2. Prescription For Love

Abigail didn’t bother pointing out she and Presley came from different worlds and had formed a friendship despite that. The ultrasound tech appeared in the doorway, giving her an excuse to escape Flannery’s uniquely irritating company. She’d rarely met anyone so irreverent, arrogant, and she would’ve said insufferable, if there hadn’t been those moments every now and then when Flannery acted against type. When the conceit dropped away, something genuine and surprisingly intuitive snuck through. And now was not the time to be thinking about Flannery Rivers. In fact, anytime would probably be dangerous.

Abby focused on the ultrasound monitor as the tech coated the probe in clear gel and ran it over the young woman’s abdomen.

“Got something here,” the young Hispanic woman noted. She slowed the movement of her probe and gently pressed in small circles over the right upper quadrant of the abdomen.

Abigail pointed. “Right there. Is that a fluid collection above the right lobe of the liver?”

“Mmm,” the tech said absently, outlining the extent of the abnormality with swift, careful strokes of the probe.

She was good.

“What’s your name?” Abigail murmured. “Teresa Santiago.”

“I’m Dr. Remy—Abby. That’s nice work.”

The tech smiled. “Thank you.”

Flann loomed over Abby’s shoulder. “Probably a small tear in the liver capsule. Fluid in the chest could be an effusion.”

“There might be a rupture,” Abby said. “That might be blood.”

“Terry,” Flann said, “can you get the diaphragm any clearer?”

“I don’t see a tear,” Terry said after a second. “But if it’s small

” She hunched a shoulder. “No, nada.”

“What do you think?” Abigail said. “Wait and watch?”

Flann mulled it over. Her first instinct was to explore the abdomen. She was a surgeon. She always wanted to operate, and in this case, there was good reason. Blunt trauma severe enough to rupture a lobe of the liver could have torn the intestine free from the abdominal wall or ruptured a kidney or the bladder, or lacerated a blood vessel. In the operating room with the belly open, she could check visually, get a look at the diaphragm, and take care of any minor damage before it became lifethreatening. If they waited, continued bleeding into the chest could compromise the patient’s respiratory system, and she was already at risk of developing adult respiratory distress syndrome.

“If she’s bleeding,” Flann said, “she could go downhill fast.”

Abby nodded. “Agreed. But an incision in her belly means a longer hospital stay, and”—she went on when Flann made a disparaging snort—“a belly incision is going to make it harder to wean her off the respirator.”

Flann wasn’t used to consulting with anyone other than Harper or her father on medical care. She trusted their judgment as much as her own. She didn’t know Abigail Remy, but everything about her said she was sharp, and Flann’s ego didn’t extend to endangering the patient’s welfare because she couldn’t listen to someone else’s opinion. Compromising, she said, “Let’s get her down to CAT scan, and we can get her belly done after we take a look at her head. As long as her vitals are stable, I’m happy to wait a little while.”

“Good, I agree.”

“Susie,” Flann said, “have you got the CT tech in yet?”

“He just texted from the parking lot. He’ll be waiting.”

“All right,” Flann announced to the room in general, “let’s roll her down.”

Another nurse had joined the team sometime in the midst of the action, and he and Susan prepared the patient for transport.

Abby glanced at the clock. Twenty to eight. “Don’t you have a case?”

“Yeah.” Flann sighed. She hated delaying a patient who’d been waiting days, possibly weeks for surgery. Ira Durkee was already in the holding area, expecting to go to surgery any minute, and now he’d be sitting there for a few more hours. “A colon resection.”

“I can take the patient down,” Abigail said. “If there’s any change, I’ll call up and let you know.”

Flann shook her head. “Can’t do it. If I’m in the middle of my case, I can’t leave.”

“Do you have a resident who can—” Abby took a breath. She really wasn’t in NYC any longer.

“Right. No residents. Partner?”

Flann grinned. “I’ve got a great first assistant. But there’s no one else with the hands to handle this if we need to explore.”

“Well, then,” Abby said, “I guess you better let the OR know you’re going to be late.”

*

“Thanks, Mrs. Lattimere,” Margie called, grabbing the stack of books from the checkout desk.

The librarian waved to her from behind her big oak desk tucked into the little alcove behind the counter and smiled. “Enjoy them. See you at the reading circle on Saturday.”

“Sure thing!”