The Italian Doctor's Mistress. Catherine Spencer
“Are we talking about the same person? I find her oddly unaffected by her father’s condition, despite her claims of concern.”
Her assessment coincided so exactly with his initial impressions that he was at a loss to explain his next comment. “Appearances can be deceiving, Zarah. I suspect what you interpret to be indifference might be more accurately described as rigid self-control. It’s not in her nature to show her emotions, but that’s not to say she’s incapable of feeling.”
“I have to disagree. I don’t think she cares whether the patient lives or dies.”
You should have let him die! He’d be better off!
“You may be right. I don’t pretend to know her well.” Carlo drained his coffee cup and brushed his hands together, dismissing the subject of Danielle Blake from the conversation and from his mind. “Let’s get started. I promised Anita I’d try to make it home early for a change.”
They were entering the ICU wing when he was paged. “Looks as if you’ll be taking rounds by yourself,” he told Zarah. “I’m needed in Emergency.”
He had no premonition of what awaited him. None of the prickling anticipation of disaster he so often experienced when an accident victim was brought in barely clinging to life. Not even when he pushed open the swinging doors to the Emergency Unit and saw the troubled faces of his staff turned his way, did it occur to him that their concern was directed as much at him personally as it was for the patients awaiting his care.
“What do we have?” he asked his E.R. resident, Gino Ferrari, noting curtains drawn around two cubicles. “Another auto pileup in the mountains?”
“No, Carlo,” Gino said somberly. “This time, it happened here in town, and I’m sorry to tell you your daughter is one of those involved.”
“Anita? You’re mistaken!” Disbelieving, he shook off the statement. It was absurd. For at least the last half hour, Anita had been at home, working on her after-school assignments. A glance at the clock on the wall assured him of that.
Then the absolute silence of those around him struck, and insidious tendrils of doubt tried to take hold. “Anita?” he said again, and felt his disbelief dissolve into formless dread.
“Afraid so, Carlo.”
“Where is she?”
“In here.”
The resident pulled aside the curtain in the first cubicle. Anita lay on the high bed, her eyes closed. An ugly contusion marred her forehead, her knees were scraped raw, her shoes scuffed at the toes, and her white socks grimy with dirt.
“My housekeeper’s going to be ticked off about those socks,” he said to no one in particular. “It’s a matter of pride with her that my daughter always looks band-box clean when she’s out in public.”
Gino’s mouth fell open. He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “Er…we haven’t examined her or ordered any tests, Doctor. We thought you’d want to take charge of that yourself.”
“Absolutely right.”
He approached the bed. Aware that all eyes were on him—all except his daughter’s, that was. They remained closed—he conducted a routine examination: heart, lungs, blood pressure, pupils, reflexes. Satisfied with what he found, he turned his attention to the scalp abrasion. Already, a goose egg was forming, but as such injuries went, it appeared superficial. “This needs to be disinfected and treated with antibiotic cream.”
As a rule, his staff jumped to carry out his orders but in this instance, no one moved. Instead, they stood there as if they’d been turned to stone and stared at him in stupefaction. “What’s the holdup?” he barked. “Did I not make myself clear?”
“Absolutely, Doctor. I’ll take care of the matter myself,” one of the nurses said, while the rest scattered.
Gino inched closer and murmured. “Is that all, Carlo?”
“Of course not! You know well enough that a CT Scan’s in order with any type of head injury, no matter how superficial it might appear. But I don’t anticipate it’ll reveal anything more than we can see for ourselves.”
“Even though Anita’s still unconscious?”
“That’s normal. She’ll come to, any minute.”
Right on cue, Anita opened her eyes. They filled with tears when she saw him bending over her. “Papà?” she whimpered. “I don’t feel so good.”
“I know, baby,” he said. “Can you tell me where it hurts?”
“My knees. They’re on fire, Papà.”
“You scraped them badly when you fell. We’ll apply some salve and a dressing. They’ll soon feel better.” He straightened and nodded to the nurse who’d returned with a tray containing swabs, disinfectant, and a tube of ointment. “See to that as well, please.”
Looking slightly punch-drunk, she nodded and sidled away to add sterile dressings to the tray.
“What’s the matter with everybody around here?” he asked Gino. “Is something in the water addling their brains?”
“I guess they’re…upset. For Anita and for you.”
“Accidents happen. Speaking of which, how’s the other victim?”
“Haven’t heard. She’s still being checked over.”
“Keep me posted on the outcome.”
“Sure.” The resident scratched his head. “You feeling okay, Chief?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? I’m not the one who’s been hurt. I suppose the police were called?”
“Oh, yeah! I forgot to mention an officer’s waiting to speak to you in the E.R. lounge when you’re done in here.”
“I’ll see him right away. Let me know the minute you hear from Radiology.”
“From all accounts,” the young policeman reported, consulting his notebook, “your daughter stepped off the sidewalk outside The Parkside Café, directly into the path of a car heading downhill on Fonseca Road.”
“That makes no sense. My daughter had no reason to be on that side of the street.”
The officer shrugged. “There were several witnesses who say she was. The driver swerved and narrowly missed hitting her. She’s very lucky she escaped so lightly. She and her friend could both have been killed.”
“Friend?”
“The American she was with at the café. I’m afraid the woman took the worst of it. There’s no question that her quick thinking saved your daughter’s life.”
When he’d learned it was Anita who’d been hurt, Carlo had held himself together by dint of sheer willpower. Had blocked out the memory of another afternoon when he’d walked into another Emergency Unit and found his wife lying dead on a Gurney. Had forcibly overcome the relentless fear that he might lose his daughter as he’d lost her mother.
Instead of harking back to a past he was powerless to change, he’d tapped into the deep well of self-discipline which was the mark of the true professional, and brought all his considerable expertise to bear on the present. Distraction clouded judgment and made for human error, and there was no room for either in his line of work.
Because it was the only course open to him, he’d told himself that who had been injured was not the issue. All that mattered was that, as a doctor, he was morally obligated to treat yet another in a long line of patients needing his help.
He’d held to the conviction for as long as it had been necessary. But now that the immediate crisis had passed, as well as the rush of adrenalin that went with it, and he was confronted by facts too horrific to be borne, he became