NYC Angels: Tempting Nurse Scarlet

CHAPTER TWO

SCARLET JOGGED THE short distance to the large nurses’ station in the center of the busy emergency room. “I’m Scarlet Miller,” she said to the Scarlett she’d given the flowers to a few minutes earlier. Dr. Jackson and Jessie came to stand beside her.

“They need you in trauma room three,” a nurse replied. “Pregnant teen. Walked in alone already crowning. No identification. No prenatal care. Unsure of gestation but estimated to be around thirty-three weeks. Dr. Gibbons called for a NICU team.”

“And my staff must have been called into the high risk multiple birth scheduled for this afternoon.” Triplets, one in distress, being delivered by Cesarean section at twenty-nine weeks. Scarlet removed her lab coat and handed it to Jessie. “Looks like I’m it. Please call the NICU and speak with Ashley,” she directed the unit clerk. “Tell her I’m here and to alert Dr. Donaldson and Mac from Respiratory Therapy that I’ll have them paged if I need them. And ask her to send down an incubator.”

“What can I do to help?” Dr. Jackson asked.

“Would you please have someone turn on the warming table and get me a disposable gown, gloves, and heated towels?”

“Done.” He turned to Jessie. “Wait for me in my office. Do. Not. Go. Anywhere.”

Scarlet entered the room and introduced herself to the staff, “I’m Scarlet from the NICU.”

A young girl with short black hair maybe fifteen or sixteen years old lay on a stretcher. Two nurses held her bare pale legs bent and open. An older heavyset doctor stood between them.

The girl cried out, “It hurts.”

Scarlet quickly washed her hands, hurried to the head of the bed and took the girl’s hands in hers. “Breathe through the pain,” she said. “Like this.” She demonstrated.

The girl looked up, her eyes wet with tears, her face red, her expression a mix of pain and fear. “I can’t do this,” she said.

“You can, and you will,” Scarlet answered. “Squeeze my hands as hard as you can. You won’t hurt me.”

“Here comes another one,” she cried out.

And as she squeezed Scarlet’s hands, the memory of experiencing this very same situation when she was around this girl’s age squeezed Scarlet’s heart.

“Bear down and push,” the doctor instructed.

“Push, push, push,” Scarlet encouraged. “Just like that. You’re doing great.”

When the contraction ended Scarlet introduced herself, “My name is Scarlet and I’m the nurse who will be taking care of your baby when it’s born.” She used the corner of the sheet to blot the sweat from the girl’s forehead and upper lip. “What’s your name?”

The girl hesitated but answered, “Holly.”

“Why are you here all alone, Holly?” Scarlet asked, fearing the answer. “Tell me who to call. A family member? A friend?”

A panicked look overtook her face. “They don’t know,” she said. “No one can know.” Scarlet recalled her own seventeen-year-old desperation, hiding her growing pregnant belly from her high school classmates and family, dealing with the overwhelming, all-consuming fear of someone finding out, of giving birth, and of where she’d go afterwards and how she’d care and provide for her baby. Without a job. Without a high school diploma. Without the help and support of anyone.

How naïve she’d been, actually looking forward to running away, to finally having someone she could love who would love her back.

But that dream had been ripped away when she’d gone into labor months earlier than she’d expected, when her irate, powerful, and medically connected father had accompanied her to one of the many hospitals he worked with, when she’d awoken three days later with little recollection of what’d occurred after her baby had been whisked away other than her weak cry echoing in Scarlet’s ears, only to be told her infant had died. According to one of the nurses—who’d had trouble looking her in the eye—she’d been so distraught when she’d been told about her baby’s death she’d required sedation, and so as not to upset her further, her father had arranged for private burial. Without allowing Scarlet to see or hold the baby she’d carried inside her body for months, to say goodbye or gain closure.

And her father had never revealed the location of the grave, a secret he and her mother had taken with them to the hereafter eight years ago, leaving Scarlet to always wonder—

“Oh, God. Here comes another one,” Holly cried.

“Just like before,” Scarlet said, wishing it was possible to bolster this child’s strength with some of her own.

“You’re doing great,” the doctor said at the end of the contraction. Holly flopped back onto the stretcher. “I think one more push should do it.”

Holly turned her head to Scarlet, exhausted, her eyes pleading. “Promise me you’ll take good care of my baby. Promise me she’ll be okay.”

A wound so big and so catastrophic it’d taken years to heal broke open deep inside of Scarlet at the memory of her own desperate pleas to the nurses caring for her during delivery, pleas that had fallen on deaf ears. ‘I don’t want my father in here.’ ‘I want to see my baby.’ ‘Please, bring me my baby.’

“Promise me you’ll find her a good home.”

Why not Holly’s home? Her. Wait a minute. “You know it’s a girl?” She could only know that if she’d had a prenatal ultrasound. “Who told you it’s a girl?” A medical facility would have documentation and contact information.

“I want her named Joey.” She ignored Scarlet’s question. “I want her to grow up happy, with a family who loves her.” She stiffened. “Oh, God. Another one. I’m not ready.”

“Yes, you are, Holly. Come on. It’s time to have your little girl.”

“Let me take over here,” Dr. Jackson said, holding up the same type of light blue disposable gown he now wore.

“I’ve got to get ready to take care of your baby, Holly.”

She didn’t release Scarlet’s hands. “Promise me she’ll be okay.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Promise me.”

She couldn’t promise that. “I’ll do my best,” she said. And with a small smile she added, “I’m going to need my hands.” Holly loosened her grip.

Scarlet stepped away from the bed to slip into the gown and turn so Dr. Jackson could tie the back. While she donned a mask and gloves, Dr. Jackson did indeed take over for her, talking quietly and supportively while offering direction and praise. Why didn’t he show that care with his daughter?

“Don’t push,” the doctor delivering the baby said.

“What’s wrong?” Holly asked, frantic. “I have to push. Get her out.”

“The cord is wrapped around the baby’s neck,” the doctor answered. “Don’t. Push.”

Dr. Jackson held Holly’s hands and instructed her to breathe. “Perfect. You are doing perfect.”

After a few tense minutes the doctor delivering the baby said, “Okay, we are good to go, on the next contraction push out your baby.”

In no time baby Joey entered the world with a tiny cry of displeasure, her cord was cut, and she’d been handed into Scarlet’s waiting towel draped arms. She did a quick assessment and determined it’d be okay to show her to her mom before taking her into the next room. “Do you want to see your baby?” she asked walking up to the head of the bed, knowing sometimes a woman planning to give her baby up for adoption did not.

“Chest…hurts,” Holly said, struggling for breath. “Can’t…breathe.”

“What’s happening?” Scarlet asked, holding Joey close.

“Don’t know,” Dr. Jackson said. “But whatever it is, Dr. Gibbons will handle it. We need to stabilize the baby.” He set a large strong hand at her back to guide her toward a side door leading into another room. “The warming table is this way.”

“No pulse,” the nurse standing by the head of Holly’s bed said. “Initiating CPR.” She clasped her hands together and began chest compressions.

Scarlet stopped and stared. Please, God. Don’t let her die.

“Come.” Dr. Jackson urged her forward, pushing open the door. “We need to focus on the baby,” he reminded her.

“I know.” But that didn’t mean she could completely turn off concern for the mother, a young woman she’d connected with for a brief few minutes. Luckily when they reached the warming table Scarlet clicked into auto-nurse, wiping down the too quiet newborn to stimulate her as much as to clean her. “I’m going to need her weight.”

“The baby scale was in use,” Dr. Jackson said. “Let me go grab it.”

When he left the room, Scarlet listened to Joey’s chest to count her heart and respiratory rates. Then she found the equipment she needed and fastened a pulse oximeter to her tiny hand to evaluate her blood oxygen level.

The baby lay on the warmer with her arms and legs flexed, her color pale. Not good.

When Dr. Jackson returned with the scale he placed a disposable cloth over it and Scarlet carefully lifted the naked baby and set her down. “Four point one pounds.” Scarlet jotted the number down on a notepad by the warmer and reported the other findings she’d noted there. “Pulse ox ninety. Heart rate one hundred and eighty. Increased respiratory effort. Color pale. Initial Apgar score a five.” All of which were abnormal for an infant.

“Let’s get a line in to give a bolus of normal saline and get her hooked up to some supplemental oxygen.”

While Dr. Jackson inserted a tiny nasal cannula in Joey’s nostrils, taped the tubing to her cheeks, and set the flow meter to provide the appropriate level of oxygen, Scarlet started an intravenous in Joey’s left arm—noting she didn’t flinch or cry.

While she taped it down and immobilized the appendage in an extended position, Dr. Jackson did a quick heel stick to evaluate Joey’s blood sugar level.

They worked quickly, quietly and efficiently like they’d been working together for years.

“Blood glucose twenty-five,” he reported and began rummaging around a drawer in the warmer until he found the reference card for the recommended dosages for premature infants by weight. “Add a bolus of dextrose.” He called out his orders and Scarlet filled the syringes and administered their contents via the newly inserted IV line.

“Come on, Joey,” she said, rubbing her thighs in an attempt to perk her up.

The door slammed open and in rolled an incubator being pushed by Cindy. “You okay down here?” she asked.

“Better than expected,” Scarlet replied, considering who she’d had to work with. Luckily, Dr. Jackson’s reputation as an excellent physician came well-deserved.

“Good.” Cindy turned to leave. “The NICU is nuts. I talked to Admissions. Baby Doe,” a placeholder name since Holly hadn’t shared her last name, “will be going into room forty-two.”

“Call Admissions and tell them it’s Joey Doe. Holly told me she wanted her baby to be named Joey.” And following through on that was the least she could do.

“Roger that.” She saluted then walked over to take a look at their soon-to-be new patient. “Too bad about her mom.”

“She’s…?” Scarlet couldn’t continue.

Cindy looked between her and Dr. Jackson and slowly nodded. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”

Scarlet turned away, held herself tightly, fearing for the first time in years she might cry. For Holly who’d died too young. For Joey now alone in the world. For her own infant and not knowing if she’d suffered, if anyone had cuddled her close before she’d died, or if she’d been ruthlessly given away to strangers while Scarlet lay in a drug-induced slumber.

“You okay?” Dr. Jackson asked quietly.

Of course she was. Scarlet wasn’t new to nursing. Holly wasn’t the first of her patients to die. But there was something about her…“What do you think happened?”

He shrugged and shook his head. “Some congenital heart defect that couldn’t withstand labor and delivery. A pulmonary embolism. Any number of pre-existing conditions that could have worsened or arisen during her pregnancy that we didn’t know about. Dr. Gibbons is an excellent doctor. I have total confidence he did all he could do.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

As if to share her agreement, little Joey Doe let out a little cry and they both looked down at their tiny patient. “Her color is improving,” Scarlet noted. “And she’s more alert.”

With skilled, gentle hands, Dr. Jackson examined the increasingly active baby. “Heart rate down to one hundred and twenty. I’d give her a second Apgar score of seven.”

Not a perfect ten, but improved. Scarlet documented it in her notes.

“She’s stable enough for transport up to the NICU,” Dr. Jackson said. Then he helped her get Joey situated in the incubator.

“After I get her settled in I’ll access her ER file and enter my documentation.”

“If you run into any trouble, let me know.” He held out his hand and she shook it. “Thanks for the help.”

“Anytime.” She went to remove her hand from his grip but he held it there.

“We need to talk about Jessie,” Dr. Jackson said. So serious. Did the man ever smile? According to Jessie, no he did not.

Scarlet took a moment to admire his tall, athletic build and short brown hair mixed with a hint of grey at his temples. He had a look of confidence and prestige she would have found very attractive on someone else. “No,” Scarlet said, looking to where he held her hand. “You need to talk to your daughter.” She looked up at him. “And here’s a helpful hint to improving communication between the two of you.” She yanked her hand back. “Stop comparing her to the perfect little boy you used to be. Just because you loved swimming and boating and all things water when you were a child, doesn’t mean she does.”

Later that night Lewis stood in his designer kitchen, eyeing the modern stainless steel handle on the high-end black cabinet that contained the bottles of wine he’d kept at the ready in case any of his dates wanted a glass, and considered uncorking one. Although he wasn’t in the habit of drinking alone, it’d been the kind of day followed by the kind of night that warranted a little alcohol consumption to facilitate a return to his pre-Jessie level of calm.

But Lewis Jackson had never turned to alcohol to drown his problems before, and he refused to start now. He was a problem solver, a thinker and a fixer. And to do those things he required a clear head.

Since his daughter had taken up permanent residence in the loft guestroom, he tended to avoid the living area below after she went to sleep. So he walked down the hall to his bedroom, the smooth hardwood floors cool beneath his bare feet, the central air maintaining the perfect air temperature, his two bedroom luxury condo decorated to his exact specifications for style, comfort and function. And yet his home no longer brought him the welcoming serenity it once had.

Jessie hadn’t said more than a handful of words—all of them monosyllabic—to him since they’d left the hospital, even after he’d insisted they eat their takeout grilled chicken Caesar salads together in the kitchen for a change. What an uncomfortable meal that’d been. Jessie, staring down at her plate, moving the chicken around with her fork. Lewis, trying to engage her in conversation, to offer reassurance about her trip to Lake George, to find out more about her relationship with Scarlet Miller, and, for the hundredth time, to gain some insight into the functioning of the pre-pubescent female mind. A booby-trapped labyrinth of erratic and illogical thought processes he could not seem to navigate through, despite successful completion of several child psychology classes and licensure as a pediatrician.

After nine arduous months of trying, and failing his daughter at every crisis, Lewis gave in to the cold, hard fact: He could not do it alone.

And yet again, an image of Scarlet Miller popped into his head. A pretty yet unfriendly woman and a skilled professional, who, he’d found out on further inquiry, received high praise and much respect from her peers and upper management. But at the moment, all that mattered to him was her relationship with his daughter.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out the slip of paper he’d stashed there earlier, and glanced at his watch. A few minutes after eleven o’clock.

It was too late to call, but his need to talk to her, to get answers and beg for her assistance overrode common phone etiquette. After hours and hours spent considering his options, Lewis had come to the conclusion Scarlet Miller was his key to deciphering Jessie’s passive-aggressive behavior and learning her secrets, to understanding her and starting a productive dialogue between them, so he could help her, so he could, please God, find something about her to love.

Lewis picked up his phone and dialed.

After a few rings a groggy female voice answered, “Hello?”

Great, he’d woke her up. And the last thing he wanted to do was anger his best hope for achieving a healthy, positive relationship with his daughter. He cleared his throat. “Hi. It’s Lewis.”

“I’m sorry. You have the wrong number.”

“Wait. Is this Scarlet Miller?” he rushed to ask before she disconnected the call, and before it registered that if she hung up, she’d never know he was the inconsiderate louse who’d woken her. Well…unless she had caller ID. Then he’d no doubt come off looking even worse.

“Yes,” she answered.

“It’s me. Lewis Jackson. Jessie’s dad.”

“Is she okay?” Scarlet sounded instantly awake. “Did something happen?”

Lewis liked and appreciated her concern for his daughter. “No, she’s fine. Upstairs asleep.” At least as far as he knew. And since he’d learned the hard way never to assume Jessie was where she was supposed to be, Lewis walked to the doorway, poked his head into the hallway to confirm it was indeed eavesdropper-free, then closed and locked his bedroom door, just in case it didn’t stay that way.

“How did you get this number?” Scarlet asked. “I’m sure I didn’t give it to you. And I doubt Jessie would have shared it.”

Okay, time for some fast talking. “I just happened to come across the card you’d given to Jessie,” after searching for it in her backpack and pocketbook while she was in the shower—bad, reprehensible father—“while checking her plethora of pockets before putting her pants in the wash,” he lied. “I took it as a sign I should call you.”

Silence.

“Hello?” he asked.

She let out a decidedly feminine, sultry sounding moan which made him question, “Am I interrupting something?”

“No.” She did it again. “I don’t typically talk on the phone when I’m in bed. I’m trying to find a comfortable position.”

And just like that, with the mere mention she was in bed, without-sex-for-nine-long-months-brain overtook concerned-father-brain with an enticing visual of her luscious body. A comfortable position came to mind. Scarlet spread out on top of satin sheets. Naked. Waiting.

His sex-starved body went hard.

“Soooo, you called me,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

A loaded question if ever there was one. Because right this instant he wanted her to talk dirty, to touch herself and tell him all about it, to describe her aroused nipples and slick… Lord help him. Prolonged abstinence had effectively eradicated his ability to engage in casual nighttime conversation with a woman. From bedroom to bedroom. And if he took a few small steps, from bed to bed. And from out of nowhere, the idea of phone sex popped into his head.

“Hello. Everything okay over there?”

Totally disgusted with himself, Lewis rubbed his hand over his face and let out a breath. “A bad day followed by a bad night combined with a non-existent sex life since my daughter came to live with me and I am conjuring up totally inappropriate visuals of you, a woman I have known for less than twenty-four hours, at the simple mention of you getting comfortable in bed. In my defense, you were making some very sexy noises a moment ago, so I hold you partly responsible. But I assure you, when I picked up the phone to make this call my intentions were purely G-rated.”

“And now what are they?” she teased.

“Let’s just say, the next time you see me you owe me a slap across the face, because I totally deserve it.”

Turned out she had a sexy laugh, too.

He shifted in the recliner to relieve some of the pressure in his pants. Not good. Scarlet Miller was not the woman to slake his lust. He needed her to fix things between him and Jessie and would not risk anything interfering with his top priority. “Please accept my sincerest apologies.”

“Accepted, but not necessary,” she said. “For the record, you could pass for sexy on the phone, too.”

“You are not helping.”

“Do you want to know what I’m wearing?” she taunted him.

“Absolutely not,” he lied.

“I could—”

“Stop it.”

“Fine,” she said. “But you started it.”

“And I’m going to finish it.” Only because someone had to. “I called to talk about Jessie. To try to sweet talk you into sharing some more helpful hints on improving communication between us, because the direct approach is not working.”

“Too bad. That’s the closest I’ve ever come to having phone sex.”

Did he detect a hint of disappointment? “Oddly enough, me, too,” he admitted. And why did he feel so comfortable sharing that tidbit with a woman he hardly knew?

“You know you’re putting me in a tough spot,” Scarlet said, her voice serious. “I can’t betray things Jessie has told me in confidence. She really needs a friend to talk to, and right now I’m it. It took me a long time to get her to open up.”

He wanted to ask how she’d managed that, but decided to start with, “Would you at least tell me how you met?”

She took so long to answer Lewis had started to worry she wouldn’t.

“That I can do.” It sounded like she repositioned herself in bed. Again. “I work late on Tuesdays and Thursdays to spend some time with my night staff. So I take a break at three.”

“Right around when I send Jessie down to get a snack after school.”

“The cafeteria isn’t usually busy at that time so I noticed her, always sitting there by herself with that ‘don’t talk to me’ look.”

Lewis hated that look.

“I saw a lot of my thirteen-year-old self in Jessie. Mad at the world. Too much time alone and unsupervised. Do you honestly think she’s safe wandering around alone in a city hospital for hours waiting for you to get off work?”

Lewis did not appreciate the censure in her tone. She had no idea how hard he’d tried. “That was her doing not mine. I told her what would happen if she made one more babysitter quit. And she’s not supposed to be wandering around alone,” he pointed out maybe a little too forcefully. Calm it down. “She’s supposed to be in my office doing her homework.” Except his little Houdini always managed to sneak out without anyone seeing then show up hours later when it was time to go home. “What do you suggest I do? Let her stay at my condo all alone until I get home, like she’d prefer? Maybe some thirteen-year-olds are ready for that. But in my opinion Jessie isn’t.” And his opinion was the one that mattered.