Page 83 of Hearts Held
As we clean up a patient she continues, “The other night, he wrote me a poem. It was awful! Talking ’bout how my hair was as fine as yellow straw, and my arse was as curvy as the hills in Edinburgh. I’m not even sure if Edinburgh has a lot of hills. But I didn’t dare tell him that. It had no rhyme to it, but I swear the way ’is eyes light up just makes me heart so ’appy. I love how much joy we bring to one another’s lives. Maybe the next time he proposes I’m just gonna say yes already. It’s only been a couple months but hell, life is too short!”
Her rosy cheeks flare as she explains the sweetest details between Bobby and her.
It reminds me of my own face flushing at Everett’s touch. His hands on my body, and—
“Nurse Holberry, we got a new patient arrived! Isolation Room 174, please hurry. The squad that pulled in said they need a nurse immediately, possible tuberculosis. I’ll find the physician!” our charge nurse shouts at us.
Tilly turns toward me after placing the blanket back on the now clean impaired patient. “I’ll help you out, darling,” she states as she hurries to the sink, washing her hands.
I begin gathering supplies that are usually helpful during an admission. Swiftly grabbing various items that may become useful to have at hand.
After trudging down the hall I make it to the room, having forgotten for a moment it’s one of the tuberculosis isolation rooms. It has a small ante room adjoined to the patient room where staff can gather their isolation gear and enter safely. Opposite the main room is the ambulance door, so squads could place patients within the room and not come in contact with other personnel in the hospital hallways or waitingrooms.
Spotting Tilly a few yards behind me, I enter the isolation room and don the isolation gear. The heavy gown scratches across my uniform and the large mask weighs on my cheeks. I peer through the small glass window on the door, barely seeing any movement within the room.
The room is drenched in omniscient darkness.
Did they just drop the patient off?
Unfortunately, with the negative stigma hovering over tuberculosis, many individuals, including staff, would do as little as possible to aide tuberculosis patients. They would rather run like it was the bubonic plague.
Understandable.
Having placed the isolation gown and gloves snugly on my body, I cover my face with the Gibbs breathing apparatus. It has clear plastic covers so I can see, accompanied with a long sealed plastic cone approximately five to six inches long that juts out to fit around the nose and mouth, allowing oxygen to pass through. A hose could be attached to the plastic cone, so it may connect with a small respirator machine that could push oxygen into the mask. I tighten the straps on the back of my head, making sure they’re secure.
As I enter the room, I make sure all doors are firmly shut behind me to ensure the negative pressure balance of the room.
Glancing around, I find two young men in isolation gear. One is looking through drawers for supplies as the other stares down at a clipboard.
“Hello, gentlemen, what can you give me for report?” I ask.
As I near the patient’s bed, I look up at the two men, who are staring at me like I have six foreheads.
“Did you hear me?” I ask.
Turning to check on the patient, I notice they aren’t connected to any hospital devices.
“Hi, dear, I’m just going to check—”
A man in a three-piece pinstripe suit lies in the bed. His jet-black hair is slicked back and his brown eyes are filled with malice. “Hello, Miss Brielle. I’m Michael Sabini.”
I try to rush away from the bed, but the other men come to my sides and grip my arms.
Then the door opens.
Tilly.
Oh no.
No, no, no. Tilly, run.
I thrash in their hold, trying to scare Tilly and have her leave the room to go get help. My faithful friend lunges for the emergency button on the wall, but one of the men grabs her from behind.
Michael Sabini rises from the bed. “Well, seems like we will be having an eventful evening. Put them in the vehicle.”
I look over at Tilly, seeing the panic through the mask. I yell, “I’m so sorry, Tilly. I’m so—”
Pain erupts from the back of my head as someone hits me with a blunt object and places me in a commandeered ambulance. They force Tilly and I into the back of the vehicle as we fight their restraint. As they wrap our wrists in ropes, I glare up to find Michael Sabini entering the back of the vehicle with us. A wicked smile adorns his face, with a thin black mustache outlining his upper lip.
