Page 34 of Dr. Intern

“Do you think you could bring the stethoscope to me? I’m almost positive that it’s inside the nightstand in Parker’s old room. Sorry to rush you. I really want to chat, but I’m desperate and we’re short-staffed.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I promise as I walk into the condo. “Do you want me to just pull up to the emergency room entrance and honk my horn?”

“No, no,” she says quickly. “Just call me when you’re here, and I’ll run out.”

By the time I’m able to find the stethoscope, which was not anywhere near the nightstand like she said, and drive to the hospital, over thirty minutes have passed. A pang of guilt hits me for taking so long, given how hectic her day is, and I’m just hoping she can spare a second to meet me outside. If not, I’ll just dash in and leave it at the front desk.

On the way over, I was clutching the steering wheel as tight as I possibly could, anticipating the range of emotions that would come with returning to the last place I saw my mom alive. But surprisingly when I put the car in park and turn my flashers on, a sense of calm washes over me. I don’t picture my mom at all, because where she died isn’t where she lived. Instead of imagining her gasping for breath, I see my brother and sister-in-law, and the work they do each day. I see the lives they save, and the people that they help.

I know I like to give them shit, but it’s really remarkable that they have a calling. A passion.

After trying to reach Cass three times without any luck, I decide to park in the garage and head inside the hospital, not wanting to obstruct the entrance.

On my way in, I find myself trailing behind a young boy on crutches. He looks like he can’t be much older than eight and is clad in a green baseball uniform, smeared with red clay as if he’s been sliding through the dirt. I slow my pace, noticing how he’s struggling with each step, like he’s never been on crutches before.

Glancing around for any sign of his parents, I find no one. The thought of him falling and worsening whatever injury he’s got going on urges me to help him.

Quickening my pace, I pause in front of the boy. “Hang on bud,” I tell him, taking in the black streaks of eye paint smeared down his cheeks. “Let me grab you a wheelchair.”

The young boy nods, his dark eyes wide and grateful. “Okay, thanks,” he manages to sniffle, wiping his muddy arm across his face.

I rush inside, quickly spotting an unattended wheelchair in the breezeway. Grabbing it, I return to the boy and position the chair to his right, making sure to lock it in place so it won’t go anywhere. I used wheelchairs occasionally with Mom when she was too weak from chemo, so I’ve learned the importance of putting the brake on before someone sits down.

There will be no falls on my watch.

“Alright, pass me the crutches first and then reach down to the chair so you don’t tumble over,” I instruct, holding out my right hand as I toss Cassidy’s stethoscope around my neck because the dang leggings I’m wearing don’t have any pockets. I may hate cargo pants from a fashion perspective, but I’m now understanding why scrubs are designed the way they are—with lots of room to hold things.

The kid follows my lead, hobbling over and wincing as he settles into the chair.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, placing his hands on the wheels to move forward. He doesn’t know the brakes are engaged, so he grunts as he tries with all his strength to push forward.

I stifle a grin, admiring his independence.

“Just a sec,” I say, bending down to release the brakes. “We’re heading the same way. Mind if I give you a push?”

He nods and I hand him the crutches, too big for his small frame.

“So what happened?” I ask as we start moving toward the entrance. “Hurt your ankle sliding home?”

He shakes his head. “Into first.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to slide into first?” I don’t know much about baseball, but from the games I’ve been to you never see the pros do that.

Apparently for good reason . . .

“It’s way more fun to slide,” he explains as we cross the threshold to the hospital. “Plus, I was safe and it helped us win.”

“Totally worth it then,” I joke as we stop in front of the triage desk. An elderly woman is checking in with the nurse, so I crouch down to the little dude’s eye level while we wait.

“You should tell my mom that,” he says, flashing me a semi-toothless grin. I’m not sure when kids start losing their teeth, but it’s super cute. “She’s upset that I got hurt and was crying in the car.”

“She’s probably just worried about you. Speaking of that, where is she? Do you need me to wait with you?”

“She went to park the car and said she should be back in a sec—Mom!” His face lights up as his mom comes running through the automatic doors to the emergency room. They share strikingly similar features; dark hair and dark eyes, though hers are slightly reddened like the kid said.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” she apologizes, bending down to squeeze her son. “Parking here is a nightmare. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he reassures her, his small hand patting her back as he watches me. “This lady got me a wheelchair and helped me. Plus, she thinks sliding into first base was smart, not silly like you said.”

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