1. Emotional Kaleidoscope

1

Emotional Kaleidoscope

Brighton

Monday, May 8 th

9:38 p.m.

Two days earlier

Bad things always happen on Mondays.

And today is no exception.

I stare at the fridge, the bare shelves glaring back at me, taunting me—except for the half gallon of untouched milk in the door that expired yesterday. I count back the days trying to figure out the last time I went to the store and surrender to my self-inflicted predicament.

The milk smells fine, no clumps. I slide it across the counter and survey the well-stocked, never-touched overhead cabinets before I grab a white china bowl from the highest shelf, looking for any excuse to use the dishes saved for special occasions. The day being over is good enough for me.

I want the devil to hate me. Maybe then he'd stop dragging me through hell. I chose this form of torture, but sometimes, I think I made the choice in error. Saving lives is what I do, but on the days when the universe doesn't get the memo and one of my patients loses their battle, those are the days I could do without.

I set a teakettle on the stove in anticipation of curling up with a mug of chamomile before my nightly run.

My cheerios spill over the edge of the bowl as I pour the milk, the idea of the expiration date looming in my mind.

I can't do it.

There's no convincing my brain that it's still palatable, even if it's only one day.

Screw the tea. Tonight calls for some rosé.

I'm not paying attention as I grab a wineglass from the cabinet, my mind too occupied with the call I got from Dr. Gibbons earlier today. He has a special referral. And I owe him for helping me with a patient a few years back. If this will make us even, I'm all in.

Special cases and I don't mix well. I agreed to do it before I had all the details, and now I wish I hadn't. The last time I saw a patient with my brother's diagnosis, things didn't go as planned. Too many choices led to poor judgment calls on my part and an ever-looming threat to my career.

I can't go there. Not tonight. My thoughts and everything that goes along with them get stored in the compartment in my brain where I keep all my overwhelming emotions. And I move on.

I pull out a chair, dropping into it as I prop my leg against the table's edge, and my phone starts to ring.

My purse topples off the chair as I rifle through it. Shit. There's hardly anything in here, why can't I find my damn phone? I upend the contents, watching them spill across the table onto the tile floor.

The ringing stops as I crouch, scooping up the ChapStick and a travel-sized bottle of Advil. I set them on the table and crawl across the floor to grab my stethoscope, a couple of pens, and my badge.

I hit redial without listening to the voicemail. There can't be a good reason for the hospital admin to call me at this time of night. The phone starts to ring on the other end.

It only rings once. "This is Luca."

"Hey, sorry I missed you."

"Thanks for returning my call. I hope it's not too late. Do you have a minute?"

I roll my eyes and shake my head. It's not like I'd call him back if I were busy. And it's not like I'm busy. Ever.

No life outside of work—check.

Consumed by thoughts of my patients—check.

Dreading my latest referral—check.

"Of course." I slide my laptop in front of me, assuming it's related to a patient.

"Have you seen the news?" His question and the idea that my assumption is wrong surprises me.

"No, not tonight. I just got in. Haven't had the chance." The laptop powers up, and I beg the universe to ensure this has nothing to do with one of my patients. If it's not about a patient but significant enough to be on the news . . .

"It's probably better you hear it from me first, anyway."

I shift my weight, lean on my elbows, and force a wary chuckle. "That doesn't sound good."

He clears his throat, takes a second, then says, "We've been hit with a malpractice litigation."

Holy shit.

My breath stalls in my chest. "Another one?"

If he's calling me, it could mean one of two things: a) it has something to do with our department, or b) it has something to do with me.

I choose to believe it has to do with the former and shove away the idea of the latter. I've been at the top of my game lately. No mishaps. Nothing out of the ordinary.

There hasn't been a single instance where my quality of patient care could be called into question. Not since the last time I was hit with a wrongful death lawsuit.

Collins' case was an anomaly that led to his death because of my need to push bounds with a new and experimental treatment. But I learned my lesson. I was finally putting it behind me. And now this.

The thought of the new Ewing's Sarcoma patient from Dr. Gibbons flies to the front of my mind. The one with special circumstances. The one I'm not supposed to keep because of hospital referral protocol. The protocol was put into place to protect us from mistakes, such as the one I made with Collins.

The kettle whistles from the stove behind me, and I startle, an unexpected coldness settling in my core. "When you say we , you mean the oncology department, right?"

"I'm not going to sugarcoat it. This doesn't look good."

"Luca?" I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth to calm my racing heart. It's of no use. The fact that he doesn't confirm my question has me jumping to the worst conclusion. I turn the stovetop off and move the kettle off the burner.

"Yes?"

"What's it over this time?"

"There's a meeting at eight-thirty tomorrow morning."

"I have a patient at nine." One I'm reticent to see, but a patient, nonetheless.

"It will be quick. The lawyer wants to talk to you."

This can't be good. The last time I had to talk to the hospital lawyer, things didn't go well for him. My case got dropped, and he got in trouble. I'm sure he holds a grudge.

"Me?" My thoughts race through anything I could have missed. Anything I could have done wrong. There's nothing. I've dotted all my I's and crossed all my T's. I'm thorough, if nothing else. There has to be an explanation for this.

And it has nothing to do with me .

"We're following protocol. The lawyer will talk to Kline as well. It's nothing out of the ordinary. They have some questions."

My stomach churns. Of course Kline would be involved. He takes every opportunity to remind me of how he handled the fallout of Collins' case and how he did it all for me. But he made that choice, and as a result, everything between us changed.

"What did he do now?" Any time anything has to do with Kline, it's a problem.

I can't count how many times I've had to deal with his shit, and this new malpractice doesn't mean I have to put up with any more of it.

It's not like going through eight years of school, four years of residency, and three years of grunt work was an easy feat to get to where I am today. I'm not going to sit by and get my ass handed to me on a platter because of someone else's mistake. I've fought for my position tooth and nail, and I won't let Kline rip it out from under me. His behavior could cost me all my hard work.

Luca humphs . "It's a lot to go over on the phone, and it would be easier to discuss in person."

"I'm available now." I grab my lab coat from the back of the chair next to me and drape it over my shoulders as I stand and grab a mug from the shelf next to the stove.

"The specifics haven't been announced. But this time"—Luca swallows, pausing for a few uncomfortable seconds—"you're named in the lawsuit." He clears his throat before he continues. "And there was a death."

The mug slips from my grasp and shatters when it meets the floor, shards of ceramic sailing in every direction. "What?"

"We've had suspicions for a few months. This recent wrongful death lawsuit has us looking into other cases."

I stop listening to him, lost in my thoughts. Did he say I'm named in the lawsuit? "Wait, back up. A few months? What do I have to do with this?"

"I wasn't supposed to give you any information besides the time for the meeting, but I felt you deserved to know."

I hop onto the counter, avoiding the debris from the mug splintered across the floor. "That I'm named in the lawsuit too?"

"Yes. I tried to assure them you weren't involved, but the evidence . . ."

I know what he's talking about. The exact moment. My stomach lurches, and I want to curl into a ball. I zone out, the ringing in my ears making it hard to hear Luca.

"There are two now . . ."

I can't imagine the extent of what Kline has done. Death? I remember being called out of surgery for an emergency once or twice, but I still can't recall the specifics of the patients. I'm not Kline's babysitter and can't go into every surgery with him. This is partly my fault. I should have listened to my gut.

He's held my mistake over me for years, and I've let it slide. If whatever game he's playing has anything to do with that—I'm done for. He promised to keep his mouth shut, but for how long? He's noticed I've been sticking up for myself, and he doesn't like it.

"Do you have any questions?"

"Did you say two?"

"Yes, we have evidence. There's another instance where a questionable outcome did not result in death. We've had enough to build a case against him for a while now."

And they didn't take action. A death was the result of their negligence, yet I'm the one named in the lawsuit.

The room starts to spin. I lean back against the wall, pulling my knees to my chest. This can't be happening.

"Brighton? You there? Hello?"

"You have to give me more information." I clear my throat. "I can't go into the meeting blind." Not thinking, I hop off the counter, and a stab of pain shoots through my right foot. I hop to the left, and the phone clatters across the floor as I fall to my hands and knees.

Luca's voice is muffled against the floor. He continues to speak, but I can't make out what he's saying. I brush my hand along the tile, push the mug pieces out of the way, and crawl to the phone.

"Luca, wait."

". . . on surgeries. We also have the anesthesiologist and nurse anesthetist coming in tomorrow. We want to make sure anyone present during the specific surgeries has given their statement."

"Back up. I didn't hear you." I lean against the cabinet at the base of the sink, pulling my foot up to see the damage and bite down as I yank the sliver from my heel.

"The cases you're named in were surgeries where you assisted Kline. One in March and the other three weeks ago."

"Names?" I shrug off my lab coat, wrap it around my foot, and swallow the bile rising in my throat. I already know who he's talking about, but I need confirmation.

"I'm not supposed to—"

"Who?" I've worked alongside Kline on many patients' cases because of the oncology floor's group approach to treatment. There are the two recent cases I worked with him, both at his insistence, but I can't remember anything out of the ordinary. And certainly nothing that resulted in a death.

"Brighton—"

"You called me. Tell me their names. I deserve to know what he's . . ." I shake my head, unable to finish the sentence, as I prop the phone between my shoulder and ear.

He sniffs and clears his throat. "Banks and Nelson. That's all I can say."

"I know their cases."

He hangs up before all the words are out of my mouth.

I pull the fabric from my left foot and see the bleeding has stopped. Dropping my head back against the cabinet door, my mind races as I take in shallow, rapid breaths. I recognize the signs of shock. I need to do something, anything, to keep my mind busy.

The phone clatters to the floor. I hoist myself up by the edge of the counter and run my lab coat under the faucet, rubbing it under the cold water until the red turns a faint pink.

Banks, I remember. Every aspect. Lower lumbar lipoma. In and out. Less than an hour. But Nelson, I know the case. Can't remember the surgery. I lift the lab coat, inspect it, and walk to the trash, stepping on the lever and tossing it inside. Some stains can't be erased.

My meticulous brain fluctuates between different ways to start the cleaning process. Blood and shards of mug versus purse contents and a vacuum. I survey the droplets, the bits of mug, and the remaining objects from my purse; my brain is stuck in the mud. I scoop my laptop off the table and make my way around the fiasco and into the hallway. It can wait.

Movement from the street catches my attention and I peer through the side window next to my door, catching the glimpse of a U-Haul and movers. A new neighbor. Yay.

A shiver races up my spine as I drop onto my leather sofa and prop my feet up on the coffee table, inspecting my heel and the path I took in here for any remnants of blood. It doesn't require stitches.

The computer is stuck rebooting, and the spinning wheel of death is the only thing on my screen. These things happen at the most inopportune times. I set it next to me on the cushion, grab the remote from the arm of the sofa, and pull the throw blanket over my lap.

It takes me three tries to find a station still reporting on the lawsuit. I need to know what I'm up against tomorrow and prepare. The more information, the better.

The arrogant face of Christopher Jenks, the top reporter for Fox 5 New York, fills the TV screen. I can't remember the last time I watched the ten o'clock news and can't say I've missed it. He sits straighter in his chair, shuffles his papers, and gives the camera a cockeyed grin.

"As stated before, this is not the first litigation against Mount Sinai West in the last year. Malpractice lawsuits are not uncommon, especially in the field of oncology, but when the same physician is behind the complaints, we have a duty to you, our viewers, to look into it."

I try not to gag. His theories on information he doesn't have make my insides swirl. I hate how people only look for a way to slander situations to make them fit their agenda.

Yes, Kline's been under investigation for malpractice before, and yes, it seemed shady, but I have no doubt HR dealt with it in the way they deemed necessary. Not everyone's standards are as high as mine, but ethics regarding medical practices is the one area I don't see any leeway. I'll never understand how anyone could settle for mediocrity.

"This case is being investigated more than any previous suits, and a new claimant has stepped forward, naming another physician as a cohort in the recent wrongful death lawsuit."

I can salvage this.

"We'll be coming to you live, tomorrow—"

I turn off the TV, set the remote on the arm of the sofa, and return to my laptop, sick of hearing Jenks and his appreciation for his own voice. There's no way I'm going to get what I need from a news broadcast.

Nelson, Markus.

I remember every case I've ever worked on. Every single face. The labs and scans are there, as well as the operative note. And, lo-and-behold, there's my signature. Why can't I place him?

Nelson, Nelson, Nelson.

The name doesn't ring a bell.

A quick scan of his chart does nothing to refresh my memory.

Kline has to be behind why I can't remember him, but how? I shouldn't blame him, but that's the only plausible explanation. I can count on one hand the number of times I went into surgery to be called out for something emergent. Could this be one of those times?

It doesn't make sense. I should still recognize the patient's case. I slam my laptop, toss it onto the cushion beside me, and pull my bottom lip between my teeth as I try not to let tears of frustration out. What has Kline done?

I need to run. Need to escape. I'll expend some energy, get my thoughts in order. And come back and start digging. Kline might have the upper hand but won't have it for long. I will figure out what he's up to, even if it takes all night. The answer is in the files. I know it is. All I have to do is find it.