Radclyffe - Turn Back Time

"It used to be the residents' lounge."

"But it isn't anymore?"

Pearce shook her head. "When they moved all the surgical patients into the pavilions around the corner, this was too far away to be practical. Now, no one but me even remembers it's here."

Wynter sat on the sofa and ran her hand over the soft surface, worn smooth and thin in places from years of use. A green-shaded student's lamp--an original, not a reproduction--sat on the desk. Once again, she felt like she'd stepped back in time. Even though this room was part of an era when she would not have been welcomed as a member of the club, she felt a kinship to those who had come before her. "This place is awesome."

"Yeah." Pearce flopped into the oversized leather chair and swiveled sideways, hanging her legs over one arm and bracing her shoulders against the opposite one. She dug in the paper bag and extracted a wax paperwrapped hot dog. The roll was orange from the chili sauce that had soaked into it. She took a bite, chewed quickly, and swallowed before lifting it in Wynter's direction.

"You sure you don't want one?"

"Not without premedicating with Prilosec first." Wynter sipped her coffee and watched Pearce inhale the hot dog in three bites. Her pleasure was obvious, nearly carnal, and Wynter found herself staring at Pearce's mouth as she licked a drop of mustard from her chin.

"What's the matter?" Pearce asked. "Am I drooling?"

"No," Wynter said quickly, coloring. To cover her embarrassment, she said, "So if this place is such a well-kept secret, how come you know about it?"

"I used to come here when I was a kid."

"A kid? How old?"

Pearce managed to shrug even lying down. "Eight or nine, maybe."

"With your father?"

Pearce swung her legs around and sat up, extracting the second hot dog from the bag. She kept her head down as she unwrapped it.

"Uh-huh. He used to bring me in on the weekends sometimes when he was making rounds. Then, if things got busy, he'd park me over here until he was done."

"Did you mind?"

"Nah. I could always find something to read."

Wynter tried to imagine a young Pearce browsing through the bookshelves or falling asleep on the couch. She wondered if she'd been lonely. "Did you already want to be a doctor by then?"

"Rifkins are always doctors."

"Your grandfather worked on the first heart-lung machine, didn't he?"

"Yes. His lab used to be in the building behind this one. I don't remember him all that well, because he never seemed to make it to any of the family gatherings. Always at the hospital." Pearce rose and paced in the narrow space between the sofa and the bookcases, running her fingers over the dusty spines of the now-historic tomes. She pulled one off the shelf, opened it, and leaned over Wynter's shoulder from behind, holding the book at eye level.

Without thinking, Wynter curved her palm beneath Pearce's hand to steady her grip on the book. Pearce's forearm rested against hers. The name William Ambrose Rifkin was scrawled across the inside of the cover in fading black ink. She took a sharp breath. "I can't believe this book is just sitting in here." She twisted around until she could look into Pearce's face. "Shouldn't it be in a medical museum or something?"

"Like I said, I don't think anyone remembers this room is here.

And a lot of my grandfather's papers and notes are archived at the Philadelphia College of Surgeons already. This probably isn't worth all that much." She closed the book, suddenly feeling foolish. She had no idea what had prompted her to bring Wynter to this room, let alone show her some old books that belonged to a man she barely remembered.

Abruptly, she reshelved the volume and returned to her chair and her coffee. "I can get you a key if you want."

"Oh, I don't--"

"Never mind. The library's a lot more comfortable." Pearce stood, agitated and restless. "We should probably head over to the OR and make sure everything is running on time."

Wynter rose quickly and intercepted Pearce's flight to the door.

"What I meant was I don't want to impose on your space. It's obviously special to you."

Pearce's eyes were opaque black disks, revealing nothing.

"Sometimes this place"--she swept her arm in a wide arc, indicating the hospital complex, like a small city, and the hundreds of people who worked inside it--"can wear you down. Sometimes you just need a few minutes to regroup. This is a good place for that."

"I appreciate it." Briefly, Wynter trailed her fingertips over the top of Pearce's hand. "I just might take you up on it. Thanks."

"You're welcome." Pearce's eyes cleared and she grinned. "Come on, I'll show you a shortcut to the OR."

Wynter took a deep breath and plunged after her as Pearce bounded out the door. It occurred to her that this hospital was Pearce's own private playground, and she was being introduced to the neighborhood by the kid who ruled it. She realized something else as well. She very much wanted to be worthy of playing on Pearce's team.

"Pearce," Wynter called, "stop for a minute."

"What's the matter?" Pearce said with a laugh, turning to face Wynter but continuing to walk backward down the hall. Somehow, she managed to miss running into the people coming in her direction, or perhaps they simply parted for her like the Red Sea before Moses.

"Tired already?"

"Not on your life, Rifkin," Wynter snapped, yanking her beeper off her pants and peering at it. "What's 5136?"

Pearce's expression immediately grew serious. "The ICU." She was tempted to take the call herself, but Wynter was a senior resident and it was about time they both got a sense of what she could handle.

She pointed to a wall phone next to the elevator and leaned against the wall while Wynter dialed.

"Dr. Thompson," Wynter said when a ward clerk answered the phone. She pulled her list from her pocket and anchored the phone between her shoulder and ear while she unfolded it. "I was paged.

Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Wait a minute, who...Gilbert, uh-huh...how much fluid?"

Pearce tensed. It was all she could do not to grab the phone and ask the nurse what the problem was, but she forced herself to stand still and just listen. She needed to find out just how far Wynter could be trusted alone.

"No," Wynter said firmly. "Leave the bandage in place, soak it with saline, and make sure she's had a CBC and electrolytes drawn today. We'll be right there. Oh, and make sure she doesn't eat or drink anything."

"What's up?" Pearce asked as soon as Wynter hung up.

"Mrs. Gilbert complained that she was leaking."

"Leaking. As in...?"

"As in," Wynter informed her as they hurried down the hall, "her gown and bed seemed to be covered with cranberry juice."

"Fuck."

"That was my thought too. She's what, three days post gastric bypass?" Wynter took a look at her list. "Yeah. And her last hemoglobin was 12, so it's not likely she had a big postop hematoma that no one noticed. Too soon for that to drain anyhow."

"I agree," Pearce said darkly. "If she bled after surgery, her blood count would be lower, and even if that were the case and we missed it, it's too soon for a collection of blood to drain. Did they get her out of bed today?"

"I don't know," Wynter said, pushing the button for the elevator.

"But apparently, the patient had a coughing episode just before she noticed the leaking."

"Dandy. So what are you thinking?"

They stepped into the elevator and moved to the rear, where Wynter said in a voice too low for the other passengers to hear, "I'm thinking that Mrs. Gilbert has a dehiscence. Aren't you?"

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm thinking."

"Is she yours?" Wynter asked as they maneuvered their way through the crush of people and into yet another hallway. It was a touchy question, and she half expected Pearce to lose her temper. No one liked to have a complication, especially a surgeon. And a technical complication, one that might have been avoided had the surgeon performed the procedure differently, was the hardest thing for a surgeon to accept or, sometimes, even to admit to. She had a feeling that Pearce did not like to have complications.