wrapped packages that Darcy guessed were just empty boxes. Coloured lights blinked on and off, and cheesy Christmas carols played from a speaker somewhere. Currently
someone with a lisp was singing about his ‘two front teeth’.
Emergency Rooms were possibly the last places anyone wanted to be in at this time of year, but at least the staff were making an effort.
A sudden image of the airless grey hospital waiting room in which she and Katherine had spent tortuous hours waiting for news of her parents after the crash wormed its way into Darcy’s
brain and she tried her best to shrug off the unwelcome memory and concentrate on the task in hand.
Approaching Reception, Darcy swallowed the lump in her throat. Now that she was here, she wasn’t sure if she really wanted to know the condition of the man she’d upended earlier.
What if his injuries were critical?
She cleared her throat and tried to project a casual air to her voice. ‘Excuse me, hi,’ she began, smiling at the receptionist who looked at her coolly. ‘I’m here about a
patient, Aidan Harris. I believe he was brought in this morning, about an hour ago?’ She wished to give the impression that she was family or a close friend, in the hope that the woman might
inadvertently reveal some information about his condition.
The woman typed a couple of commands into the PC in front of her. ‘Harris, you say? And you are?’
But try as she might, when it came down to it, Darcy couldn’t pretend. In fact, she was a terrible liar and shared that much with Aunt Katherine in her ability to speak the truth, albeit
in a decidedly softer manner.
‘I’m the reason he’s here,’ she blurted out. And then, much to her embarrassment she burst into tears, all her fears and worries since the accident suddenly overwhelming
her. ‘I collided with him this morning on my bike. The light was green, honestly, and he just came out of nowhere, I swear, and . . .’ She sniffed tearfully. ‘I’m sorry, but
he was unconscious when the ambulance took him away, and I’ve been going out of my mind with worry over what might have happened to him. Is he all right?’ she pleaded with the
receptionist. ‘I know you’re not supposed to give out personal information, I get that, but can you at least tell me if he’s OK? For all I know, I might have killed him. And I
have his dog . . . he was out walking him at the time, and I want Mr Harris to know that Bailey is fine, and that I’m taking good care of him.’
The receptionist had kind eyes that looked at her sympathetically. She seemed taken aback by Darcy’s distress and heartfelt desperation. ‘You’re right honey, we’re not
allowed to give out patient information,’ she said, but she picked up the phone. ‘Can you wait just a moment? Let me see if there’s something I can do.’
Darcy exhaled in relief at this, though the phone call seemed to take forever as she waited to hear some news – any kind of news – about Aidan Harris.
Eventually the receptionist hung up and turned to her. ‘Like I said, I’m not allowed to give out patient information.’ She took a deep breath. ‘So let’s put it this
way: nobody brought in this morning to this ER with reported head injuries has suffered any serious trauma,’ she added meaningfully, her gaze locked on Darcy’s, ‘and all are now
stable,’ she finished.
Darcy wanted to cry with relief. The woman was, in her own way, letting Darcy know that he was not in danger.
‘Oh, thank God!’
‘However, stable doesn’t necessarily mean one hundred per cent OK either,’ she cautioned. ‘Often victims of TBI – traumatic brain injury – become
disorientated.’ The receptionist eyed her. ‘Like I said, I can’t give out specific patient medical information – even to a family member – without patient consent.
Unfortunately, not all of our patients are in a state of mind to provide that consent.’
This time, Darcy was having trouble following
someone with a lisp was singing about his ‘two front teeth’.
Emergency Rooms were possibly the last places anyone wanted to be in at this time of year, but at least the staff were making an effort.
A sudden image of the airless grey hospital waiting room in which she and Katherine had spent tortuous hours waiting for news of her parents after the crash wormed its way into Darcy’s
brain and she tried her best to shrug off the unwelcome memory and concentrate on the task in hand.
Approaching Reception, Darcy swallowed the lump in her throat. Now that she was here, she wasn’t sure if she really wanted to know the condition of the man she’d upended earlier.
What if his injuries were critical?
She cleared her throat and tried to project a casual air to her voice. ‘Excuse me, hi,’ she began, smiling at the receptionist who looked at her coolly. ‘I’m here about a
patient, Aidan Harris. I believe he was brought in this morning, about an hour ago?’ She wished to give the impression that she was family or a close friend, in the hope that the woman might
inadvertently reveal some information about his condition.
The woman typed a couple of commands into the PC in front of her. ‘Harris, you say? And you are?’
But try as she might, when it came down to it, Darcy couldn’t pretend. In fact, she was a terrible liar and shared that much with Aunt Katherine in her ability to speak the truth, albeit
in a decidedly softer manner.
‘I’m the reason he’s here,’ she blurted out. And then, much to her embarrassment she burst into tears, all her fears and worries since the accident suddenly overwhelming
her. ‘I collided with him this morning on my bike. The light was green, honestly, and he just came out of nowhere, I swear, and . . .’ She sniffed tearfully. ‘I’m sorry, but
he was unconscious when the ambulance took him away, and I’ve been going out of my mind with worry over what might have happened to him. Is he all right?’ she pleaded with the
receptionist. ‘I know you’re not supposed to give out personal information, I get that, but can you at least tell me if he’s OK? For all I know, I might have killed him. And I
have his dog . . . he was out walking him at the time, and I want Mr Harris to know that Bailey is fine, and that I’m taking good care of him.’
The receptionist had kind eyes that looked at her sympathetically. She seemed taken aback by Darcy’s distress and heartfelt desperation. ‘You’re right honey, we’re not
allowed to give out patient information,’ she said, but she picked up the phone. ‘Can you wait just a moment? Let me see if there’s something I can do.’
Darcy exhaled in relief at this, though the phone call seemed to take forever as she waited to hear some news – any kind of news – about Aidan Harris.
Eventually the receptionist hung up and turned to her. ‘Like I said, I’m not allowed to give out patient information.’ She took a deep breath. ‘So let’s put it this
way: nobody brought in this morning to this ER with reported head injuries has suffered any serious trauma,’ she added meaningfully, her gaze locked on Darcy’s, ‘and all are now
stable,’ she finished.
Darcy wanted to cry with relief. The woman was, in her own way, letting Darcy know that he was not in danger.
‘Oh, thank God!’
‘However, stable doesn’t necessarily mean one hundred per cent OK either,’ she cautioned. ‘Often victims of TBI – traumatic brain injury – become
disorientated.’ The receptionist eyed her. ‘Like I said, I can’t give out specific patient medical information – even to a family member – without patient consent.
Unfortunately, not all of our patients are in a state of mind to provide that consent.’
This time, Darcy was having trouble following
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