“Oh.” She looks surprised. “I didn’t realize it was so late. Take some of this food to go. I know you have to be at the hospital tonight for your shift.”
“Okay.” I get up to grab the food, heading for the door. Before I leave, I pause. “You promise that if anything was going on, good or bad, you’d tell me, right?”
“Yes, of course, sweetheart,” she says with a soft smile.
And I fully believe she isn’t telling me the truth.
I leave their apartment convinced something is happening and that, for whatever reason, they aren’t going to tell me. When I reach my own building, I can’t help noticing, again, how nice it is. It’s a high-rise overlooking the city, far too luxurious for a nurse who definitely isn’t making a million dollars.
I wave at Andy, the desk attendant, on my way to the elevators and ride up to the twenty-second floor. My apartment is a spacious one-bedroom, just over thirteen hundred square feet, with a clear view of the Hudson. It’s spring now, and the streets below are busy, stores and restaurants spilling with people eager for warmer weather after a long winter.
Like I said, this place is very nice almost too nice on a nurses’ salary.
I have to be at the hospital at eleven tonight for my shift, so I decide it’s time to shower and get ready. Maybe I’ll watch an episode of CSI before heading out. I shower, get dressed, and eat the food Aunt Lucy sent home with me. Chicken parmesan. One of my favorites.
By ten-thirty, I’m ready to go. The hospital is about a ten-minute walk from my apartment, close enough that I don’t need to rush. I head out with everything I’ll need for my shift.
The walk is quiet, as usual. New York on a Tuesday night feels calm, which is why I like nights. I pass a few people leaving late dinners, and a couple of night runners wave as they jog by.
It’s peaceful.
I’ve always wanted to be a nurse. Going to school for it was the only option I ever really considered. I knew it would be one of the few choices I get to make in my adult life before eventually working for my father.I barely remember when my mother was sick, but I remember the nurses. The way they cared for her. The way they kept me smiling, even though they knew how bad things really were. Doing this work makes me feel connected to my mom in a way I never thought possible, helping people when I couldn’t help her.
From the few stories my father and Kevin have shared, I know she would have been proud of me.
I work as a trauma nurse at the hospital. It’s a place I chose deliberately when I applied, knowing it sits in the middle of heavily contested mafia territory between the Irish and the Italians. I figured it would give me the right kind of experience.
I spent the first six months working in the ICU before I was cleared to work in the trauma unit.
This hospital is a hotbed for mafia members. I spend countless nights treating gunshot wounds and watching men slip into comas after brutal injuries. They try to intimidate us at first, but it doesn’t take long for them to realize we won’t take any of their shit. We treat them like any other patient. You learn early not to ask questions. You treat the injuries and let them leave when they want.
After putting away my bag and getting everything together for the shift, I head over to the desk to meet Lauren, the nurse I am taking over for.
“Hey, Vanessa,” she calls when she notices me approaching.
“Hey, Lauren. How is it tonight?”
“Not horrible yet, but the night is young.” She smiles. Her golden hair is pulled into a French braid that’s starting to loosen, a clear sign it’s been a long shift.
“Anything I need to be aware of?”
“Nah. The NYPD or FDNY hasn’t called anything in yet.”
She gets up from the desk, hands me the charts from the night so far, then heads toward the locker area. She works second shift now, ever since her third baby was born.
“Have a good night, Lauren. I’ll see you later.”
“You too.” She smiles back.
I review the charts and get everything ready for the inevitable emergency. It’s bound to happen. The emergency room is usually busy and bustling, but tonight it’s eerily quiet. Almost too quiet.
In the first two hours, we see only a few minor cases. Cuts and scrapes. A couple of dislocated shoulders. Nothing out of the ordinary for this hospital.
Then, when I think we may have a relaxed shift, all hell breaks loose.
Two men burst through the doors, hauling a third between them, blood soaking his clothes. I’m the first person they see, and the taller of the two, his white button-down soaked in blood, looks directly at me.
“Hey, you. Fix him.”
