Never Let Go
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Sherryl Woods
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18,3K
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14
PROLOGUE
The rumpled sheets on the on-call room’s narrow bed felt as cool and welcome as satin when Dr. Justin Whitmore finally stretched out after nearly twenty-four straight hours on duty. His mind was numb, his thought processes dulled by an all-too-familiar exhaustion. His back ached from hours of standing in surgery bent over an operating table. His tired eyes burned and his stomach was knotted with hunger, but sleep was more important now than food. As his head hit the thin, lumpy pillow, the tensed muscles in his long legs and across his broad shoulders slowly began to relax and the deep furrow between his hazel eyes eased.
Just a half hour, he pleaded silently, as his eyes fluttered closed. A half hour of blessed sleep just might get him through the rest of the night and the day that stretched interminably ahead. Sometimes it seemed as though his residency had been an endless blur of such nights. Sleep tugged at him, luring him like a forbidden mistress, attracting him so thoroughly that it was several seconds before the piercing beep dragged him back.
“Hell,” he muttered, leaping to his feet and pulling on his white lab coat as he took off down the hall with long strides.
He knew even before he pressed the beeper button for his message that it would be the emergency room. For a neurosurgeon at this hour it was always the emergency room and it was always trouble. He’d be needed by people on the edge of death, fighting not just to live, but to live with bodies and senses intact. There were times, like now, when that thought intimidated him. He thrived on the challenge, but the power he held in his hands humbled him, especially on a night like this. He feared his concentration wasn’t sharp enough, his hands weren’t quite as steady as they should be.
Double doors whooshed open automatically as he ran down the eerily silent halls, corridors that only a few hours from now would be teeming with doctors, nurses, technicians and visitors. Justin knew all too well that the middle of the night hush could be deceptive, hinting at serenity, only to erupt into well-orchestrated chaos once the ER was reached.
He arrived at the emergency center on the run, pausing only long enough for the triage nurse to point him toward the trauma area, where another nurse was waiting for him.
“Six-year-old male, head injury, possible fractured ribs, maybe a broken arm and internal injuries. His vital signs are shaky. The X-ray technician is in there now, and we’ve sent the blood work to the lab. I’ve called up for an operating room. You’re going to need it,” she summed up with a conciseness that Justin appreciated.
The trauma team nurses were exceptional. They were compassionate, but far more important in this setting they were skilled professionals. They never wasted a single second of time that could mean the difference between life and death.
“Thanks, Helen,” he said, taking the chart and going into the room. The team of nurses, an intern from general surgery and the X-ray technician surrounding the patient all spoke in a terse medical shorthand. An intravenous line and portable monitors were already in place.
Justin moved into a space beside the table and asked the intern for a summary. The recitation of injuries and vital signs was ominous.
“What the hell happened?” Justin said, already going to work with skilled efficiency. Adrenaline pumped through his body, wakening him thoroughly and sharpening his senses.
“His mother says he fell down the stairs.”
Justin’s head snapped around, his gaze incredulous. “At four o’clock in the morning? Who’s she trying to kid?”
“I recognize him, Dr. Whitmore. He’s been here before,” one of the veteran nurses offered. “Cuts and bruises, that sort of thing. Never anything quite this bad.”
“How often?”
“I’d say a couple of times a year until recently. Lately, it’s been more like once a month. Last time, I checked it out with social services. The social worker has filed reports with the state. They’re trying to get him out of that house, but it seems his grandparents have a lot of clout. No one wants to take a chance that they might be wrong about what’s going on.”
Justin muttered a vicious expletive as he gazed down at the skinny little boy, who was lying so unnaturally still. The child’s pale skin was already turning an angry shade of purple in splotches on his arms and legs. There was a nasty lump on his forehead and a deep cut on his scalp that had matted his curly blond hair to his head. The boy whimpered as Justin probed gently, and something inside the surgeon twisted into a hard knot as carefully blocked memories reawakened and washed through him. For just a second, his hands shook. Then he took a deep breath, fought for control and continued with the examination.
“It’s okay, pal,” he murmured soothingly as the boy moaned softly. “We’re going to get you through this. I promise.”
It was a terrible world that allowed a child to be mistreated like this. Repeated visits to the hospital, mysterious injuries always attributed to clumsiness and a system that didn’t seem to give a damn. What would it take to end the child’s suffering? His death?
The nurse who’d spoken seemed shaken by Justin’s fierce expression and his heavy, heartfelt sigh as he scanned the X rays.
“Is he going to make it, Dr. Whitmore?” she asked hesitantly.
“With a little help from God, we might be able to save him one more time,” he said, his voice raw-edged with a quiet fury. “Are the consents signed?” Helen nodded. He looked at the intern. “Okay, then, let’s move it. Get him to the OR on the double, Frank. I’ll meet you there.”
He turned back to the head nurse. “Helen, see if you can rouse Dr. Hendricks at home and get him in here. He’s the attending physician on tonight and we may need him. And have an orthopedic guy on call just in case that arm’s broken, too.”
Justin was out the door as he spoke, already racing for the elevator…racing against time.
