The Way My Heart Beats

Chapter 20

Clara

Today is Thanksgiving. It's the day Grant and I were suppose to be in Georgia with my family. It's been a total of twenty eight hours since I was rescued from the pits of, yet another, hell.

Everyone insisted I take some time to rest. I understand why Amelia would. She's been through a terrifying, life-threatening event. I'm not saying that I haven't, but I'm kind of used to it by now. I know how to cope and jump back on the horse.

So, here I am. Scrubbed up, gloves on, listening to the lungs of a seventy-two year old patient who came in with chest pains. This is my comfort zone; my home. I've survived. It's my turn to give others the same chance I've been given so many times before.

It's nine in the morning, and I hit the ground running on my first shift back. I like it like that, though. We had two injured from a head-on collision come through those two doors, that separate me from reality, as soon as I sat my coffee down at the nurse's station. There was no time to think. Instinct took over, and I began to do what I do best.

Jackson is in jail, awaiting his trial. There's some relief in that, but my husband is still out there. That's terrifying, yes, but that's not what I get antsy about. It's not what makes my fingers tingle at the thought, or makes my stomach twist in knots. No, that's Grant. I'd rather face my murderous, abusive husband right now than Grant Holland. Why? Because I don't have to express anything other than anger to Marc. That's easy. I know how I feel about him. But Grant, it's too much. There's too much there that terrifies the living shit out of me.

"Nurse?" The gentleman sitting on the bed says as he taps my shoulder. "Mmm?" I sound, still trying to listen to his heart.

"Nurse?" He questions again. I look up this time to see his beady grey eyes looking at me in concern.

"Yes?" I respond pulling my lips between my teeth with eyebrows raised.

"Either you're deaf or I don't have a heartbeat because you've been listening to me with that thingy far too long for me not to be concerned."

I pull my stethoscope back to my chest quickly, embarrassed at my lack of ability to stay on task. "I'm sorry, sir. Nothing I hear concerns me. Let's get an EKG, and then we can decide what's going on and where to go from there."

"Whatever you say, nurse." He says as he lays back against the raised bed, propping his feet up, and clasping his hands over his stomach.

Once I pull the curtain back across the doorway, I lean against the wall between two rooms, take a deep breath, and close my eyes trying to calm myself from the oncoming anxiety attack. Deep breaths course slowly over my body as I inhale and exhale trying to slow my rapid breathing.

I'm startled by a hand on my shoulder. My eyes fly open to see a concerned Dr. Hudson staring at me. "Clara? You don't look so well. Why don't you take a break? Some fresh air, maybe?" My mouth feels dry and I suddenly can't speak. Instead, I shake my head in agreement and stand up straight. He pats me on the shoulder before letting me walk past him.

I don't smoke, but I'm suddenly craving a cigarette. When the automatic doors open in the lobby, the wind and cold air hit me hard enough to knock the breath out of me. I wrap my jacket tighter around my body as I'm able to catch my breath again.

I walk to the blue painted bench seated neatly amongst some bushes that line the front of the hospital. The bench is ice cold as my legs touch the metal through my thin scrub pants. Sucking it up, I take a seat and "get some fresh air" like the doctor ordered.

I see people coming and going, wrapped up in scarves, hats, gloves, and thick wintry coats. I hate the cold. That's the worst thing about living in Illinois.