“I already know, it’s the flu. Dr. Gagnon had it a few weeks ago and—”
“Mary, it’s not the flu. You’re pregnant.”
August
“All sickness comes from anger.”
The dashboard clock that had clung to 7:56 A.M. had somehow leapfrogged to 8:03 A.M. in the blink of time it had taken the intense brunette driving the Dodge minivan to negotiate her way across a minefield of moving traffic on the southbound lanes of the Major Deegan Expressway.
Now officially late, she managed to wedge herself in the right lane behind the carbon-monoxide-spewing ass end of a Greyhound bus. The gods of rush hour mocked her, vehicle after vehicle passing her on the left. Engaging the only available tool in her arsenal, she struck the steering wheel with both palms, the long blast of horn intended to rattle the nerves of the steel cow grazing in front of her.
Instead, the hold music on the hands-free cell phone animated into a Zen-like male voice bearing a rhythmically sweet Hindu accent that greeted her with, “Good morning. Thank you for holding. May I ask who I am speaking to?”
“Leigh Nelson.”
“Thank you Mrs. Nelson. For security purposes, may I have your mother’s maiden name?”
“Deem.”
8:06 A.M.
“Thank you for that information. And how may I help you today?”
“How may you help me? Your freakin’ bank put a freakin’ hold on my freakin’ husband’s last deposit, causing eight of my checks to bounce, for which you then charged me $35 per check, severely overdrafting my account, and now I’m freaking out!”
“I am sorry this happened.”
“No you’re not.”
“I see your husband’s check was deposited on the fourth.”
She inches over to the right shoulder beyond the carbon-stained, vision-impairing Greyhound bus. The FDR South exit ramp remained a hundred yards ahead, the narrow shoulder lane all that separated her trapped vehicle from liberating freedom. She contemplated the opportunity like Cool Hand Luke working on a chain gang.
Shakin’ it here, boss.
She accelerated through the opening, only to be cut off by a black Lexus whose driver shared the same idea. Brakes! Horn! Middle finger!
“The check will clear on Tuesday.”
“Tuesday’s bullshit. Since when do you put a week’s hold on a General Motors deposit?”
“I am sorry for the inconvenience. Unfortunately, this is a new bank policy on all out-of-state checks.”
“Listen to me. My husband just lost his job. His unemployment won’t kick in for another four weeks. At least refund the bounced-check fees.”
“Again, I am sorry, but I cannot change bank policy.”
Now Luke, seems to me what we got here is a failure to communicate.
“I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry the government bailed your asses out with $800 billion of our tax money!”
“Would you like to speak to my supervisor?”
“Sure! Which part of freakin’ India does he live in?”
The Dodge minivan crawled past construction traffic on East 25th Street. Turned into the staff lot of the Veterans Administration hospital. Parked in a spot at an angle sure to annoy the owner of the car on the right.
The brunette wrenched the rearview mirror sideways. Rushed mascara through the lashes of her gray-blue eyes. Dabbed makeup on her pug nose. Smeared a fresh coat of a neutral lipstick over her thick lips. Stole a quick glance at the clock, then grabbed her leather briefcase from the toddler’s car seat and hustled out of the minivan to the emergency entrance, praying she will not cross paths with the hospital administrator.
Double doors slid open, greeting her with cooled air tainted with the scent of the sick. The waiting area was standing room only. Coughs and crutches and crying infants diverted by The Today Show, broadcast on wall-mounted flat screens, secured to cinder block by steel cable.
She looked away, moving past admittance desks and attitudes. Halfway down the main corridor, she paused to slip on her white lab coat, attracting the attention of a tall Indian man in his early forties. He fought to catch his breath. “Please… how do I get to ICU?”
His torn expression quelled her urge to vent, his appearance assuring her he is not the bank employee she spoke with earlier. Perspiration-stained dress shirt. Bow tie. Right pant leg coiffed with a rubber band. An academic visiting a sick colleague. Probably rode over from campus on his bicycle. “Follow the corridor to the left. Take the elevators up to the seventh floor.”
“Thank you.”
“Dr. Nelson!”
Jonathan Clark’s voice caused her to jump.
“Late again? Let me guess… traffic backup in New Jersey? No wait, today’s Monday. Mondays are child-rearing conflicts.”
“I don’t have child-rearing conflicts, sir. I have two adorable children, the younger is autistic. This morning she decided to paint the cat with oatmeal. Doug’s interviewing for a job, my babysitter called out sick from Wildwood and—”
“Dr. Nelson, you are familiar with my philosophy regarding excuses. There’s never been a successful person who needed one, and—?”
Her blood pressure ticked up a notch. “There’s never been a failure who lacked one.”
“I’m docking you half a day’s pay. Now get to work, and don’t forget — we have a staff meeting at six.”
Pick your battles, Luke. “Yes, boss.”
Leigh Nelson escaped down the hall to her office. Tossed her briefcase on top of a file cabinet and collapsed into the creaky wooden chair perpetually teetering on its off-center base, her blood pressure set on broil.
Mondays at the VA were mental bear traps. Mondays made her yearn for her tomboy days back on her grandfather’s pig farm in Parkersburg, West Virginia.
It had been a challenging summer. The Veterans Administration’s New York Harbor Healthcare System consisted of three campuses — in Brooklyn, Queens, and her own Manhattan East Side. In an attempt to save what amounted to pocket change, Congress had decided they could only afford two prosthetic treatment centers. This despite two ongoing wars and yet another surge. A million dollars per fighting soldier, pennies to treat his wounds. Had Washington gone insane? Were these people living in the real world?
Certainly not in her world.
Longer hours, same pay. Soldier on, Nelson. Suck it up and repeat the mantra: Be glad you still have a job.
Leigh Nelson hated Mondays.
Twenty minutes, a dozen e-mails, and half a leftover donut later, and she was ready to sift through the patient files stacked on her desk. She was barely through the second folder when Geoff Payne entered her office.
“Morning, Pouty Lips. Heard you got caught on the last train to Clarksville.”
“I’m busy, Geoff. State your business.”
The director of admissions handed her a personnel file. “New arrival from Germany. Patrick Shepherd, sergeant, United States Marines, age thirty-four. Another IED amputee, only this poor schmuck actually picked the device up in his hand when it went off. Complete removal of the left arm just below the biceps insertion. Add to that bruising and swelling at the base of his brain, a collapsed left lung, three broken ribs, and a dislocated collarbone. He’s still suffering from bouts of vertigo, headaches, and severe memory lapses.”