The nurse calmly responds, “I’m sorry. Only family can be back there right now in the ER.”
My chest tightens.
No.
No.
I amnotdoing this.
I step around the counter, heading toward the ER doors.
“Ma’am!”
I spin around. “Listen. Gabrielle is back there, isn’t she? Lincoln’s ex-wife.”
The nurse freezes at the name. Bingo.
“She’sa crazy person who attacked me at a restaurant. It was all over the news. She’s very violent. She’s unstable. And she’s alone with him?Seriously?”
The nurse stiffens. Her whole posture changes.
Hospitals don’t play around with “possible threat to a patient.” Liability is their religion.
“Legally, his—” she says, already nervous.
I lean in, my voice shaking. “She put me in thehospital3 months ago. This very one. She’sobsessedwith him. I’m telling you right now, if something happens to him, if she does anything,youare responsible.”
That gets her.
Her face drains of color.
Good.
She immediately reaches for the phone. “Security, this is Admissions. I need—”
That’s my opening.
While she’s distracted covering her own ass, I walk. Fast. Straight past the desk. The nurse snaps her head up, panic flashing across her face.
“Ma’am, you can’t go back there; security is coming!”
“Perfect,” I say without stopping. “Then they can escort me, becauseclearlyno one here is taking patient safety seriously.”
She sputters something about protocol and family-only access, but she doesn’t leave her desk.
The ER doors beep when I push them open, spilling me into bright light and chaos, beeping monitors, rolling gurneys, nurses in motion. I ignore every single person and head straight down the hallway, checking room signs fast.
There's so much activity. Enough for people to ignore me.
A nurse walks by with a chart and says to another,
“Arnoldson’s ICU bed is ready,” she calls to another nurse.
The second nurse doesn’t even look up. “What bed is he in?”
“Bed 7.”
My stomach flips and knots all at once.
