Hannah Alexander - Sacred Trust

“Sorry, too late.” She gestured toward the waiter, who carried out a sizzling platter of chicken, onion and peppers, and a steamer with hot flour tortillas. “I overheard you telling one of the patients today how much you loved authentic chicken fajitas, so I took the liberty of ordering them for you. Come on, sit down. They won’t taste nearly as good cold.”

This had been a stupid idea. Why had he agreed to come? But Lukas was hungry, and that hunger overrode his sense of caution. And this wasn’t a date. He pushed the chair back in that she had kicked out for him, and instead he took the chair next to it, in spite of the mess of cluttered dishes he had to move aside. He would not get lured into an intimate dinner for two, or even the appearance of one.

If Lauren took offense at his small act of rebellion, her expression hid it well. She leaned back and rested her feet on the rail of the chair he had discarded. “Dig in, Doc. I know you’re hungry. I don’t think you’ve eaten anything since lunch, have you?”

“Breakfast, actually. Late breakfast.” He bent his head in a short, silent blessing, then looked up to find Lauren nodding with approval. Big deal. The nurse in KC had pretended to approve of his faith, too, at first, until it got in the way of other things she wanted.

“Found a church yet?” Lauren asked, watching Lukas overstuff his first tortilla.

“Not yet. I haven’t had a chance.” He took a large bite, the force of which pushed half the meat and veggies back onto the plate from the wrap. The smoky heat so filled his mouth and senses that for a few seconds he didn’t realize Lauren had resumed talking.

“…Covenant Baptist, just about four blocks from where you live.”

Lukas shot her a wary glance as he chewed and swallowed. “You already know where I live?” He’d just been there a few days.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not checking up on you. The real estate agent who sold you the place is a friend of mine,” she explained as he took another bite and washed it down with water. “You don’t grow up in a small town like Knolls without getting to know most of the other natives. Everyone’s talking about the new full-time E.R. doc, and they probably all know where you live.”

Lukas gulped another bite without comment. He, too, was from a small town, and because of that he knew he probably wouldn’t be accepted here as one of them for twenty years.

“So do you think you’ll come?” she asked.

He stopped chewing and looked at her.

“To church Sunday.”

“I’ll probably go somewhere.” He built another fajita, this time with less filling, while Lauren chatted on about the hospital.

He learned quite a few interesting facts about his new place of employment, such as the doubled volume of patients seen through the emergency department since Mrs. Estelle Pinkley took over as administrator five years ago. The lady had, according to Lauren, brought the hospital out of the computerless dark ages and out of debt for the first time in over a decade.

“But you’d better watch yourself,” Lauren warned as Lukas finished his last bite of chicken. “The E.R. director doesn’t want a full-time physician working here.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “With Dr. George, who knows? He fought Mrs. Pinkley about the computers, too. He’s about ready to retire, and he doesn’t like change.”

Lukas glanced around to find the waiter flipping around the Closed side of the sign in the front window. “Looks like we should be leaving. Will they give us a ticket at the cash register?”

“Don’t worry, I paid it already.”

Lukas reached into his pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. He smiled as kindly as he knew how and placed the money on the table in front of her. He knew as he left that he was behaving like a jerk. It bothered him. Lauren seemed like a good, caring person, and she was probably just being kindhearted to a newcomer. Still, he wasn’t going to take any chances.

T hursday morning Lukas arrived at work later than usual, dripping with dew from the light rain outside. He could have kicked himself for oversleeping. The shift change would just have to be with the emergency department director, Dr. Jarvis George.

“Morning, Judy. Any patients waiting?” Lukas asked as he checked his mail cubicle.

“Good morning, Dr. Bower.” The E.R. secretary for today’s shift turned from her computer and smiled at him. “Dr. George is in the laceration room sewing a nursing-home patient who was injured when she became combative. We’ve got an irritable child in five and a possible sprain or fracture in seven. Dr. George hasn’t seen them.”

Lukas glanced at his watch. Even though he was ten minutes late, he had time to change into his scrubs. The patients weren’t critical, and Dr. George would want to finish his own sutures. “Thanks, Judy. I’ll be right back.”

He glanced into the emergency room and glimpsed the director bent over his patient. Jarvis George’s graywhite hair, army-cut short, could have depicted a kindly older gentleman who loved his patients and whose patients trusted and loved him. Maybe that was the case. Lauren’s warning about Dr. George echoed from last night.

When Lukas walked into the laceration room a few moments later, he was friendly and upbeat.

“Good morning, Jarvis. Do we have any patients you want me to take?” He glanced at the elderly female who lay prone on the table, her nearly fleshless tailbone and hip exposing a small gash beside a partially healed bedsore.

The older man straightened from his work and pierced Lukas’s friendliness with a glare. “I don’t know how you were taught to address your superiors in your Kansas City hospital, Dr. Bower, but I prefer a little less familiarity, if you don’t mind.”

Lukas managed not to stare. “Excuse me, Dr. George. I meant no disrespect. I guess I am accustomed to a more casual atmosphere.” Wow, Lauren was right. There seemed to be a problem here.

Dr. George returned to his sewing. “You can see to the whiny kid in five. He’s got an earache. The patient in seven has a probable sprained ankle. I’ve been busy sewing, and since you came in late, I haven’t had a chance to—Ouch!”

Lukas had watched it happen, had seen the needle pierce the glove in the palm of the man’s left hand, and winced as he imagined the puncture.

“Can’t believe I did that,” the director muttered to himself. He shot a quick look toward Lukas, as if blaming him for the distraction.

Lukas stepped out of the room. “Nurse,” he called and found redheaded Beverly coming from the child’s room. “We need a needlestick protocol in here, please.”

“I beg your pardon,” Dr. George rumbled as he stepped around the laceration table and out toward Lukas. “Nurse, ignore that request,” he said, not taking his gaze from Lukas.

Lukas cleared his throat, staring back at his new director in dismay. “I’m sorry, Dr. George, I didn’t mean to offend. I’ve just been reading about protocol, and—”

“I’m aware of protocol, Bower,” Dr. George snapped. “I helped write it.”

Lukas winced. He was not winning a friend here.

The director waved Beverly away, still glaring at Lukas. “If you will kindly take care of your patients and leave me alone with mine, I’ll be able to get home sometime this morning.”

“Yes, Dr. George. Sorry. I’ll go see my patients now.” Lukas hustled away, resisting the urge to ask the director if his tetanus was at least up-to-date.

The sprain turned out to be a hairline fracture. The earache did not require antibiotics. After Lukas had splinted the ankle and convinced a distraught mother that the medicine she requested could actually set her child up for a more resistant strain of ear infection later, Lukas finished his charts and checked for more arrivals.