With a flourish, Jenessa signed her name to the nurses’ notes on a fourth chart. She picked up a stack of papers and the brown bag containing the lunch she hadn’t had time to eat. All day, the pace in the Intensive Care unit had been hectic. Two codes. Three admissions in five minutes, all of them critical. Instead of twenty-seven, she felt more like seventy.
She waved at the night nurse. “See you tomorrow.”
“That’s two extras in a row,” one of the women called.
“Are you some kind of glutton?”
“Am I? One more
thing and I’m out of here.” She straight-armed the door and headed for the
stairs. After stopping on two other units to collect protest forms, she entered
the stairwell.
Voices, eerie and distorted, drifted from below. The
echo-effect made her wonder if the speakers were male or female. “Don’t worry,
if we just push them a little harder, they’ll walk.”
“You’re right. Who could resist…”
Who were they talking about? She leaned over the railing, but shadows hid
the speakers. The voices faded. A door slammed. She frowned and headed to the
fifth floor where she entered the Nursing Office.
Lorraine Rodgers, one of the evening supervisors,
looked up. “Again? Don’t you get tired of making waves?”
“Is that what I do? I thought I was fulfilling my role
as a good union member and a conscientious nurse. The contract gives us the
right to protest unsafe working conditions. I just make sure they’re
collected.”
The middle-aged woman shook her head. “We all know
this is your personal crusade. Can’t you put the past to rest?”
Jenessa’s hands clenched and she felt the muscles in
her shoulders tighten. “Could you?” She fought a barrage of memories. “See that
Ms. Wallace gets these. Not that she cares.”
“You could give them to her. She’s in the house. The
Board’s meeting to select the new Director and we all know who that will be.”
“Maybe they’ll choose someone else.”
Mrs. Rodgers laughed. “Do you really believe that?
She’s been angling for the job since she arrived. We’ll have to learn to live
with her.”
“Maybe.”
“Another petition asking for Sandra’s removal?”
Jenessa shrugged. “See you tomorrow.”
“You’re on again? Do you work all these extra shifts
just to log complaints?”
“If I don’t, who’d be here for the patients?” Jenessa
strode away.
Fifteen minutes later, in her apartment across the
street, she stood in the shower. Hot water uncoiled her tight muscles, but not
her thoughts. Would the hospital Board really name Sandra Wallace, a woman
disliked by most of the nurses, as the new director? With Jim Bishop as Board
president, the choice seemed likely.
After pulling on an over-sized blue tee shirt, she
headed to the kitchen and zapped the spicy chicken dish she should have eaten
for lunch. Though she considered working on her Master’s thesis, she felt too
tired to read the stack of articles on the desk.
The apartment door slammed. She looked up and saw her
roommate. Megan kicked off her shoes. “Are you ready for a bomb? Guess what the
Board has done.”
“Sandra.”
“Is out.” Megan grinned. “Josh and I were at the Cove
for dinner. Sam introduced Eric Bradshaw. Would you believe he’s the new
Director of Nursing? And what a hunk he is.”
Jenessa pushed back long strands of dark brown hair
that had come loose from her braid. “You’re kidding.”
“Not one bit.”
“It’s a ploy. Can’t you hear Mr. Bishop’s laughter?
We’ll give the girls a man to drool over. That’ll shut them up.”
“Come on, Jen. At least they didn’t name Her.” Megan
headed across the living room, discarding pieces of clothes as she walked.
“He’s every woman’s dream. Tall, blond, broad shoulders. I positively drooled.
He’s got the greatest dimples. That’s because he’s a Libra.”
Trust Megan to ask his sun sign, Jenessa thought. Her
roommate’s description confirmed her suspicions of the Board’s motives. “Sounds
like you’re adding him to your string.”
“Wrong. A Libra and a Pisces. Odd couple material.”
Megan’s blonde curls bounced with the force of her denial. “He’s for you, my
Aries friend. Remember what I always say. An opposition can be exciting.”
Not again, Jenessa thought. For the past year, Megan’s
attempts at matchmaking seemed designed to drive her crazy. “Megan, no.”
My Places
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Mark My Places
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