All For Anna (9 page)

I knew there wasn’t a
chance I could deny it. Every word she said was not only accurate, it was nauseating.
It was like watching a horror movie and stopping it in the middle of the
climax. Would the heroine be rescued? Could she still be saved?

I was more afraid than
ever to hear the answer.

Too much time had
passed. I couldn’t even remember the Tori
before
the accident. A
different kind of death had claimed
her
that night. It was the kind of
death that no pulse could conquer, the kind of death that stalked its prey like
a dark, hungry shadow. That Tori was gone.

“Yes. It never
dissipated,” I answered, stunned by the sound of my own voice.

“Victoria, when was the
last time you cried? Can you remember?” She was leaning in toward me again,
getting closer by the second.

Is she waiting to add
my answer to her clinical calculations?

“About a week after the
accident.”

Anna’s funeral.

“That’s about what I
had figured. I’m certain that what you’re dealing with is a form of PTSD—Post
Traumatic Stress Disorder,” she said.

My ears felt like they
were stuffed with a hundred cotton balls. I couldn’t understand her words.

“What?”

W
hat did she say?
PTSD...like a war veteran? That can’t be what she means.

No way.

“PTSD. And yes, it
happens more than you realize, in everyday people who experience the worst that
life can throw at them. It’s not just a post-war diagnosis. So many people walk
around with it thinking it will lessen with time, but it doesn’t. Those people
just find ways to cope. Usually, very unhealthy ways like abusing drugs or
alcohol, or isolation from family and friends. They can also develop other
mental disorders, as well. Some have even been known to commit suicide as a way
of escape, but it doesn’t have to be that way—not for you.”

Dr. Crane spoke with
such conviction that if I hadn’t known any better I would have sworn I was in church.

“It will take some hard
work, Victoria, to un-hinge the compartments holding back your emotions and
your ability to feel, but I am willing to guide you through that process. I
think you’re an extraordinary young woman who has far surpassed any heroic
validation I could offer, but I also know that if you’re not helped...the trappings
of PTSD will consume you. So, let’s make a compromise, shall we?”

Compromise
?

“I’m not sure I
understand what you mean, Dr. Crane?”

My head was spinning in
a million different directions.

First she tells me I
have PTSD like I just got back from a bloody war field in Iraq, now she wants
to play “let’s make a deal”?

“Having you here
against your will only defeats the progress we can make together. So, I am
willing to sign off on your overtime hours, if you are willing to agree to
treatment. That means that you will be the one making the appointments with me,
doing the homework I assign, and showing up here willing to work. I know this
is a lot to think about, but I can’t help you until you decide for yourself
that you want my help.”

She pushed back her chair
and stood up. I was still in a daze when she placed her hand on my shoulder and
looked at me with deep sincerity.

“Anna doesn’t have a choice to make, but you
still do. Her death doesn’t have to mean your death. There is no even exchange,
Victoria. If you won’t do it for yourself...think about doing it for Anna.”

“There is no even
exchange...do it for Anna.”

There had been several
diagnostic claims made to me or about me over the last 17 months, mostly by
disgruntled family members or co-workers. I had been called: cold, detached,
withdrawn, ice queen…and worse. I had easily ignored every one of them. This
one, however, struck a chord that resonated through the entirety of my body. It
was a low blow to involve Anna’s legacy, but Dr. Crane had a point.

Did she really, though?
Is therapy for PTSD—if that’s actually what I have—really going to help honor
Anna’s life?

It was a question that
I didn’t know how to answer. That fact alone gave me pause. As tempting and
appealing as working overtime was, the flip-side to her compromise was
downright bone chilling. The idea of more therapy was like looking into an
abyss, strapped into a harness, and being told to jump. Sure, the harness
provided some sense of security, but without knowing the depth of the free
fall, what good was a harness at all?

What if I lose what
little control I have left?

I may live in a prison
now, but at least I know my way around it.

I knew I needed time to
make this decision, but for the next twelve hours thoughts on PTSD and therapy
compromises would have to be placed on hold. Nursing did not mix well with
mental and emotional distractions. I tucked the thoughts away and hurried down
to the locker room to change into my scrubs.

My stomach was suddenly
aflutter as I pushed opened the door and rounded the corner to my locker.
There, taped to the dull metal locker of #44, was a folded note. My name was
written on the front.

I pulled it off slowly.

Tori-

I realized I never gave you my number, must
have been too caught up in “playing doctor”. I’ll get yours from Stacie later
today and text you to confirm a time for tomorrow. Everything is planned—just
pack a bathing suit and a change of clothes. We’ll have fun!

PS. Don’t worry, no hot tubs are involved…I
promise.

555-298-4463

Kai

Note still in hand, I
slumped down hard on the bench.

This day is just
chock-full of surprises
.
What had I gotten myself into?

And why did the idea of
swimsuits and Kai make my heart race at a hundred beats a minute?

The idea that he had
been in this very locker room looking for me, caused my anxiety to simmer. But there
was something else mixed in with the anxiety, something that I hadn’t felt in
quite a while: excitement.

My smile—even though I
couldn’t see it—was ridiculous.

No, this is ridiculous!

Deal or no deal, family
friend or not, it was obvious that Kai’s charming ways seemed to get him what
he wanted, but that would change soon enough. Though his gesture was undeniably
flattering, I knew it was misdirected. Stacie was the type of girl who ended up
with a guy like Kai. He needed a girl who would giggle and swoon, one that was
well-mannered and polished. He needed the type of girl that seemed to be
created with some sort of magical “girlfriend pixie dust” that I didn’t
possess.

There was a nagging voice
somewhere in the back corner of my mind that seemed to disagree with my
judgment. The fact that he had pursued me even after my
less-than-gracious-moment at my parent’s house, and after my drowned rat
exhibit in Stacie’s bathtub, did lend some credit to the opposition. But even
with those truths in mind, I had no choice but to dismiss the notion that my
judgment could be off.

There was no use
playing a game that would ultimately end in disqualification before it even
began. If he was hoping to get a
Stacie Jr
., he would be sorely
mistaken. Our apples may have fallen from the same tree, but they had rolled in
opposite directions.

**********

Meg Holt, the charge
nurse in Emergency, was sitting at the nurses’ station buried in paperwork when
I checked-in for my shift. Though my encounters with Stormy had been
interesting at best, Meg seemed like she enjoyed her job and liked her staff. I
had interviewed with her when I first arrived back in Texas a couple weeks ago.
It had been a fairly short interview compared to my detailed overview with
Human Resources, but I quickly gathered that she was a down-to-earth type of
gal. Though very capable of managing a demanding work environment, she was
absent of the typical stress-case attitude that was usually married to it. When
she told me she was from the Northwest—Oregon, I believe—the dots connected.

Meg partnered me with
Bev Hatty for the day. Bev was a thirty-something socialite who, in my opinion,
was far too interested in the lives of each and every staff member we passed.
Though she wasn’t exactly instructional or helpful, she wasn’t a total
stick-in-the-mud like Stormy had been either. Bev’s main focus was on a doctor
by the name of Thomas, a doctor who I was fairly sure was married.

I wondered how much
longer I’d have to be “supervised” as I administered my third IV for the
afternoon while Bev stood in the doorway and texted on her phone. Apparently
whatever was happening on that tiny screen was far more important than the lady
who was crying from her kidney stones. Thankfully, the woman’s morphine kicked
in within twenty minutes and she was now resting peacefully, waiting for the
doctor.

The last six hours of
my shift were filled with college students who were drunk beyond measure. Many
needed treatment for alcohol poisoning, while the other obnoxiously noisy frat
brothers filled the waiting room. Hospital security was higher on evenings and
weekends, usually due to this exact scenario. Drunks didn’t seem to follow the
rules as well as the old lady with a rosacea flare-up did. Being surrounded by
several universities came with its perks—and its annoyances.

“I really don’t think I
need to be here...I’m just a tad woozy.” One twenty-something frat boy had
slurred to me. He had practically passed-out on me before we even got to his
outpatient room.

“Just lie down right
here, if you need a bucket-”

Too late.

Vomit was now all over
the floor and bed. Thankfully, I was standing a good three feet away at that
point.

With breath like a
sewer plant he said, “Whoops, I’m think I’m gonna need a-”

I gave him a
vomit-catcher just in time for the next round. After I administered his IV and
the CNA cleaned up his mess, he looked almost gray in color. He was also
sweating.

His story was similar
to the other ten-plus college students who had arrived here via car or
ambulance. A Ping-Pong binge drinking game at one of the frat houses a few
miles away had been their demise. Though this guy was still conscious and
breathing, it was quite obvious he had consumed more than
just
a
few
shots. I hooked him up to the necessary monitors.

Trying to make him as
comfortable as I could, I gave him an extra pillow. Time and fluids were the
only antidote for him at this point. He was beyond any other intervention we
could offer.

I checked in the hall
for Bev a few times to ask where various supplies were located, but she was
nowhere to be found.

I’m sure Dr. Thomas
knows where she is…

I made do fine on my
own though, as usual. Turning to leave so I could update the doctor on my
patient’s condition, my wrist was yanked behind me. I stumbled to find my
footing. In an instant, I was pulled to the bedside of my inebriated patient.
My wrist ached under the strain of his tight grip.

“Nurse, you sure are a
pretty little thing.”

He breathed hard in my
face as his head wobbled left and right. His eyes were still glazed-over, but
even still, they held in them a sickening focus.

“Thanks, now please
release my wrist...Travis,” I said, trying not to agitate the look of
aggression on his face.

I learned once that
using a person’s name could shock them back into reality, but now I questioned
if that logic worked on drunks. I doubted it. His grip didn’t loosen in the
slightest. The strength of the intoxicated never ceased to amaze me. “If I
wasn’t so attached to these ma-chines, I’d show you a real good time darlin’,”
he said. His emphasis on the word machines sounded like rocks in a
dryer—hideously annoying.

His face contorted as
he spoke, not like that of a predator per say, but of a boy who had played the
field at least a few dozen times and wasn’t used to rejection.

“I’m not interested,
please let go of my wrist.”

My voice was stronger
now—more intense. I pulled and twisted, fighting for release. Suddenly, he was
sitting upright at full attention. His other arm came around my backside,
bringing with it the monitor wires and his IV bag.

I was trapped—pinned-in—completely
immobilized.

His arms were a vise,
squeezing all life from my lungs.

“Let me go!” I growled
with the last of my breath.

I dodged my head away
from his sloppy mouth as it made a bee-line for somewhere between my neck and
chest.

“Stop fighting me!
You’ll like it!”

He was completely immune
to my panic and my disgust.

As I made one last
desperate attempt to break free, a large shadow passed over me. In the split
second that it took for the man to burst into the room, my struggle was over.
Kai threw Travis to the bed.