Mac's Bedside Manner. Marie Ferrarella
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and then I’m off.”
It was Wednesday, known far and wide to a host of doctors as their unofficial day off. Mac’s observance of the day entailed keeping his office closed, but he still put in an E.R. shift, one of two he did on a weekly basis. He did more when a space needed covering.
Wednesdays was also the day when he liked to schedule most of his more difficult operations.
However, today had turned out to be incredibly light. His last patient had been seen to three hours ago, heavily bruised but now in possession of a new, far more delicate nose. The E.R. was quieter than a stadium two hours after a championship game had been lost, and Mac was looking forward to taking out Lynda Rogers, a curvaceous pharmaceutical representative for the Tyler & Rice Drug Company. He’d run into her at the beginning of the week when they’d shared a stuck elevator for the space of twenty-five minutes.
The ordeal had been far from unpleasant. Lynda, it had turned out, had a fear of small places and had literally clung to him for the duration of the elevator’s immobility. By the time it was running again, he’d gotten all her vital statistics, half her family history and knew he had an exciting evening ahead of him once they got together.
Which by his watch was in a little over four hours.
“Heads up, people,” Wanda Hanlon, the formidable-looking head nurse, called out as she replaced the receiver in its cradle and came around from behind the centrally located desk. At six-one, Wanda had a commanding presence the moment she entered a scene. Her booming voice did nothing to negate that impression. “We’ve got a crowd coming in.” She frowned, shaking her salt-and-pepper head.
“Some party-goers tried to see how many of them could fit on a balcony. The fools got up to twenty-three before the whole thing just collapsed under their weight.”
“Damn.” Jorge whistled and leaned on his mop, amused. “What makes people so stupid?”
“In this case, probably more than their share of cheap wine.”
The comment, stated in a soft voice that made Mac think of a silk scarf being lightly slipped along bare skin, came from behind him.
Turning, he saw a petite nurse with short, straight blond hair and flashing green eyes. She looked as if she had to place rocks in her pockets to keep from being blown away whenever the annual Santa Ana winds swept in from the California desert. At six-four, he could have easily walked right into her and not noticed unless he was deliberately looking down.
Mac’s mouth curved in appreciation. The woman didn’t smile in response.
First time that had happened, he thought.
“Not a very charitable attitude,” he observed.
The nurse spared him a half shrug. “No, but probably an accurate one.”
Aware that Jorge was taking this all in as if it were a spectator sport played out for his benefit, Mac opened his mouth to say something else, but the woman was already walking away as if he hadn’t even been there.
That surprised him even more. Her attention appeared riveted to the rear doors that would spring open any second, ushering in gurneys bearing wounded cargo.
Bemused, Mac shifted his gaze to Jorge. “And who was that little bright ray of sunshine?”
Jorge had been at Blair ever since it first opened its doors nearly thirty years ago. Unofficially he was known as the go-to man, an eternal source of information. He was also the man who could mysteriously come up with things that Administration maintained couldn’t be obtained for a variety of reasons and certainly not without a mountain of paperwork. Reasons never stopped Jorge, and paperwork was something that never obstructed his path. Mac had come to regard the man as nothing short of a national treasure.
“Pretty little thing,” Jorge agreed. Two even rows of gleaming white teeth reinforcing the pleasure he received from observing the woman. “Her name’s Jolene DeLuca. Fresh from San Francisco General. Divorced. Has a two-year-old daughter named Amanda. Lives near her mother, Erika. Erika’s a widow.”
Amused, Mac asked. “What’s her shoe size?”
Jorge kept a straight face. “Dunno, but I’m working on it.”
Mac shook his head in pure delight. “Tell me, Jorge, is there anything that goes on in this place that you don’t know?”
Jorge didn’t even pretend to think the question over. “Nope.” Eyes the color of midnight met Mac’s. “You wouldn’t be asking me if you thought I didn’t know.”
“You’re right, I wouldn’t. Thanks for the Cliff’s Notes.” Mac turned away, about to head in the direction of the rear doors.
“Oh, Dr. Mac, one more thing,” Jorge called after him. Mac looked at him over his shoulder, one brow raised in silent query. “Nurse DeLuca doesn’t much care for doctors.”
“Then she’s in the wrong profession.” Although that would explain the frosty shoulder, Mac decided. It was a condition, he was confident, that would change in the very near future. He’d never met a frosty shoulder he couldn’t warm up. Grinning, Mac gave the older man a two-finger salute. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”
Jorge went back to cleaning up the mess that had been left by a nine-year-old. The latter had discovered a neglected Easter basket filled with six-month-old, slightly melted chocolate and had decided to consume the entire contents in one sitting rather than share it with his older sister.
Mac noted that the nurse with the frosty attitude had sought out Wanda’s company. Probably thought she was “safe” there, he mused as he approached her.
By all rights, he knew he was free to go home and if he moved quickly, he could make good his escape before any of the ambulances arrived with the inebriated party-goers. But the world of medicine wasn’t something he chose to escape. He hadn’t worked damn hard to become a doctor just to shirk off the mantle at will. Being a doctor didn’t end the moment his shift was over or when he exited through the hospital’s electronic doors.
As far as he was concerned, being a doctor was like his being of Scottish descent. It was a twenty-four-hour deal. He was a Scotsman waking and sleeping. The same could be said of his being a physician. That meant helping whenever he could.
The rear doors flew open.
He was on.
So that was him, Jolene thought, walking away from the two men and toward the hospital’s rear doors. That was great Dr. Harrison MacKenzie, known far and wide throughout the county for his bedside manner. Both in and out of the hospital, to hear Rebecca Wynters tell it. And tell it and tell it.
Jolene smiled to herself. Rebecca was the reason she’d gotten this position at Blair in the first place, so she couldn’t be too hard on the woman. And besides, Rebecca was her friend, her very good friend. They went all the way back to third grade together.
Although at times, when Jolene thought of the romantic entanglements her friend got into, it seemed as if Rebecca hadn’t acquired any more brains since they played on the swings together in the schoolyard. She still fell for looks and forgot to factor in anything else—like character.
But then, she supposed on the plus side, Rebecca didn’t have a bad marriage behind her. Just a string of relationships that didn’t work out. Like the one with Dr. Wonderful. Although to hear Rebecca tell it—and she did—the tall plastic surgeon still owned that title. Rebecca had gone out with Harrison MacKenzie several times and had nothing but breathless words to say about him, even after they stopped seeing each other. Her eyes seemed to glow whenever she mentioned his name.
Jolene shook her head. Some people never learned.
However, that group didn’t, fortunately, include her. As far as she was concerned, Dr. Harrison MacKenzie was a player. She could spot one a mile away now.
Too bad her eyesight hadn’t been that good before she’d gotten involved