Tracy Kelleher - Invitation to Italian

“I need it yesterday,” Julie urged.

She turned back to the expectant mother, whose face was streaked with tears as she hiccupped away her sobs. “Carlotta, the ultrasound shows that your baby is very weak. And we can’t wait any longer for it to come out.” Tina stormed in and hooked up the IV bag. She got the line going immediately. She read out the signs to Julie in a trained staccato.

Underneath the hubbub and rapid-fire activity, Maria translated Julie’s instructions, looking from mother to father and back to Julie.

Carlotta blinked rapidly and shook her head. She reached blindly for her husband’s hand. “¿Qué, qué es lo que esta diciendo?”

Julie knew they couldn’t waste precious time. She needed Carlotta and her husband to understand what was going on—now, sooner than now. “You are experiencing eclampsia or pregnancy-induced hypertension. This is a very serious condition. Both you and the baby are in jeopardy, and I will need to perform an emergency cesarean section,” she said quickly, urgently.

“¿Que le pasa al bebé? I don’t understand?” Carlotta’s husband looked from Julie to Maria. His face was contorted in fear. The tendons stood out in his neck.

Julie opened her mouth to spe—

There was no time to answer. Carlotta’s limbs went suddenly rigid. Her eyes rolled back. As if struck by lightning her body jolted, and foam immediately gurgled from the corner of her mouth.

“Magnesium sulfate. Now!” Julie yelled. She needed to control the convulsions. Tina readied the injection and handed it to Julie.

“Carlotta, Carlotta!” her husband screamed, his hands going to his face.

Julie administered the dose and checked Carlotta’s vital signs. “Maria, explain to Mr. Sanchez that we are doing everything to ensure his wife’s safety,” she said, not bothering to stop, let alone look up. The antiseizure medicine was fast-acting, and Carlotta settled into unconsciousness, her breathing aided by an oxygen mask. Julie turned to the nurses. “Let’s get a move on. I want this baby out of here and the mother out of danger. O.R. knows we’re coming?”

“They’re waiting for us,” Maria said. “That was my first call.”

“Then we’re outta here,” Julie ordered. Tina readied the IV poles. Julie put up the side guardrail and bent to push the bed. Maria, at the foot of the bed, pulled backward, banging the door open with her butt.

Julie put all her weight behind her efforts, keeping her eyes on her patient as the bed rolled swiftly forward. “Maria, explain to the husband that he’ll have to stay in the waiting room, but we’ll keep him informed.”

Maria spoke rapidly.

Carlotta’s husband brought up the rear, jockeying to get closer to his wife and reaching out his hand to touch the rolling bed. “You will save her and the baby, won’t you?” he pleaded in Spanish with Maria translating.

Julie didn’t need the English. She could sense what he was asking from the tone of his voice. And she could feel him breathing hard as he rushed to catch up with her. “Le prometo,” she said as she continued to move forward. “I’ll do every—” Hanging on to the bedrails, she swiveled to reassure him face-to-face…

And never saw the ultrasound machine.

The corner clipped her right in the side of her face. She momentarily saw stars.

“Doctor, are you all right?” Tina asked.

Carlotta’s husband blanched. He held out a hand to help.

Julie blinked. “No, no, I’m fine, really. Estoy bien.” She tried not to wince. “It’s my stupidity. Really. Let’s just keep moving everybody.” She pushed the bed and nodded to Tina to get going again. “And, please, somebody get a social worker who speaks Spanish to stay with Mr. Sanchez.” It’s the least we could do, she thought.

They reached the operating theater, and an orderly held Mr. Sanchez by the arm as they whisked through the doors. Julie didn’t bother looking back. All she thought about was the delivery and that it was going to be difficult. She would need all her training and expertise to guarantee a happy ending.

Then—no matter what—somebody was going to pay.

And she knew just who.

Monday morning

DR. SEBASTIANO FONTERRA folded his arms and leaned on the blotter positioned precisely in the middle of his immaculate desk. A Venetian glass vase, black with orange swirls, was juxtaposed against the flat plane. It was a gift from the board of directors of Grantham hospital, and in Sebastiano’s opinion, hideous. Naturally, he kept it prominently displayed.

Sebastiano offered a sincere nod to demonstrate his attentiveness to the stately woman sitting across from him who had been speaking to him—no, haranguing him—for more than half an hour.

He smiled politely, masking the subversive fantasy bubbling in his brain, the fantasy of jumping atop his desk and, with his arms outstretched and his face raised heavenward, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Per me questo lavoro non vale la pena!” Which somewhat loosely translated to, “They can’t pay me enough to keep doing this job!”

Not that he would ever allow himself to act so…indecorously. So emotionally. Sebastiano didn’t do emotional, let alone fantasy.

What he did do was perform his job as the CEO of the University Hospital of Grantham with admirable skill and considerable grace. He needed both qualities when dealing with the woman seated across from him, the woman who headed up the hospital’s fundraising committee and who had, through personal donations, ensured that her late husband’s name would be emblazoned on the oncology wing of the new hospital.

So with seeming equanimity, he shifted his posture and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Since he didn’t have the slightest idea what she’d been talking about—having tuned out somewhere between her description of her newest peony cultivar and her criticism of how the ink on the local newspaper, the Grantham Courier, came off on her cream-colored Chanel suit—he offered his tried-and-true conversational gambit. “You always bring a unique perspective, Mrs. Phox,” he said warmly. Then he offered up a smile meant to convey sincerity and sensitivity. Not many could carry off the feat with such visible genuineness.

The society dame rotated her head slightly. If a weighty volume of Emily Post’s Etiquette had been atop her immaculately coiffed gray hair, it wouldn’t have shifted a millimeter. She eyed Sebastiano with arched brows. “I was merely inquiring if you were free for a working breakfast at the Grantham Club on Friday to meet with Rufus Treadway. We need to discuss the impact of the new hospital building on the neighborhood,” she said. Rufus was the former mayor of Grantham and unspoken representative for the historical African-American neighborhood where the hospital was located.

“As I am sure you are well aware, the proposed expansion is not completely welcome in the immediate neighborhood, and I thought that Rufus could prove to be an effective mediator.” She looked at him with a skeptical eye. “And, please, I insist. Call me Iris.”

Sebastiano cleared his throat. “Of course. Iris. What I meant was your suggestion to meet over lunch at the club presents a less confrontational setting.” He wondered if Iris Phox bought it.

She didn’t blink.

Sebastiano sighed. “Listen, I have to apologize. I must confess my mind wondered a second there, not a reflection on your conversation but my own hectic schedule.”

Iris nodded. “You do work hard. And don’t think that we on the board don’t appreciate it. Your efforts at ushering the building plans through the zoning and planning committees have been masterful. Your ability to attract corporate sponsors beyond compare. And needless to say, your embrace of the community hasn’t gone unnoticed.”