Page 4 of Wounded King
"Good," I lie. Because that seems to be the common theme between us. The truth is, I've been disillusioned by my job for a while. I'm a trauma nurse and was promoted to the ICU unit a year ago. The money is good, really good, but seeing all that suffering, day in day out, is starting to wear me down. Of course, there are good days when a patient who you didn't think would make it does, but those are few and far between. Much more common are the ones where you just want to curl up in a corner and cry.
"How's ICU?"
"Intensive," I grin and wink at her. She smiles back in herit's all forgiven, just don't ask any more questionsway. "Some days are harder than others."
"But you're saving money, right?"
I take the first bite of creamy heaven and close my eyes. "This is so good, Mom."
"Ought to be, cost a fortune, ten eggs," she laughs.
"I really hope one day you'll give me the recipe." I groan.
"You know it already."
I know the ingredients—well, partially—but not how to make it. Besides the exorbitant ten eggs, there is one kilogram—I've been trained on the SI system, which coincides with Mom's recipe—of even harder to find quark, a German cream cheese.
"You haven't answered my question," Mom prods.
Right. Sure.I wish that line of thinking would go both ways, Mom, but out loud, I proudly confide, "I've got about thirty grand in the bank now."
"Good. That's a good start." She reaches over to take my hand, the one that's not holding a fork, and squeezes it. "I want all your dreams to come true, baby girl. I wish I could help you."
She says that almost as if she could, but it would cost her dearly. Or maybe that's just my overactive imagination, which has been trained with stories of a fictive dead father.
"Only a few more years, then I'll be there," I tell her and myself. In a few years, I should have enough money to buy myself the fixer-upper of my dreams and renovate it like they do in those shows. Scott had been all aboard with it—he isn't all bad—there is a reason we dated for over a year and were about ready to get married and start a family. He had the money, too, to make my dream come true.
"It'll be all the sweeter knowing you did it on your own," Mom says as if she can read my mind.
She's right. It will be. But honestly, I'd rather live it now, even with someone else's investment and involvement, than have to wait several more years.
My phone rings. Since part of my job is to always be on call, I check. Sure enough, it'sSt. Raphael's Medical Center.
"Violet speaking," I answer, sending an apologetic grimace at my mom, who regards me with pride in her eyes.
"Vi, it's Stacy. I have a new patient for you if you want him."
"If?" This is the first time I've ever been askedifI want a new patient. Usually, they're simply assigned.
"Kelly was assigned to him, but the minute she found out his name, she quit."
That sounds foreboding. Kelly has been an ICU nurse for a little bit longer than I have; besides Stacy, we are the nurses with the longest history. Most quit after three months, at least at St. Raphael's. I've heard the work is less intense at other hospitals, but they don't pay as well, either.
"Who is it?" I ask, seriously curious now.
There is a moment of silence before she almost whispers, "Marcello Orsi."
Marcello Orsi. Orsi? Orsi? The name reverberates through my brain, somehow familiar. And then it hits me.
"As intheMarcello Orsi?" I ask.
Across from me, my mom visibly pales. But I'm too shaken to pay attention just then. Marcello Orsi is the son of a leading Italian mafia boss in NYC. His father was accused of gunning down another mafia don during a dinner party, but all witnesses claim not to remember anything. Currently, the father's on trial for racketeering, a trial that's been broadcasting on one of those twenty-four-hour news channels.
"Yes,theMarcello Orsi," Stacy confirms. "He's still in surgery, but as soon as he comes out,ifhe survives, he'll need a bed and a nurse waiting for him."
"What happened?"
"All I know right now is that he was shot. Several times, one to the head."
