about this threat? Did she tell somebody? Did she try and communicate just what had happened?
Nobody had seen it; nobody would believe it. So a doctor had threatened to make things very difficult for her. If nurses made out reports every time that happened, they’d have more documentation than the Library of Congress.
And this was not just any doctor. Tom likened Hunsacker to Steve Carlton. The administration didn’t think to look further than the dollar signs the OB represented, and the community at large was dazzled by the way he looked in a tux. As for the other nurses, who could be counted on when no one else could for support in a situation like this, they were blinded by that smile, those nice biceps.
Maybe Evelyn. Casey hadn’t talked to her since the last time she’d seen Hunsacker, and Evelyn seemed to have no love lost for the man. Maybe she’d heard more about Wanda, or maybe she had some insight into Hunsacker Casey didn’t. Suddenly Casey had to know.
It was Millie who found Casey at the desk. Spinning on one toe, charts in hand, the tiny blonde came to an uncertain stop, her smile of greeting dying.
“Casey, are you sick?” she asked, her uniform skirt swirling to a stop after her.
Casey started badly, foundering for a minute. Rubbing the dampness from her palms, she turned a wry eye on the young nurse. “Dr. Hunsacker and I seem to have had a disagreement.”
Millie’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Oh, no,” she retorted, though the tone was more “that couldn’t happen” than “how bad for you.” Millie was a definite acolyte, new to nursing, struggling for acceptance, uncertain of her attraction as a woman or abilities as a nurse. Perfect medium to cultivate Hunsacker worship.
Casey thought to tell her. She came close to explaining just what Hunsacker had looked like when he’d spoken, how he’d leaned so close that only Casey could hear his venom. But seeing those guileless eyes, she knew she wouldn’t. Nobody’d believe her anyway.
“Can I help?” Millie asked.
And Casey. knew that because Millie was still too new to question Hunsacker’s judgment, she could help. It didn’t do Mrs. Elliott any good, but it got Casey off the hook.
She was being passive-aggressive, avoiding conflict, skirting away from confrontation. Just like Ed. Just like Helen. Just like her when she’d stood in that damned living room so many years ago, eyes focused on the red slash of an afghan, fighting for courage and knowing she wouldn’t find any.
“So, then they went in to check why this sixteen-year-old chickie hadn’t been peeing,” Marva was yelling over the music and crowd noise, “and pulled out six birthday candles!”
Casey burst out laughing. Evidently she’d missed all the fun up at the front end of the hall tonight.
“The best part,” Marva said, waving off the laughter with her beer, “is that the mother says, ‘Well, I never seen her eat them candles.’”
Both of them laughed now, oblivious to the jostle of bodies around their tiny table at the back of the bar. Casey saluted the story with her own beer. “Gee, Marva, for my birthday, I’d be just as happy if they’d put the candles in a cake.”
“What I want to know,” Marva retorted, “is who she got to blow ’em out.”
Casey was feeling better. It had taken six hours of unrelenting hell—three traumas, two MIs, and an assortment of hot bellies, fractures, and chronic lungers—not to mention a jaunt with Marva to the Body Shop, Mother Mary’s local hangout, to effect it, but she found the persistent urge to look over her shoulder was easing. The further she got from Hunsacker’s threat, the more she questioned it, the more she doubted her own impression.
She didn’t like him, she didn’t trust him, and she’d had her reason why tonight. The guy couldn’t deal with it when he couldn’t manipulate the people around him. Casey seemed to especially piss him off. She didn’t like his familiarity
Nobody had seen it; nobody would believe it. So a doctor had threatened to make things very difficult for her. If nurses made out reports every time that happened, they’d have more documentation than the Library of Congress.
And this was not just any doctor. Tom likened Hunsacker to Steve Carlton. The administration didn’t think to look further than the dollar signs the OB represented, and the community at large was dazzled by the way he looked in a tux. As for the other nurses, who could be counted on when no one else could for support in a situation like this, they were blinded by that smile, those nice biceps.
Maybe Evelyn. Casey hadn’t talked to her since the last time she’d seen Hunsacker, and Evelyn seemed to have no love lost for the man. Maybe she’d heard more about Wanda, or maybe she had some insight into Hunsacker Casey didn’t. Suddenly Casey had to know.
It was Millie who found Casey at the desk. Spinning on one toe, charts in hand, the tiny blonde came to an uncertain stop, her smile of greeting dying.
“Casey, are you sick?” she asked, her uniform skirt swirling to a stop after her.
Casey started badly, foundering for a minute. Rubbing the dampness from her palms, she turned a wry eye on the young nurse. “Dr. Hunsacker and I seem to have had a disagreement.”
Millie’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Oh, no,” she retorted, though the tone was more “that couldn’t happen” than “how bad for you.” Millie was a definite acolyte, new to nursing, struggling for acceptance, uncertain of her attraction as a woman or abilities as a nurse. Perfect medium to cultivate Hunsacker worship.
Casey thought to tell her. She came close to explaining just what Hunsacker had looked like when he’d spoken, how he’d leaned so close that only Casey could hear his venom. But seeing those guileless eyes, she knew she wouldn’t. Nobody’d believe her anyway.
“Can I help?” Millie asked.
And Casey. knew that because Millie was still too new to question Hunsacker’s judgment, she could help. It didn’t do Mrs. Elliott any good, but it got Casey off the hook.
She was being passive-aggressive, avoiding conflict, skirting away from confrontation. Just like Ed. Just like Helen. Just like her when she’d stood in that damned living room so many years ago, eyes focused on the red slash of an afghan, fighting for courage and knowing she wouldn’t find any.
“So, then they went in to check why this sixteen-year-old chickie hadn’t been peeing,” Marva was yelling over the music and crowd noise, “and pulled out six birthday candles!”
Casey burst out laughing. Evidently she’d missed all the fun up at the front end of the hall tonight.
“The best part,” Marva said, waving off the laughter with her beer, “is that the mother says, ‘Well, I never seen her eat them candles.’”
Both of them laughed now, oblivious to the jostle of bodies around their tiny table at the back of the bar. Casey saluted the story with her own beer. “Gee, Marva, for my birthday, I’d be just as happy if they’d put the candles in a cake.”
“What I want to know,” Marva retorted, “is who she got to blow ’em out.”
Casey was feeling better. It had taken six hours of unrelenting hell—three traumas, two MIs, and an assortment of hot bellies, fractures, and chronic lungers—not to mention a jaunt with Marva to the Body Shop, Mother Mary’s local hangout, to effect it, but she found the persistent urge to look over her shoulder was easing. The further she got from Hunsacker’s threat, the more she questioned it, the more she doubted her own impression.
She didn’t like him, she didn’t trust him, and she’d had her reason why tonight. The guy couldn’t deal with it when he couldn’t manipulate the people around him. Casey seemed to especially piss him off. She didn’t like his familiarity
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