them as soon as we get back."
"OK," said Kerry. There was a lot more to be said, but, in her current state, nothing popped to mind.
"Uh, I need you to write a letter of recommendation for me," Robert added, studying the wood grain of the desk.
"Yes, I gathered that from the website," Kerry said. It would have to be a strong letter, too, since Robert didn't actually meet the general requirements for the program – his training was in neither pediatrics nor emergency medicine, and though he had some experience now in the latter field, it wasn't a lot. Writing a persuasive letter might be easier if she knew something about his motivations for pursuing this specialized training. So, she asked, "Any idea what I should say?"
Rising to the buzz of his pager, Robert tossed out lightly, "I don't know. Tell 'em I hate kids less than I hate adults. Make something up – that's why they pay you the big bucks."
He grinned and waved as he headed out the door, leaving Kerry shaking her head behind him. It dawned on her that he would be no help whatsoever in making his own case; he was just dropping the problem in her lap. 'For somebody so self-centered,' she thought, 'he's a terrible self-advocate.'
But a good judge of character. Kerry would, in fact, do her best to give him this opportunity. And not only because it provided an excuse not to think about her own troubles.
'Pediatric emergency?' Kerry mused. It would make more sense for Robert to pursue a field in which his disability wouldn't matter so much, like research or administration. But 'sense' and Robert Romano didn't necessarily go together, and Kerry had to admit that she found something appealing about the direction he was considering. Even if this particular plan didn't pan out, Kerry took it as a positive sign that he was thinking of a future for himself outside of surgery. Were happiness still among the emotions available to her, Kerry would have felt happy for him.
XXXXXXXXXX
Author's Note: It's been a month since my last update – sorry! – hope some of my readers are still with me! The good news is, with the semester finally over I'll be able to devote more time to what's really important: fanfic :-) I'm planning on three more chapters. Did you like Elizabeth's 'cameo'? She'll have a larger role in an upcoming chapter – though I can't guarantee any more smooching (heh heh).
XXXXXXXXXX
"I know what it's like to be the best. Now, I can't do half the procedures. I'm not even average. Am I supposed to just accept that? I don't think I can."
Karl De Raad sat in Robert Romano's living room, listening to the other man talk. At the beginning of the session, he'd observed that Robert seemed relatively calm and happy. With his new puppy alternating between skidding across the hardwood floor after toys and draping himself across Robert's lap on the couch, the ex-surgeon was able to let down his defenses a bit and consider issues that were outside his comfort zone. Such as what the hell he wanted to do with the rest of his life.
De Raad replied, "I don't think you can either."
Romano scoffed, "Well, that's encouraging. So, I'm supposed to not accept it and be miserable?"
"There might be other options, besides resigning yourself to mediocrity or banging your head against the wall," Karl suggested.
"You know I hate it when you say cryptic shit like that."
Smiling, Karl explained, "What I mean is, most people can't be the very best in their field of choice, yet many are satisfied with their lives."
"Yeah, they're losers who don't know any better, or else they're deluding themselves."
Karl sighed at his colleague's glib dismissal of the coping strategies of the bulk of the human race.
"No, I'm serious," Robert said, "I'm surrounded by people like that – so-so doctors who convince themselves they're special: Pratt thinks he's hot 'cuz he takes risks; Carter thinks he's wise; Kovac thinks he's gonna save the world."
"Hmmm . . . somehow we seem to have drifted over to the topic of putting down your co-workers."
"What can I say? It's a hobby," Robert smirked.
Reorienting him, De Raad began lightly, "OK. I understand that you want to be the best of the best, and have all us lesser mortals bow before you . . ."
Robert chuckled, "Now you're getting it."
". . . That's what you want. But what do you need? For example, could you be satisfied with being useful – being part of a system that produces good results?"
Robert shook his head, "Nope. Cog in the machine? Not enough for me."
De Raad wasn't surprised. It would be easier on Robert if he could identify with the success of the medical team as a whole and take satisfaction from his supervisory role in the process. But, given his egotistical personality, such an attitude shift might not be feasible. The psychiatrist asked, "So, what would be enough?"
With a wry grin, Robert said, "I'm liking that 'everybody bows before me' scenario . . ."
Karl returned the smile, but wouldn't let him off the hook that easily. He waited for a real answer. Meanwhile, the dog plopped his chin on Robert's knee. Robert looked down and petted him, murmuring, "Good boy, Rupe." Finally, after a long moment, he said softly, "I need the patients to be OK because of me. I need to be the one who saves them when nobody else can."
"Having competent colleagues might be an obstacle to that," Karl teased gently, "If they can save the patients too . . ."
"Not much of a problem at County, where competence is in short supply," Robert quipped. Then he went on more thoughtfully, "Alright, I guess it doesn't have to be 'me or the morgue'. But I need it to be that the patients are better off having me than having another doctor. And not in some piddley way, like they have another hour or two to wank away at home, since I push the staff to dispo faster."
De Raad responded, "Not sure I buy into your picture of medicine as a competitive sport, but that's a good start. Can you think of situations . . ."
Looking away, Robert interrupted, "There's something I've been kicking around trying. Maybe not permanently, just to see how it goes . . ." he trailed off, uncharacteristically awkward.
"What?" Karl encouraged.
"You have to promise not to laugh . . . much."
XXXXXXXXXX
Just before the beginning of the morning shift, Greg Pratt was engaged a battle that had taken days to arrange. After some synchronizing of schedules and moving of furniture, Pratt, Gallant, and Jerry sat on the couch facing a table with three chess boards on it. Lester stood across from them, going from board to board, playing three games at once.
"Check," came Lester's gravelly voice, addressing Jerry. Jerry pouted as he made his counter-move.
Romano entered the lounge, sneered at the set-up, and said to Lester, "You've got two minutes to whup them."
Looking at his watch, Lester replied agreeably, "OK."
"No way, man," Pratt bragged, "This time we've got you surrounded."
"One monkey at a typewriter, three monkeys at typewriters," Romano commented dryly, "You still won't get Shakespeare."
In a fluid motion, Lester made a move on each board, saying to the cadence of 'Duck, Duck, Goose,' "Check, Check, Mate."
Lester smiled at his own joke. Pratt sensed that the weird medical student was just amusing himself, not mocking the others. Romano, on the other hand, was clearly mocking them as he snorted and left the room.
A few minutes later, Pratt followed, contemplating what loathsome task he could assign to the thrice victorious Lester. His thoughts were interrupted by EMTs bringing in a group of patients: two men in their 50s and a woman in her 40s. Apparently, Mr. Eviccio had surprised Mrs. Eviccio in bed with Mr. Saunders. The ensuing melee had been complicated by the fact that Mr. Eviccio was a triple amputee and Saunders was a double amputee. All three ended up with lacerations and contusions. And Mr. Eviccio's hook prosthesis was protruding from Mr. Saunders' chest.
"Heh," Pratt snickered toward Romano, "Bet you hadn't thought about its potential as a weapon."
"I'm thinking about it now," Romano shot back, glaring pointedly at Pratt.
Pratt thought he detected a trace of humor in his supervisor's tone, but it was hard to tell. Then, he got to watch something that never failed to entertain: Romano not getting what he wants. Dr. Weaver was on the phone behind the desk, talking to her girlfriend – something about schedules and pumping. As Romano handed off cases to the residents, he was trying to get Weaver's attention. But, despite his attempts to interrupt, Weaver ignored him and focused on her conversation.
When Dr. Weaver finally got off the phone, Romano addressed her snidely, "If you're done playing house, I need to talk to you."
"Talk quickly. I'm late for a meeting."
"Not here," he clarified.
Dr. Weaver answered irritably, "You know what, Robert? If you want a private meeting you can make an appointment like everybody else."
She turned and crutched toward the elevator, leaving Romano fuming behind her. Pratt quickly split for an exam room with his charts, before Romano had a chance to take his frustration out on him. With any luck, the ER chief would find another sucker to pick on. Heading down the hall, Pratt laughed as he heard Romano laying into Morris.
45 minutes later, Pratt had dispoed most of his first batch of patients, and was waiting on a consult for the last one. He approached the admit area, where Chuny and Sam were behind the desk, watching the door to the nearest exam room, cackling quietly. Curious, Pratt asked, "What's up?"
"Romano's in there with Mrs. Eviccio," Sam supplied, trying unsuccessfully to keep a straight face.
Confused at what was supposed to be funny about this, Pratt said, "The cheatin' wife? A few cuts and bruises, right? I don't get it."
"Don't you think it's kind of strange how she ended up with two guys who are, you know, missing parts?" Chuny prompted.
"They're both vets, right? Did they serve together? Sleeping with your old man's buddy isn't that unusual," Pratt reasoned.
"Nope. They didn't even know each other until this morning," said Sam.
At Pratt's puzzled look, Chuny blurted out, "The lady's got a thing for amputees. Like a fetish or something." She broke off giggling, "Stumps make her horny."
"She told you this?" Abby asked, frowning as she approached the group.
"Oh yeah. More than I wanted to know," Chuny laughed.
"So, we got Morris to pass her off to Romano," Sam put in, smirking, "Want to bet she hits on him?"
Pratt whistled, "That's cold," his tone conveying ambivalent admiration for their scheme.
"What?" Chuny retorted, "He gets lucky, maybe he'll leave us alone a bit."
Shaking his head, Pratt countered, "Robo-doc ain't even comfortable with homosexuality. . ."
Just then, Dr. Corday walked over to Pratt and reported on the patient for whom he'd requested a consult, "Mr. Mather's belly is benign. He doesn't need surgery." After a beat she asked, "What's everybody staring at?"
Abby looked away, maybe fearing guilt by association in the eyes of the surgeon, who was known to be the closest thing Romano had to a friend. Pratt had no such qualms. Gesturing at Sam and Chuny, he answered, "They sicced an amputee fetishist on Romano."
Before Elizabeth could respond, the exam room door opened. Out walked Mrs. Eviccio, followed by Dr. Romano. Even from a dozen feet away, Pratt could tell that Romano was creeped out. The older doctor's gaze was cast down, none of his usual bravado evident in his posture. When he glanced up briefly, Greg saw revulsion in his eyes, only some of which was directed outward toward his patient. Pratt couldn't blame the nurses and Morris for wanting to get back at Romano for the shitty way he treated them. But, personally, he preferred pissing the guy off to making him feel like a freak.
Mrs. Eviccio turned back and re-approached Romano, asking about when her husband would be released. Even though the woman wasn't standing very close to him, Romano visibly recoiled and stammered a little as he answered her. Chuny and Sam snickered; Abby looked pensive.
Pratt jumped when Dr. Corday abruptly dropped the chart she was carrying onto the counter, gave Sam and Chuny an icy British glare, then headed directly toward the pair on whom all their attention was focused. She walked right up to Romano and Mrs. Eviccio, interrupting politely, "Pardon me."
As the others watched, Elizabeth grabbed Romano by the lapel of his lab coat, pulling him slightly toward her. When he tilted his face up in surprise, she kissed him, full on the lips. By the time they broke apart, Mrs. Eviccio had walked away, bewildered, and the onlooking staff were laughing their asses off.
Grinning broadly, Romano said, "I don't know what you've been smoking, but keep it up."
"You owe me. I'm calling you the next time I'm stuck on a bad blind date," Elizabeth replied, her eyes bright with mischief.
As the two doctors walked off together, chuckling companionably, Pratt overheard snatches of their retreating conversation:
Corday: "You're not going to believe what Weaver just dropped on me without any warning. It's like she took a page out of the Romano Book of Psychotic Management."
Romano: "I left a copy in her desk . . ."
When they were gone, Chuny smiled smugly, as if she'd planned the whole thing, and said, "Told you he'd get lucky."
XXXXXXXXXX
A few hours later, Robert and Abby were talking with a young patient and his parents. The boy, Justin, had arrived in anaphylactic shock, after having lunch at Red Lobster. A dose of epi had resolved the reaction.
"Looks like you're allergic to seafood," Romano told his patient. Then, to the parents, he added, "He's fine for now. I'll give you a prescription for an emergency dose of the same medication we gave him today. Follow up with an allergist."
Justin whined, "I don't want to be allergic to anything."
"Uh, you don't really think I can just cross it off your chart and make it go away, do you?" Romano asked in a mildly sarcastic tone. He wasn't trying to be mean to the kid. After all, it must suck to learn that shrimp can kill you. And if you can't be immature about your health problems when you're nine, when can you?
Justin grinned sheepishly. Cocking her head toward Romano, Abby requested, "Please don't encourage him to believe that he's God."
Robert wasn't sure if Justin understood Abby's crack, but the boy laughed at the exaggerated scowl Robert shot in her direction. He was still giggling when Jerry knocked and poked his large frame through the door, saying, "Dr. Romano, they just brought in Sandy Lopez – Dr. Weaver's . . . friend."
Robert headed for the trauma room; he was there when Kerry arrived a short time later. Susan Lewis, running the trauma, gave Kerry the rundown on her partner's condition.
"She wouldn't let us tube her," Robert added, "Seemed to think she had something to say to you that's more important than, oh, BREATHING."
"You were right," Sandy gasped, smiling at Kerry, "He is an asshole."
Robert withdrew to get on the phone to Dr. Anspaugh, telling him that Lopez would be up shortly. He hated having to call on Anspaugh for help, and compensated by being especially rude to the older man. As he hung up the phone, Sandy started crashing.
"She needs to be intubated NOW," Susan insisted.
"I'll do it," Kerry asserted firmly.
Susan began, "Dr. Weaver, I don't think that's such a good idea . . ."
"She's my wife."
The words, 'I bet the state of Illinois would disagree with you on that,' were almost on Robert's lips when he was struck by the complete lack of defiance, only desperation, in Kerry's voice. Instead, he said quietly, "That's why you're not tubing her."
Kerry started to protest, but Robert cut her off with, "Look, if Susan doesn't nail it, you're next in line, OK?" Then, aside to Susan, he quipped, "No pressure, Lewis."
Susan wrinkled her nose at him as she skillfully slid the tube into Sandy's throat.
XXXXXXXXXX
Robert peeked into the now-quiet operating room containing Elizabeth, a resident, and Sandy Lopez's body. News of Sandy's death had already reached the ER. Robert surmised that Kerry was off talking to the family. He wasn't quite sure why he was here. In part, he wanted to check on Elizabeth – it must have been tough on her to lose the patient with Kerry sitting right there. But, besides that, he just felt a need to be where the action was, to see the results for himself.
As he entered the room, Elizabeth was on her way out, called in to another emergency surgery. She instructed Jensen, the resident, to finish closing. Jensen pointed out that they had already wired Sandy's chest closed, but Elizabeth insisted that he do a more thorough cosmetic job than normal. He didn't seem too keen on this, but kept his mouth shut.
Passing each other just inside the doorway, Robert and Elizabeth shared a silent glance. He saw regret in her eyes. It wasn't the kind of regret where you're kicking yourself, 'if only things had gone a little differently.' Rather, it was the kind that wells up when you realize that despite your best efforts, in the end, nothing could be done: regret for the fragility of human bodies and the limits of human power to repair them. Robert could see that she was shaken, but handling it. Other lives needed saving. He nodded to her understandingly as she left the room.
Robert planned to stay for a few minutes, maybe rattle Jensen a bit. But just moments after Elizabeth departed, the resident got paged. He covered up Lopez's body and started putting things away.
Romano demanded, "Where do you think you're going?"
"Liver transplant. I get to scrub in."
"They need you to assist, or you just want to observe? If it's the latter, you've already got a job to do here."
Jensen replied flatly, "They said I can scrub in," as if it really wasn't any of Romano's business.
Robert was annoyed. Sure, from a resident's perspective, closing up a corpse wasn't the sexiest of assignments. But Lizzie had told him to do it, and, anyway, Robert didn't like Jensen. However, he knew he had no authority over the little twerp, so he had to let him go. "Fine. Leave her. I'll finish up," he growled.
At Jensen's dubious look, Robert rolled his eyes and snapped, "I'm allowed to sew dead people."
Twenty minutes after Jensen left, Robert was still sewing. Absent the pressures inherent in working on a live patient, his progress was slow, but the results were good. He used strips of surgical tape to hold short stretches of skin closed, then methodically placed perfect little stitches between them. Absorbed in this task, he didn't look up immediately upon hearing the door quietly open and close. When he did raise his eyes, he found himself face to face with Kerry Weaver, across the table on which Sandy lay.
For once in his life, Robert had no idea what to say. His relationship with Kerry was defined by conflict – sometimes playful, sometimes deadly serious. They'd had temporary truces before, but Robert didn't know how to initiate one. Honestly, on such occasions, it was usually Kerry who took the high road.
Concerned that, given their history, Kerry might not want him handling her lover's body, he wanted to assure her that he meant no harm. Not finding the right words for that, he just said, "I can get somebody else to finish."
Kerry wasn't quite looking at Robert as she shook her head and sank into a chair near Sandy's head. Her eyes looked old, hollowed out. Robert didn't know whether her gesture was responding to his statement, so he asked her directly, "Do you want me to leave?"
Kerry stroked her lover's face, her fingers stopping at the breathing tube apparatus. In a meek, completely-not-Kerry voice, she asked, "Can you take it out?"
It was against the rules, but Robert couldn't see any harm in complying with her request. He nodded, and, as carefully as possible with one hand, removed the apparatus from Sandy's throat. A little blood dripped from the tube onto Sandy's face, mingling with traces of soot. Kerry gently closed the other woman's mouth, and, with her hand, tried to wipe away the grime from her face.
Seeing his sometime-opponent sitting there, rubbing ineffectually at her lover's face as tears streamed slowly down her own, Robert thought that, perhaps, he should go. 'You wouldn't want her to see you weak,' he told himself, 'so extend her the same courtesy.' That made perfect sense, but at the same time it was bullshit. He couldn't just leave her alone like this. When good friends aren't plentiful, sometimes a good enemy is better than nothing.
Having decided to stay, Robert still wasn't sure what to do with this broken creature wearing Weaver's form. Normally, he wouldn't let a family member see the patient's body until it was closed up and cleaned up, but Kerry had been present during the actual surgery, so it seemed pointless to try to shield her now. Taking his cue from her behavior, he went over to the sink, filled a small basin with warm soapy water, and placed it on the gurney above Sandy's head.
Kerry's gaze flicked toward the sloshing water distractedly. She accepted the washcloth Robert handed her, looking through him rather than at him. Then, with exquisite tenderness, she began washing Sandy's face. Hands moving reverently over the cold, still face and hair, Kerry seemed fragile, bereft. But as she cleaned, the emptiness in her eyes fell away, replaced by a muted intensity, as if all that was left of her spirit was focused on caring for this one precious person.
Robert had occasionally seen his colleague morph from screeching bitch to kind doctor, so her gentleness did not come as a complete surprise to him. Still, the intimacy of the moment transfixed him momentarily. Swallowing hard, he pulled his gaze away and arranged the surgical drapes so that there was a small gap between the one covering Sandy's chest and shoulders and the one covering the lower half of her body. Coming around to stand beside Kerry, he used that opening to continue sewing the remaining inches of the incision on Sandy's midsection.
People always seem more alive when in the company of corpses. Although she was out of his line of sight, Robert was acutely aware of Kerry's presence – her shallow ragged breathing, the sound of the washcloth dipping into water, even the warmth of her body just inches from his own. Were she similarly aware of him, working next to her, Kerry gave no sign.
XXXXXXXXXX
A few days later, Kerry Weaver sat at her desk, awaiting her next appointment. The time surrounding Sandy's death was a blur. If she tried, she could fix on particular events: seeing the relief in Sandy's eyes when she arrived at her side, falling apart in Abby's arms, hearing Henry's cry muffled behind glass and wood. But focusing on these memories brought more pain than she could bear.
So, instead, she worked. Her job was the only part of her life that still made sense. Donald Anspaugh had told her that she should go home, take time to recover. Kerry supposed that he knew what he was talking about, having lost his teenage son not that long ago. But being at home meant thinking about the smell of smoke that always lingered in Sandy's hair; it meant looking at Henry's empty crib; it meant contemplating a bleak future without them. Running the hospital was easier than that.
Kerry's next appointment was with Robert Romano. She'd recalled that he'd wanted to talk to her about something the morning before . . . everything happened. Since other well-meaning staff members had postponed their appointments so as not to burden her with anything non-essential, she let him know that she had an opening. Hopefully, she could count on the man who once wrote an entire quarterly report from his hospital bed to not try to deter her from burying herself in her work.
After knocking, Robert entered with a subdued greeting. He approached tentatively, as if he realized that his usual abrasive style was inappropriate, but didn't really have anything else to fall back on. Kerry saw him run his eyes over her appraisingly. Instead of the dreaded, 'How are you?' he asked, "What's up?"
"You wanted to speak to me about something in private . . .?" she prompted. She saw his eyebrows go up, the corners of his mouth quirking just a little, and could almost hear him thinking, 'Sure – I'll take advantage of your grief-fueled efficiency.'
He replied, "Oh yeah, uh, there's this workshop I want to go to. Well, actually, it could be part of a longer program. Here, I'll show you."
Robert came around behind the desk, standing off to the side a little, and pulled up a website on Kerry's computer. She scanned the description of an intensive course in pediatric emergency medicine, intended for doctors with expertise in either pediatrics or general emergency medicine. The program started with a 4-day workshop next month, which, for selected applicants, could lead into more in-depth training via a correspondence course.
Kerry noticed her colleague shifting uncomfortably next to her as she read. When she looked up at him, he blustered, "I can bring along a couple of med students to the workshop – make it worth County's dime sending me."
"Who did you have in mind?"
"Lockhart and Rasgotra. They'll be just finishing up with their rotations in Psych and Pediatric Surgery, respectively."
"Did you ask them if they're interested?" Kerry inquired, knowing that it would be just like Robert not to do so.
"Why would I do that?" Robert replied. Then, after smirking at Kerry's reproachful expression, he went on, "I ran it by Abby. While she's understandably wary at the prospect of having to spend extra time with me, she didn't run screaming into the night. I told her that Neela can help her study for her boards during the car ride. She's gotta re-take them as soon as we get back."
"OK," said Kerry. There was a lot more to be said, but, in her current state, nothing popped to mind.
"Uh, I need you to write a letter of recommendation for me," Robert added, studying the wood grain of the desk.
"Yes, I gathered that from the website," Kerry said. It would have to be a strong letter, too, since Robert didn't actually meet the general requirements for the program – his training was in neither pediatrics nor emergency medicine, and though he had some experience now in the latter field, it wasn't a lot. Writing a persuasive letter might be easier if she knew something about his motivations for pursuing this specialized training. So, she asked, "Any idea what I should say?"
Rising to the buzz of his pager, Robert tossed out lightly, "I don't know. Tell 'em I hate kids less than I hate adults. Make something up – that's why they pay you the big bucks."
He grinned and waved as he headed out the door, leaving Kerry shaking her head behind him. It dawned on her that he would be no help whatsoever in making his own case; he was just dropping the problem in her lap. 'For somebody so self-centered,' she thought, 'he's a terrible self-advocate.'
But a good judge of character. Kerry would, in fact, do her best to give him this opportunity. And not only because it provided an excuse not to think about her own troubles.
'Pediatric emergency?' Kerry mused. It would make more sense for Robert to pursue a field in which his disability wouldn't matter so much, like research or administration. But 'sense' and Robert Romano didn't necessarily go together, and Kerry had to admit that she found something appealing about the direction he was considering. Even if this particular plan didn't pan out, Kerry took it as a positive sign that he was thinking of a future for himself outside of surgery. Were happiness still among the emotions available to her, Kerry would have felt happy for him.
XXXXXXXXXX
Author's Note: It's been a month since my last update – sorry! – hope some of my readers are still with me! The good news is, with the semester finally over I'll be able to devote more time to what's really important: fanfic :-) I'm planning on three more chapters. Did you like Elizabeth's 'cameo'? She'll have a larger role in an upcoming chapter – though I can't guarantee any more smooching (heh heh).