Chapter Five

      Molly had always suspected she wouldn’t make a very good patient; she was too restless to lie in bed all day. Daytime television was a revelation, filled with programs about women who loved men who murdered, mothers who slept with their daughter’s boyfriends, husbands who got their wives’ best friends pregnant. Since her work had given her an up-close and personal look at society’s ills, none of the subjects shocked her. What was surprising was that viewers would be interested in watching all these depressingly dysfunctional relationships.

      She tried to read, but every time an ambulance cut its siren outside the ER doors, or a code came over the loudspeakers, she wanted to jump up and return to the battle. If her days were boring, her nights were anything but. Her sleep was interrupted at regular intervals by horrifying nightmares in which she was forced to suffer the rape, which she now remembered, over and over again.

      From her talks with the psych resident, Alan Bernstein, Molly understood the night terrors were her subconscious mind’s way of struggling to deal with the trauma she’d suffered. She also became convinced that as soon as she was allowed to return to the routine of normal daily life, the nightmares would stop.

      Yolanda remained sympathetic, but refused to do anything to help Molly escape what she’d come to view as her imprisonment.

      “Reece says if you’re a good girl he may sign you out tomorrow.”

      “I’ve already been here five days.”

      “So, you’ll be here six.”

      Molly muttered something that while not exactly a curse, wasn’t exactly nunlike, either. “At least tell me what’s happening down in The Pit. I never thought I’d miss that place, but I do.”

      “Taking religious vows doesn’t prevent you from becoming hooked on the adrenaline rush, just like the rest of us.”

      Molly couldn’t argue with that. She’d be the first to admit that the impatient streak that had once resulted in her being disciplined as a child with depressing regularity, now made her a natural ER nurse.

      “Oh, there is some news,” Yolanda said. “About Benny.”

      Molly’s own petty frustration was instantly forgotten. Benny Johnson was a five-year-old boy who’d suffered more than any child should have to. He’d been born a crack baby on Molly’s first day in the ER. His near-fatal withdrawal had been excruciatingly painful, making more than one battle-hardened ER nurse cry.

      Social Services had taken Benny from his mother. Unfortunately, they’d turned him over to his grandmother, who was no model of maternal expertise, either. By the time he was six months old, Benny had suffered a broken arm and possible head injuries from being shaken.

      He’d been put in a crisis nursery, only to be released to his mother again when she was released from a drug-abuse treatment program. Two days later, Benny was back with mysterious burns.

      The cycle had continued for five years. And each time Benny showed up in The Pit for treatment after another one of his accidents, Molly was more tempted just to take the poor little boy and run away.

      “What now?”

      “He came in this morning all bruised, with cracked ribs. The court’s toughened up. He’s going to be released for adoption over his mother’s consent.”

      That should have been good news, but unfortunately, Molly knew better.

      “Older children are difficult to place,” she murmured. She also recalled, with vivid clarity, that long ago day when she’d eavesdropped on a conversation between the Mother Superior who ran the orphanage and prospective parents.

      The well-dressed couple who thought Lena “sweet” and were prepared to overlook the fact that Molly could be “a bit of a handful,” had been reluctant to adopt the sisters because of their background.

      “How can anyone know about genetics, really?” the man had asked. “What if one of the girls harbors some impulse that might cause her to violently explode with rage? As her father did?”

      “That’s highly unlikely,” the nun had assured him.

      “Unlikely perhaps. But you can’t guarantee it’s not a possibility.”

      “There are no guarantees in life, Mr. Howard,” the nun had tried again. “Even if the Lord were to bless you with your own children—”

      “That’s just it. They’d be our own. And believe me, Sister, there are no murderous alcoholics in either my wife’s or my family. No.” Molly, who was standing with her ear against the door, had heard a deep sigh. “I’m afraid it’s just not worth the risk.”

      Over the years the faces in that office had changed. But the argument had remained the same. Molly and Lena McBride were damaged goods.

      “Benny has a lot of strikes working against him when it comes to adoption,” Molly murmured, thinking back on those lonely, frustrating days when she and Lena had been forced to watch other children leave the orphanage with their new families.

      “That’s sure true. But you know Dr. Moore?”

      “In pediatrics?”

      “That’s him. He and his wife have been trying to have kids for ages with no luck. I overheard him talking to the social worker about getting the paperwork started.”

      “Oh, that is good news.” Sometimes God did answer prayers. “Is Benny still downstairs?”

      Yolanda’s sharp look revealed that she knew Molly all too well. “Yes, but you’re not—”

      “I promise not to do any work. I just want to keep a little boy company for a while.”

      “Reece will kill me.”

      “Reece is too much of a sweetheart to kill anyone. Especially these days.”

      “You noticed that the doc’s been floating up somewhere on cloud nine, too?”

      Molly returned Yolanda’s grin with one of her own. “You’d have to be blind not to notice.”

      “He’s got the look of a man who’s getting laid regular. And your sister’s looking like a kitten who discovered a saucer of cream. I swear, if I hadn’t sworn off marriage after my third divorce, I’d almost be willing to give it a try again.”

      Molly laughed. She didn’t know what had happened between Lena and Reece. But whatever it was, she was definitely more than a little relieved at the change.

      “If you could just get me some scrubs,” Molly coaxed, returning to their previous subject.

      Yolanda folded her arms across her ample breasts. “If you tell anyone where you got them…”

      “I won’t say a word. Cross my heart.”

      Muttering to herself, Yolanda left the room, but returned a few minutes later with a pair of green surgical scrubs. “I didn’t see a thing,” she said. Then left again.

      Molly found Benny in one of the waiting rooms, seated at a small table. Someone had given him a box of crayons and a coloring book, but he hadn’t touched them, and sat staring out into space. Molly didn’t want to know what the child was seeing. What he’d already seen. She also hoped that Dr. Moore and his wife had an immense store of patience.

      “Hi, Benny,” she said cheerily.

      He looked up, his expression flat until he saw her bruises. “Somebody hit you, too, Sister?”

      “I’m afraid so, Benny.”

      He thought about that for a minute. “People aren’t supposed to hit nuns.”

      “People aren’t supposed to hit children, either. But sometimes people do.”

      “Yeah.”