Read Online Out of Character by Diana Miller - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Diana Miller
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greeted the assistant ER head, who was sitting at the central desk.
Mike looked up from the computer he was using. “What are you doing here?”
“Working.”
“Aren’t you still on vacation?”
“I’ll go insane if I stay home one more day.”
Mike nodded his shaggy head, his eyes on her face. “And you figured the craziness in here would keep you sane. Are you sure you’re okay?”
So the extra makeup she’d applied hadn’t helped. “You sound like Tom, who gave me his seal of approval, by the way.” Although it had taken a while to convince Dr. Thomas Binger, their egotistical ER chief, that she wasn’t a walking malpractice action.
“Well, if you can satisfy God, far be it from me to argue,” Mike said, “especially when we need the help.” He stood and picked two charts off the desk. “Since you’re doing us a favor, I’ll let you choose. Would you like door number one—” he waved a chart—”or door number two?”
“Two.”
Mike looked down at the chart in his left hand. “Wait until you see what you’ve won. Behind door number two is Mildred Taylor, a seventy-four-year-old female with belly pain. Room 7.”
* * * *
Jillian walked out of Exam Room 7 and slid both the striped curtain and glass door shut behind her. Even after examining Mrs. Taylor, she didn’t know what was wrong with her, which wasn’t that surprising. People were as bad at describing belly pain as they were at giving directions, not that a description would help much. Belly pain could be anything from cancer to gas to an ectopic pregnancy, although she could probably rule that last one out in Mrs. Taylor’s case. She ordered what she hoped was the right mixture of tests to diagnose the problem without pissing off Medicare, then headed to her next patient.
She skimmed the chart outside of Exam Room 13. A forty-six-year-old female with belly pain. Terrific.
Not that Jillian was complaining. She wasn’t here for fun. Coming back to work three days before the end of her vacation had been the last ditch effort of a desperate woman, desperate for something, anything, to take her mind off the past week and save her sanity.
Starting the day after Kristen’s funeral, Jillian had felt as if she was being followed. Even though she never saw anyone, she couldn’t shake the sense of eyes watching her whenever she left her apartment to run or do errands.
Last night had been the last straw. She’d returned from the grocery store, put away her two bags of food, and gone into the living room. The book she’d been trying to read was on the left sofa cushion, although she was positive she’d set it on the right cushion. That had convinced her someone had been in her apartment, even though a quick search confirmed nothing was missing and God knows she’d been agitated enough lately to be wrong about a stupid book. She’d still wasted nearly an hour sitting on the sofa hugging a pillow and agonizing over what to do about a break-in that had undoubtedly never happened.
Jillian hadn’t mentioned this to anyone because she knew it was simply stress making her imagination work overtime. Her last week would have shot anyone way off the stress meter. She needed something to take her mind off her grief long enough for her system to deal with it and heal. Work was the obvious something.
She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall. Ironic, she’d lived eighteen years near one of Chicago’s worst neighborhoods without anyone close to her getting killed or even attacked, but on a nice, upper-middle-class skiing vacation, she got socked with both a shooting and a fatal explosion. She hoped they weren’t right about bad things happening in threes.
Although her experience with Mark could have been the third. Her pain about Kristen was so overwhelming she couldn’t tell if Mark’s leaving hurt anymore, but it certainly had at the time. Hopefully it satisfied her quota.
* * * *
Friday after her shift, Jillian stepped into
Mike looked up from the computer he was using. “What are you doing here?”
“Working.”
“Aren’t you still on vacation?”
“I’ll go insane if I stay home one more day.”
Mike nodded his shaggy head, his eyes on her face. “And you figured the craziness in here would keep you sane. Are you sure you’re okay?”
So the extra makeup she’d applied hadn’t helped. “You sound like Tom, who gave me his seal of approval, by the way.” Although it had taken a while to convince Dr. Thomas Binger, their egotistical ER chief, that she wasn’t a walking malpractice action.
“Well, if you can satisfy God, far be it from me to argue,” Mike said, “especially when we need the help.” He stood and picked two charts off the desk. “Since you’re doing us a favor, I’ll let you choose. Would you like door number one—” he waved a chart—”or door number two?”
“Two.”
Mike looked down at the chart in his left hand. “Wait until you see what you’ve won. Behind door number two is Mildred Taylor, a seventy-four-year-old female with belly pain. Room 7.”
* * * *
Jillian walked out of Exam Room 7 and slid both the striped curtain and glass door shut behind her. Even after examining Mrs. Taylor, she didn’t know what was wrong with her, which wasn’t that surprising. People were as bad at describing belly pain as they were at giving directions, not that a description would help much. Belly pain could be anything from cancer to gas to an ectopic pregnancy, although she could probably rule that last one out in Mrs. Taylor’s case. She ordered what she hoped was the right mixture of tests to diagnose the problem without pissing off Medicare, then headed to her next patient.
She skimmed the chart outside of Exam Room 13. A forty-six-year-old female with belly pain. Terrific.
Not that Jillian was complaining. She wasn’t here for fun. Coming back to work three days before the end of her vacation had been the last ditch effort of a desperate woman, desperate for something, anything, to take her mind off the past week and save her sanity.
Starting the day after Kristen’s funeral, Jillian had felt as if she was being followed. Even though she never saw anyone, she couldn’t shake the sense of eyes watching her whenever she left her apartment to run or do errands.
Last night had been the last straw. She’d returned from the grocery store, put away her two bags of food, and gone into the living room. The book she’d been trying to read was on the left sofa cushion, although she was positive she’d set it on the right cushion. That had convinced her someone had been in her apartment, even though a quick search confirmed nothing was missing and God knows she’d been agitated enough lately to be wrong about a stupid book. She’d still wasted nearly an hour sitting on the sofa hugging a pillow and agonizing over what to do about a break-in that had undoubtedly never happened.
Jillian hadn’t mentioned this to anyone because she knew it was simply stress making her imagination work overtime. Her last week would have shot anyone way off the stress meter. She needed something to take her mind off her grief long enough for her system to deal with it and heal. Work was the obvious something.
She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall. Ironic, she’d lived eighteen years near one of Chicago’s worst neighborhoods without anyone close to her getting killed or even attacked, but on a nice, upper-middle-class skiing vacation, she got socked with both a shooting and a fatal explosion. She hoped they weren’t right about bad things happening in threes.
Although her experience with Mark could have been the third. Her pain about Kristen was so overwhelming she couldn’t tell if Mark’s leaving hurt anymore, but it certainly had at the time. Hopefully it satisfied her quota.
* * * *
Friday after her shift, Jillian stepped into
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