Samira was eager to get this portion of the task over with. She could now feel perspiration on her face despite the OR’s being over-air-conditioned. She was not fond of feeling anxious, and because of the long-term duplicitous life she’d led as a teenager with her parents, she’d felt it all too often.
Once in the OR and confident she was alone, Samira made quick work of getting the syringe full of succinylcholine. The only potential problem was that in her haste she nearly dropped the glass bottle containing the paralyzing drug. If it had broken, hitting against the hard floor, it would have been a calamity, since she would have hesitated cleaning it up. Each sliver of glass would have been the equivalent of a curare poison dart in the jungles of Peru. It wasn’t lost on her how ironic it would be if she’d end up being found dead in the OR in the morning.
It was with great relief that Samira retraced her steps back to the stairwell. With this portion of the assignment out of the way, she thought she was home free, but little did she know.
Descending two floors, she checked the time. It was a tad past eight. Her only concern at that point was Mrs. Benfatti, whom she had met that afternoon. Would she still be visiting? On the positive side, it was the night of Herbert Benfatti’s surgery, and the chances were he was still feeling the results of the anesthesia, meaning he’d probably be seriously sleepy or sleeping. The only way to find out was to check.
Opening the third-floor stairway door, Samira glanced up and down the corridor. Two nurses could be seen in the brightly lit nurses’ station, which meant the other two were either off in patient rooms or taking a break. There was no way Samira could know.
With her anxieties again mounting, she told herself it was now or never. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out into the hall and headed toward Mr. Benfatti’s room. All went well until she arrived at the man’s door, which was open about six inches. Eager at that point to get the whole thing over with, Samira raised her hand to knock when she found her hand poised in midair. To her utter shock, the door had been pulled away the instant Samira had expected to make contact with its surface. Reflexively, Samira let out a yelp of surprise as she was unexpectedly confronted by one of the evening nurses, whom Samira knew only by her first name. It was the remarkably obese and brusque Charu, and she completely filled the doorway.
In contrast to Samira’s reaction of surprise, Charu acted irritated that someone was in her way. She looked Samira up and down as if evaluating her and said, in not too friendly a manner, “What are you doing here? You work days.”
Charu and Samira knew each other only from nurses’ report during the shift change when the day nurses communicated to the evening nurses each patient’s status and specific needs.
“I just wanted to check on my patient,” Samira said, her voice more hesitant than she would have preferred. “I’ve been in the library studying up on knee-replacement surgery.”
“Really?” Charu questioned, with a tone that suggested doubt.
“Really,” Samira echoed, trying to sound forceful.
Charu eyed Samira with a look of disbelief but didn’t voice it. Instead, she added, “Mrs. Benfatti is visiting.”
“Will she be leaving soon? I wanted to ask Mr. Benfatti a few questions about symptoms.”
Charu merely shrugged before pushing past Samira.
Samira watched her as she headed in the direction of the desk. Samira was in a quandary about what to do. She couldn’t hang around the floor waiting for Mrs. Benfatti to leave, yet if she returned to the library, she wouldn’t know when the wife departed. On top of that, she wondered if running into Charu meant she should abort the effort altogether. Of course, the trouble with doing that was that it might be a week before she had another American patient with some kind of history of heart trouble who would make an appropriate target. By then the benefits of competing with Veena probably wouldn’t accrue.
Samira was still debating the issue when she was surprised yet again. This time it was Mrs. Lucinda Benfatti, who was a moderately tall, heavyset woman in her mid-fifties with tightly permed hair. Having met Samira that day, she recognized her immediately. “My word, you do put in a long day.”
“Sometimes,” Samira stammered. Her mission during which she was to avoid being seen was devolving into a bad joke.
“What time do you work until?”
“It varies,” Samira lied. “But I’ll be heading home shortly. How is the patient doing? I wanted to stop by and check.”
“Well, aren’t you a dear! He’s doing reasonably well, but he’s not good with pain, and he’s having a lot of pain. The nurse who was just in here gave him an additional pain shot. I hope it works. Why don’t you go in and say hello. I’m sure he’d be glad to see you.”
“I’m not sure that’s appropriate, since he just had a pain shot. I don’t want to bother him.”
“It’ll be no bother. Come on!” Mrs. Benfatti took Samira by the elbow and walked her into her husband’s room. The lights had been dimmed, but the overall level of illumination was reasonably bright, since the large, flat-screen TV was on and tuned to the BBC. Mr. Benfatti was propped up in a semi-recumbent position. His left leg was encased in a device that was slowly but constantly flexing the knee joint thirty degrees several times a minute.
“Herbert, dear,” Mrs. Benfatti called out over the sound of the TV. “Look who’s here.”
Mr. Benfatti lowered the TV’s volume with the remote and looked over at Samira. He recognized her and, like his wife, commented on the impressive length of Samira’s workday.
Before Samira could comment, Mrs. Benfatti intervened. “I don’t know about the rest of you people, but I’m exhausted. I’m going back to the hotel and collapse. Good night again, dear,” she said, kissing Herbert’s broad forehead. “Hope you sleep well.”
Mr. Benfatti’s right hand waved weakly. His left hand, with the IV going into his arm remained perfectly still. Mrs. Benfatti said good-bye to Samira and departed.
Samira found herself in an awkward predicament. She wasn’t interested in getting into a conversation with the man if she was going to go through with her plan, yet she couldn’t just stand there. Plus, having run into Mrs. Benfatti, was there more reason to cancel? The only thing that was for certain was what she’d thought was going to be so simple was turning out to be anything but. Unable to make up her mind, Samira just dumbly remained rooted to her spot.
Mr. Benfatti waited for a moment before inquiring: “Is there something I can do for you, like run down to the kitchen and rustle you up a snack?” He chucked briefly at his own attempt at humor.
“How is your knee feeling?” Samira questioned, while she tried to organize her thoughts.
“Oh, great,” Mr. Benfatti scoffed. “I’m ready to go for a jog.”
Unconsciously, Samira’s hand slipped into her pocket, and her fingers encountered the full syringe. With a start, she was reminded why she was there.