Date: Mon, 08 Jan 2001 20:38:09 -0800
Subject: Things Undone 2: Mending the Tears 01/06

This is the continuation of the original Things Undone story. Sally and I
are working on a series. We're into Things Undone 5: Snipe Hunt right now. I
didn't write this installment, Sally did, so email her if you like it! Or I
can forward email to her as well.

Mending the Tears, part 1
Author: Sally (sallyh@flashcom.net)
Category: A little romance.
Rating: R 
Archive: Ephemeral, Gossamer, FLO and LGM, all others ask.
Disclaimers: You think I own these characters? I wish. They should too --
they'd make a lot more money working for me. But they belong to the
cheapskates at 1013 Productions, Fox Television and two dudes who go by
Morgan and Wong.

Thanks to: Thes, for being a better character in life than I could ever
create in fiction. To the divine Martha, just because she's divine and
should be worship  ped as such. And most of all here to Erynn, for the
creation of a simply magnificent piece of fic. I doubt I can come up to her
level, but I'll try.

No humans were injured in the writing of this story. I did, however, almost
step on my cat. It's not my fault she wants to sleep right next to the bed.

JANUARY 11, 2000
PENN STATE UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER
HARRISBURG, PENNSYLVANIA

My name is Deborah Saint John, pronounced Sinjin where I hail from, namely,
the sunny, languid, warm city of New Orleans. Emphasis on the warm.

Fucking January. What the hell ever made me come to Pennsylvania?

I'll tell you what brought me here. No, it wasn't a guy or anything tasty
like that. I was lured here by an offer to do my residency in emergency
medicine.

I must ha  ve been out of my fucking mind. I was offered a residency at
Louisiana State, but it was in psychiatry, not emergency medicine. I decided
I had enough problems coping with my own craziness and would not opt to deal
with others' brands of lunacy.

Now you see how misguided I really was.

I like emergency medicine, actually.

Sometimes.

I like it best on my days off, which are few and far between these days.
Right now I'm living the typical life of a third-year resident, which means
all work, no sleep makes Deborah a bitchy girl.

Needless to say, I feel bitchy a lot. And today is worse than most. I had to
cover for someone last night. I've had no sleep for nearly two days. I got
my period last night, right in the midst of stitching up some loser who'd
had a few too many and decided to play Speed Racer on an icy back road. By
the time I was done with him, there was more blood from me than him on the
floor.

What really pisses me off is, jerks like him will be back in my emergency
room in no time. They never get it.

I have yet to meet any guys around here who make me want to take them home,
even for an evening. My choices are limited to the other residents, all of
whom are as bitchy and sleep deprived as I am, and the locals, who mostly
have IQ's that are less than my height. (72 inches. Yes, I'm an Amazon. That
probably helps my sex life even less than fellow residents whose sex drive
has been replaced by the need for sleep).

And to top it all off, I'm starving. I was getting ready to enjoy my power
breakfast of two Hostess cupcakes and two Little Debbie Devil Dogs when I
was paged. I had to work on some geezer with an obstructed bowel. Needless
to say, I didnt have much appetite after that.

All I want to do is sleep and take a show  er. In that order.

I've got ten more minutes on shift. In the normal world, that means it's
almost quitting time. In the world of medicine, it means that there are ten
minutes left for me to be paged and once again have my day shot to shit.

I wander to the vending machines to grab a substitute for my power
breakfast. I made the mistake of setting the packages down in the on call
room. Never do that. You leave food around here, it's considered fair game.

I'm not really hungry but I need to have something resembling a blood sugar
level if I'm even to make it back to my apartment. I'm in the midst of
debating as to whether I should go for the Twinkies or the Dolly Madison
Donettes when my pager goes off.

Maybe it will be a message from my mother.

No dice. Its 911.

Fuck!

I had seven minutes to go.



"You get the one in Room 4," the triage nurse points at me, handing me the
chart that's been started.

"Lovely. You start an IV on him?" I don't see it in the paperwork.

"No, you didn't orde  r one."

"That's because I haven't fucking seen him yet!" God, get a clue, would you?

"Dr. Saint John, we're all tired," the triage nurse is trying to keep cool
with me, but I can see her glaring.

"Sorry." I actually like her, her name's Mel Scarlett. And pissing her off
is not in my best interest. The nurses have ways of payback that can make
your residency a complete disaster. I've thus far been able to maintain a
good rapport with them, but if I don't get some sleep soon, I might as well
head back to New Orleans and apply for a job at K Mart.

"'S okay," Mel pats my hand. "Been a long night."

I start to read the paperwork in my hand when Mel taps me again.

"Oh, and Dr. SJ? He's cute."

Oh sure.


Paperwork gives the name as Richard P. Langly, birthdate June 28, 1965,
male, caucasian, residence given as Washington DC. What the hell is he doing
here in the goddamn outback? Must've ended up here by accident. I think of
Harrisburg as being a lot like hell -- you don't come here   by choice, you
end up here.

Maybe he just needs a few stitches and I can send him on his way, and still
get home in time to watch reruns of Lonesome Dove' while I crash on the
sofa. Then I read the notes from the nurse's preliminary exam.

I'm not going home anytime soon.


I think to myself, what in the hell ever made me want to do this for a
living?

Well, there was near-poverty in teaching Latin at a local Catholic school.
Classics majors are not the most marketable employees known to God and man.
Then there was the fact that I discovered I really don't like kids that
much. So after two years of watching my mouth and making superhuman attempts
not to murder any of my young charges, I applied to medical school.

At the time I received my acceptances, I felt that the gods were smiling on
me, not playing the sort of cosmic joke. I have since discovered that they
are in fact having a good laugh at my expense.

It doesn't list the cause of this guy's injuries. Probably another   bar
fight gotten ugly, another loser with more muscles than brains trying to
prove how much testosterone he's got.

I knock on the door of room 4.

A man's voice calls out, "Come on in." Sounds pretty good for someone who's
supposed to be in as bad a shape as this guy is alleged to be. The voice,
though, came from a gentleman sitting in what is supposed to be the 'comfy'
chair' we provide. Shit, he looks old for 34, I think to myself.

"Not me. Him." The man points at the gurney.

I was afraid of that.

The long figure on the gurney is shivering. I turn to Sue Johnston, the
nurse who is working with me.

"Get him some blankets."

Sue goes off in search of something to keep this boy warm while I check him
over.

He's a mess. His hair is stiff with blood and smells like meat left out
overnight. (I should know. I've done it). A cursory exam of him proves that
there isn't a spare inch of him that isn't mottled with bruises. The poor
man looks like raw hamburger.

"I'm Dr. Saint J  ohn," I introduce myself.

He opens his eyelids as much as he can. Looks like he took quite a pounding.

Despite his injuries, he smiles a tiny, sweet smile at me. "Hi." That took
all of his energy, I think.

Why are my kneecaps suddenly melting?

I really shouldn't have debated so long over the Twinkies or the Donettes.

"I'm going to be taking care of you," I say gently, settling my hand lightly
on his shoulder -- very lightly. I don't have X-rays yet and God only knows
what kind of shape it's in.

He smiles that little sweet smile of his again, and looks right at me as
best he can.

"'Kay."

No, this has nothing to do with hunger...

Mel was right.

LANGLY, IN A GREAT DEAL OF PAIN

Wow, she has gentle hands.

And a nice voice. Love her accent. Course, I'm so dazed and confused right
now, it could be William the Refrigerator Perry hanging over me for all I
know, but I think I got enough still going on that I know a girl when I feel
one. Wish I could get a good look at her face.

"Let's get him all cleaned up and on some oxygen," I hear her accent again.

I'm shivering. But I don't feel quite so cold.

No, this is a good kind of shiver.

I get it again when I feel a soft hand on my shoulder. "Mr. Langly, we're
going to have to start an IV on you. You're big time dehydrated and you're
gonna need some antibiotics to boot. And soon as we get you a little better
oxygenated, we can start feeding you some morphine."

Ah, there is a God.

Want to see her face, but not only are my eyes majorly messed up, but I'm
blind as a bat on a good day.

I feel something warm near my face. I open my eyes a little.

It's her.

Oh man, even as messed up as I am, I can tell she's pretty. I want to look
at her more, but I pass out cold.

Making a great impression here, arent I?

***

FROHIKE:

"So how is he?" I ask the long cool drink of water who is apparently the MD
in charge.

She leans wearily a  gainst the counter. "So far, he's severely dehydrated,
badly bruised, lacerated, has infections starting in several areas, and I'm
positive that he's got several broken ribs and a broken arm, although since
we screw up by committee here, I'll have to have the radiology dudes confirm
it. His shoulder is dislocated as well. How's that for starters?"

She's a pretty girl. I bet she's a knockout when she's had a few hours of
sleep and puts on a little makeup. Too bad Langly's too out of it to notice.
Bet he'd go for her. "We also have to check and make sure he's not
hemorrhaging internally. It looks as if he took quite a pounding in the...
abdominal area."

Is she blushing a little?

No. Couldn't be. She's a doctor. She sees this stuff all day long.

She is, though.

Two nurses and a young man she introduces as her intern ("just call him
Ahab, he doesn't answer to anything else") proceed to work on Langly as she
writes her orders.

In between catching glances at my boy, of course. She's trying to be
discreet about it, but something keeps drawing her eyes to him, and I don't
think it's simply medical assessment.

"I'm going to radiology and I'll be right back," she says, and I notice she
is sweating. This is ironic; it's the middle of goddamn January in
Pennsylvania and it's not much warmer than the outside in this frigging
room.

I thought Langly was out of it, but as she opens the door, he moans sharply.

"Hey Ahab! Do you mind?" Her voice is sharp as she addresses her intern.

"I didnt do anything!" The young man protests vehemently, but Langly cries
out again.

"Stay."

"I'm right here," I move closer to pat his hand. He turns his head the small
amount he is capable of. Opens his eyes ever so slightly.

"Her. Stay."

"You mean Dr. Saint John here?"

He nods, a tiny but perceptible affirmative.

I look at him, then at her.

"I think he's gonna live."



DEBORAH SAINT JOHN:

Talk about feeling like you're on the spot.

The older man has his eyes firmly fixed on me, as if he knows something and
he's daring me to admit to it.

Christ on a crutch, I wasn't this uptight when I was doing my surgical
rotation and the lead surgeon told me to sing. I thought he was joking, but
he was dead serious. I pulled myself together just enough to sing a rousing
chorus of "Poisoning Pigeons in the Park" by Tom Lehrer. For which I
received a solid round of applause, I'll have you know.

There is a lot of humiliation in medical training, but nothing I've been
taught ever prepared me for what I think is happening to me.

I've been kicked in the butt by...

Something.

"Um... uh... I have to run to radiology. I'll be right back." I can't
believe my voice is cracking this much.

"Dr. SJ, are you all right?" Sue Johnston raises her head momentarily to
look at me.

"I'm... fine."

I race out of the room with what minimal dignity I still have remaining.

Shit.

The worst is about to happen.

I have become gossip fodder for the nursing staff.

And all because of... him.

END OF PART 1 

THINGS UNDONE 2: Mending the Tears, Part 2

MEL SCARLETT

"Can you walk these over for me, Mel?" It's Dr. Saint John.

"Excuse me, do I look like the messenger boy?"

I actually like Deborah very much. She's a sweet girl and very, very bright.
But she has yet to figure out that young and cute is no match for menopause
and attitude. I have both in spades.

It's not so much that I object to walking over to radiology. There are a
couple of young hunks of flesh that are worth looking at in said department.
Never mind that they have the social skills of two-year-olds. I never said I
wanted to talk to them.

But as head nurse in the emergency department, it is my sworn duty to make
sure that interns and residents are raised up right, and part of raising
them right is to teach them, early on, that you will NOT answer to their
every beck and call. Cave into them a few times and they'll start mistaking
you for maid service. I don't even clean up after my own kids. I'll be
damned if I'll do it for these. "What about Sue and Kate? And Ahab? You got
three people."

"They got paged."

"Oh yeah, right, the Pinto and the semi argument. Shit."

"Can you do that, Mel?"

"Look, tell you what. I'll keep an eye on your patient while you put in the
orders. I take 'em over, they're gonna ignore 'em for hours, and your boy
didn't look that good."

"Okay." She sounds a little disappointed. Probably because she didn't want
to walk the extra 75 feet to radiology.

Wait a minute. Is she blushing?

"He's a cutie, even all mucked up, isn't he?"

Her response is to go beyond blush and into crimson, and to take off like a
scared rabbit.

All I can say is, it's about time. We haven't had any good new gossip in
ages.



I tell Patti the receptionist to take over for a few minutes. Scary thought,
having Patti manning the desk, since most humans have more brains in their
fingernails than she has in her entire body. But it does give me a chance to
get away from her arguing with her latest boyfriend on th  e phone.

Time was that that was enough juice to keep the gossip machine around here
lubricated, but now it's just old news. Hospitals run on gossip. People
think they run on insurance money, but that's a myth. The only reason to
work here is to see what everyone's up to. Of course, when it gets really
dull we make it up, but it's so much more fun (and incriminating) when there
is some basis in reality for it.

I knock on Room 4's door, which is locked. You'd think these people were
paranoid or something. Or they've been in hospitals before and know the
drill.

"Dr. Saint John?" I see he's gotten the pronunciation correct, at any rate.

"No, it's Ms. Scarlett. The head nurse."

The door is released by the older gentleman I saw come in with the younger
man.

"Well, hello, pretty lady," he greets me.

"Not hardly. How's our boy -- hey, did you know your shoulder's bleeding?"

"Oh, don't fuss, I just cut myself, it's no big deal."

This person may be short, but he is very obviously male  , and in
male-speak, his sentence translates out to, "I have actually severed a limb,
but will bleed to death before I admit that I'm hurt."

"Let me see it." I order him, sensing that a polite request will have as
much effect as ordering a tornado to cease and desist.

"Right here?" He looks aghast.

"Yes, right here!"

"I'm not that badly hurt. He's the one you should be worried about." He
points to the restlessly dozing figure occupying the gurney. Poor boy must
really be out of it. If you can sleep on one of those things, you're either
beyond exhaustion or a resident.

I check the young man. He's still a disaster, covered with cuts and bruises,
although he's been cleaned up some. At least he smells better than when he
came in.

I check him over to make sure that it doesn't appear that any internal
hemorrhage is sneaking up on him while we are so pleasantly chatting here.

Damn.

The boy is...

He may be injured as hell, but it's obvious that he is, well, extremely well
endowed.

"He look  s all right. For now. At least he's sleeping. C'mon, let's have a
look at your shoulder."

He stares at me with steady, cool green eyes. "I'm not leaving him."

"I can tell from here that it needs to be sutured, sir."

"No, it doesn't."

"Yes, it does. I'm going to send you over to the suture room to get put back
together."

A flash of anger in those eyes. "Apparently you didn't hear me, ma'am. I'm
not leaving him alone."

A knock at the door. "Dr. Saint John."

I release the latch and she steps in. Poor kid. She's dying to go home. Her
day off was supposed to start nearly an hour ago.

"Mr. --"

"Frohike."

"Mr. Frohike, come along with me."

"You don't understand, ma'am," he says sharply to me. "He's...we've...been
through a lot in the last couple of days."

"Yes, and although actual mileage may vary, yours is showing, Mr. Frohike."

"I can't leave him alone."

"Would you feel better if I... stayed with him?" Dr. Saint John speaks up --
very haltingly, I might add.

Her cheeks are flushing hot.
  
The short older man looks at her sternly. "You promise not to leave him
until I get back here, is that clear?"

"Y-yes." She stammers out.

"Fine. Mr. Frohike? Let's move it."

Men. Can't live with them. Can't kill them.



DEBORAH:

He looks so small right now. Which is an odd perception, since he's even
bigger than I am.

Maybe it's because he appears so helpless. He's got all kinds of junk
flowing through his veins, including morphine, which right now doesn't seem
to be adequately combating the pain. He stirs constantly, uttering little
moans that suggest the pain is much more than physical.

He moves from stirring to attempting to rustle about.

"It's okay, you'll be fine." I gently lay a hand on his head. It's warm.

The gesture seemed to calm him.

I check the monitors. Most of his vitals are stabilizing, but he's still got
a temperature of 101.5. That means that I should write admitting orders.

Writing admitting orders is something I do all the time, and I get no
particular thrill fr  om it. So why am I shivering as I begin to prepare
his?

I'm in the midst of signing the last of the paperwork to take to Admissions
when he begins moving again. He begins whimpering but it rapidly escalates.

I touch his hair. It's still pretty gunked up, but the nurses managed to
clean the worst of the stickiness -- and the smell -- from it. In spite of
the detritus remaining, I can tell he's got very soft hair. Like a baby's.
Probably a beautiful creamy color when it's not full of blood and dirt and
oil.

This time he opens his eyes. He tries to speak, but it takes a while for
something to come out.

He's struggling. "Take your time. It's all right." I keep my tone soft,
soothing.

"Frohike." I think that's what he said.

"Is that your friend?"

"Uh-huh." Speech is a terrible effort for him right now.

"He's in the suture room. He'll be back soon."

He's in a morphine haze, staring at me blankly, as if the intent of the
words did not register. "Your friend is right nearby, Mr. Langly."

"Ringo."

"H  is name is Ringo?" I'm puzzled here.

"No. Me," he croaks hoarsely.

"That's what people call you?" Admitting form says Richard, but then again,
I went through college being called Thespis... still use it as my email
address.

"Some." He moves, just enough to cause a lot of pain, and he winces and
moans.

I touch his hand. God, he has lovely hands. Large but well sculpted. At
least I'm sure they are when they're not so terribly torn up. I feel
something akin to an electric shock move through my body as I touch his
hand. Oh God, what am I getting into here?

He's your patient, I remind myself. Part of the professional relationship is
establishing enough trust to be able to move into the other person's body
space. This is actually one of the more difficult aspects of training. I
think that's why they have you start out by cutting up a corpse. It's your
first crack at being in someone's face. Fortunately, the body is very dead,
so it doesn't matter how bad  ly you screw up on the first go round.

Touch is supposed to be comforting to the patient, and nonthreatening to the
physician.

This touch feels anything but professional. Especially when I feel his
fingers wrapping around mine.

I look down to make sure I'm not imagining the warm jolt that just stung
through me.

No, I'm not. Sure enough, his fingers are curling over mine. In spite of his
weakened condition, he's got a pretty good grip going on.

"Wha's your name?" He asks.

I'm about to say, I'm Dr. Saint John, but instead, "Deborah" falls out from
my lips.

"Deborah. Pretty name." He gives me a little smile, closes his eyes, and
falls back into narcotic slumber.

As for me, I should be going home. I should be ready to transfer him over to
a house physician. Once patients leave the emergency room, they're no longer
my responsibility.

I have laundry. I'm tired. I'm hungry. I need a shower. I should really get
my ass out the door.

I will.

But not now.



MEL. SCARLETT

"Y'kno  w, if you want, I can stitch this up myself. Unless you want to wait
for one of the doctors. That might be a while," I say to Mr. Frohike.

"Fine with me. Just do it quickly. I need to get back to my boy."

"Sorry. Busy day here. Freezing rain, brings in a lot of accidents. Mostly
cars, but we get some idiots who think they can stand up on the roof when
it's slick as a penguin's butt."

"Well, we did get up on the roof, but that's not how it happened," Mr.
Frohike says to me.

His voice is quiet, serious.

"What did you boys get into?" I ask.

"Long story."

"Wanna talk about it."

He shakes his head in the negative. "No. Just get me stitched up so I can
take care of the boy."

"Very well. That boy means a lot to you, doesn't he?"

"They both do."

"Both?"

"Got another one. Not here right now."

"He's all right?"

"I don't know. But I need to find out soon. Let's get on with it."

I begin to help him peel the layers of bloodied clothing off and go about my
work.

END OF PART 2

Things Undone 2: Mending the Tears, Part 3

FROHIKE:

"You call that a cut?" Ms. Scarlett has now assisted in peeling off my upper
garments and is chiding me sharply over the condition of my shoulder.

"Yes, what would you call it?" I retort. I'd like her to get on with it
already. I have my boys to take care of, and I'm wasting my time here.

"That's a laceration."

"Fancy word for cut."

"Mr. Frohike, that's way beyond cut. It's down to the muscle, I bet. And I'm
going to have to clean it out."

"As long as you do it quickly, fine."

"This may sting," she informs me.

It doesn't.

She eyes me quizzically. "You've done this before."

"It happens." I really don't care to relate the events that have made me
well-versed in dealing with hospitals, medical personnel, and procedures.

"Most people hit the ceiling when I start to irrigate. You didn't even
flinch." She continues with her work. It's slightly uncomfortable but not
unbearable. Certainly not the worst I've ever endured.

She has small, ex  pert hands and seems to know what she's doing. "Are you
sure you don't want some lidocaine before I start suturing?" she asks me.

"Don't need it."

"Whatever. You don't need to impress me with how rich you are in
testosterone, though."

"I just want to get back to the boy."

"You're really worried about him."

"He's in bad shape."

"He's in good hands. Dr. SJ is very competent."

"But she won't be with him once he's admitted." I have no doubt that Langly
will be confined for at least a day. He's stabilized, but not sufficiently
to be thrown back into the wild.

"No."

"All right, you're done. Get your shirt back on and I'll put your arm in a
sling."

"I have to be able to drive."

"Mr. Frohike. What you do on your own time is your affair. What you do on
mine is mine. And you'll put the sling on when you're in my care."

"Yes, ma'am."

Women. We always lose to them. And we keep coming back for more.

***

Ms.   Scarlett leads me back to Langly's holding cell. Jesus, you'd think
they'd get the boy in a room already. He's obviously not fit to travel right
now.

When we enter the tiny room, Dr. Saint John is still very much present with
him, but she doesn't even see or hear us. She's ministering to him, yes. In
the form of stroking his hair and cradling one hand. I get the sense that
this has moved beyond professional courtesy and into something else.

God help me, I'm still getting over Byers' close encounter with someone of
the female kind. I am getting way too old for this shit.

I check to see if he's returning her apparent affections.

That would be affirmative. His hand is firmly locked into hers.

"Dr. SJ?" Ms. Scarlett's voice is a bit sharp.

The young resident looks up, each cheek bearing a spot of deep crimson.

Ms. Scarlett continues. "Did you write admitting orders for him?"

"Uh -- yeah, they're right here." She pulls away hastily from Langly,
inducing him to whimper. "I'll walk 'em over now."

"You do t  hat." Ms. Scarlett walks over and checks Langly again.

"How's he doing?" He still looks terrible.

"Better, but not good enough to be a road warrior yet. We'll get him in a
room soon as we can."

She looks at me with clear, serious eyes. "Are you all right, Mr. Frohike?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Would you like something for the pain? I'm sure Dr. SJ would write you a
scrip for something."

"No, I'll be fine."

Someone around here has to keep his wits about him. Looks like once again,
I've been appointed.



DEBORAH:

I'm on my way to the Admissions office to drop off the paperwork and
reluctantly hand my patient over to the house staff.

I'm halfway there when my resident in charge stops me. "We've got a 26-car
pileup on 83 and we've 47 incoming. Make yourself
useful."

I'm about to protest, "Hey, I'm off!" but simply mutter, "Fine."

I wander over to Mels desk for assignment. She's back in motion. "Oh good,
you're still here. We're gonna have to go on total divert anyway, need all
the hands we can get  ."

We are barely set up when they start flowing in.

I of course, in my sleep-deprived and emotionally overwrought state, am
awarded someone who looks more like dropped pizza than a human being when
they arrive. Amazingly he's not DOA.

We struggle for over an hour to save the person, but in the end, we cannot
sustain him. 86 minutes later, I'm asked to call it.

I asked my resident in charge one time when I would get used to this part of
the job. He said, "If you're lucky, never."

I don't feel so lucky right now. And it gets worse.


***

LANGLY:

"Where is she?" I ask Frohike.

"I don't know."

I may be out of my mind on drugs, but not so far gone that I could miss what
just capped me on the ass.

That girl is incredible.

"You find her?" I ask Frohike.

He groans. If I could see him I bet he's rolling his eyes.

"Oh Christ, Langly, the place is a madhouse. She's probably working her ass
off right now."

"Hope...she'll...come back." I'm fading.

I hear him cough. "Oh man, first   Byers, and now you? Jesus."

"Go find her?" I can barely get the words out.

He doesn't say anything, but I hear him stomp out as I pass out.



DEBORAH:

I don't know how many hours have passed. I lose all sense of time when I'm
working. This may be a blessing; were I conscious of the passing hours, I'd
probably feel even more exhausted than I do already.

I lost three patients today. Granted, I saved six others along with the help
of my teammates, but the loss of three people is tearing me to shreds.

"Nothing more you could have done," my resident in charge assures me.

I want to scream. To break down and explode into tears. To just come
completely unglued. But you don't do that here. Believe me, they watch
everything you do. Not just your technique, but how you react as well. I do
that, and it's going to be really ugly on my evaluation.

I sink down to the ground and close my eyes. The way I feel right now, I
could simply collapse in this spot and never move again.

I get a few moments   of silent reverie. Should've gotten out while I had
the chance. But I didn't.

All because of a... guy.

I'm such an idiot. I could be home sleeping right now. Or at least watching
the Game Show Network.

"Dr. Saint John?"

I blink. I think I may actually have fallen asleep while holding up the wall
here.

It's Ringo Langly's companion. All of a sudden, exhaustion is forgotten and
I snap back into work mode.

"Is he all right?" My voice reveals a lot more anxiety than I'd like it to.

"He's fine. But he's asking for you."

"He.. .asked for me?"

"Yes. Do you have a minute?"

"Uh... I'm... I think I'm off shift now... sure..."

My heart is pounding as I walk with the little man.



"What's he still doing down here?" I demand.

The little man shrugs. "Said they didn't have any beds yet."

"Is that so?" I know we're busy, but this is ridiculous. I took those
admitting orders over hours ago...

Shit!

I never dropped them off. I got busy and didn't do it.

"I'll take care of it," I promise him.

"Ma'am, he   really wants to see you," Mr. Frohike chides me.

"And he will."

And now, it's time to play grovel and beg.

I argue with the admissions clerks (a brain-dead species if there ever was
one) long enough that a room actually opens up while I'm there.

It's a private room. I hope he's got decent insurance.

"He has to put a down payment on a private room," one of the admissions
clerks reminds me, shaking her finger at me.

"I'll take care of it," I hiss at her.

"I can't..." she starts.

"Just do it!" Like this day hasn't been long enough already.

She stares at me in shock, as if it was truly nervy of me to challenge her
authority. (It is nervy, by the way. You may not believe it, but doctors
occupy the lower rungs of the food chain around here, and doctors in
training, of which I am one, are the lowest of the low).

"Yes, ma'am!" she says, angrily. Bureaucrats hate it when you win.

I'm on a roll here.

"And do it now!"

I'm not sure, but I think I heard her mutter something along the lines of
'fuck   you' as I walk off.

I head back for the exam room where Langly is stationed, but when I arrive,
it's been taken over by someone else.

"Where is he?" I demand of Kate, one of the nurses who had helped me
earlier.

"I'm not sure."

"Did they take him to radiology?"

"Maybe."

"What the hell do you mean, maybe?" I can't keep my voice from rising. I'm
trying, but it's not working.

She glares at me. "I would think you of all people would understand that
we've been a little busy this evening!"

"That's not an excuse for losing a patient!" What if he just took off,
pulled out all his IV lines, decided just to leave...

Without even saying goodbye?

Ahab comes wandering through, looking as clueless as all interns do. "Ahab,
have you seen the patient I was   taking care of earlier?"

"Alive or dead?" He asks.

"That is not funny!"

I sprint off towards radiology, but as I do, I could swear I heard Kate say
to Ahab, "looks like somebody's got it bad."

God, am I that transparent? Oh, fuck them!



LANGLY:

Oh Jesusfuckthishurtsgetmeoutofhere!

"I wanna see Deborah."

"I'm sorry, no visitors in here," the technician tells me. Bitch. Even if it
is a guy.

Well duh, they wouldn't let Frohike come in with me!

"She's not a visitor." God, am I always gonna be this out of breath when I
talk?

"She's a doctor here, she's my doc."

"We don't have a Dr. Deborah here."

Fuckrag is too stupid to live. "Think...that's her first name."

"You haven't been assigned an orthopedist yet, but if these X-rays are any
indication, you will be soon."

"Max?"

It's her.

"What?" Technician must be Max... I think. I don't care.

"Deb." I have no energy left. Just enough to get her name out.

"Mr. Langly, I didn't know what happened to you!"

"I'm... being tortured by this dude here."

I grab her hand in a death grip, refusing to let go.

"Dr. SJ, you need to move," the tech tells her.

Fuck him. I want her here.

"Don't go," I whisper to her.

"I won't." She runs her hand over my head. God, she is so gentle. Love her
hands. And her voice.

"Are you gonna let me take these X-rays or not?" Tech is certainly bitchy.

"I have to step outside," she whispers to me.

"Come back?" Oh God don't go.

"I'll be right outside."

***********************************************

DEBORAH:

It looks like I won't be going anywhere for a while.

At least not as long as my heart is in my throat.

It may never come out at this rate.

END OF PART 3

THINGS UNDONE 2: Mending the Tears, Part 4

DEBORAH:

I sit in chairs with Mr. Frohike in the waiting area. "What were you guys
doing?" I ask. "I'm sorry, this doesn't look like any kind of typical
redneck drunk driving-ice fishing-snowmobiling type deal."

He looks at me. For a long time.

"Let's just say it was something about a girl." He then turns forward again,
not wanting to converse further.

I don't think Mr. Frohike is much of a talker.

We sit in silence for quite some time.

"I... have to ask you this," my voice is halting and my cheeks are hot. "Is
Ringo... you know... involved... with this girl?"

He looks at me sternly. "No."

"Is he... with anyone?"

He doesn't relax his stern expression. "Lady, right now, he's in agony and
drugged out of his mind. We've just had three days from hell, and you're
asking about whether or not he has a girlfriend? Is this a service you offer
all your patients?"

His tone brings tears into my eyes. I gulp them back, hard.

To my surprise, the older man pats my arm in a gesture that belies his hard
look. "You have to understand, he's very vulnerable right now... I don't
want anyone taking advantage of that." His voice is tender and protective in
speaking about his younger friend.

"I wouldn't do that." I mean to sound strong, positive, like I do when I
practice medicine, but it comes out as a pathetic, childish squeak.

He puts a hand on my back, very gently. "Young lady, when was the last time
you slept?"

"Almost three days ago."

"How do you know your mind isn't playing tricks on you?"

"I... I... I need to take a shower." I start to rise. This is not a lie. I
am positively rank. Maybe hot water and clean hair would clear out my head.

He studies me carefully. "Are you coming back later to see him?"

"Yes."

He takes that in, showing no emotion. As I turn to head for my locker, he
calls to me.

"Be good to him."



I stand in the shower for an eternity. The stinging water brings some life
back into my body. My spirit is   another story.

I'm trying not to read too much into the older man's words. He has me
confused. On one hand, he seems to be encouraging me. On the other, his
warning is clear. Don't fuck with my boy. I think, maybe when I'm clean and
my hair doesn't look as if birds have been nesting in it all this will float
away from me. I'll feel like a new woman and I can go home and forget this
entire day.

Doesn't happen, of course.

I search my locker for something to wear. I have a choice -- jeans and a
sweater or my sweats. The sweats would be more cozy, of course, but they
also make me look like a Clydesdale. I'm built big. I opt for the jeans and
the sweater. Fortunately, since I can't remember when I last ate, I don't
have to lie down on the benches to zip them up.

I'm about to slip into my hiking boots.

Screw that.

I opt instead for the Sylvester slippers. Why not? I'm not planning to go
very far.


He's in his room now, looking significantly more relaxed and comfortable.

"Did you survive   Max's torture chamber okay?" I ask him when I come in.

"Barely." He smiles that soft, sweet smile again. This one is larger. The
morphine must really be kicking in. He's hooked to a PCA pump. I wonder how
many times he's hit the switch since he was linked to it. "How're you
doing?"

"I'm okay."

He's about to say something when one of the floor nurses from med-surg pops
into the room. "Is there a Mr. Frohike here?" she asks. "Oh Deb, what brings
you up here?" It's Sheryl Ryan, who was going through nursing school at the
same time I was in medical school.

"J.. just checking on a patient," my God, when did I develop such a stammer?

"Where do I take it?" Mr. Frohike asks, and Sheryl leads him out of the
room.

It's just us now.

I almost feel faint.

I ease myself into the miserable little chair that was not occupied by his
friend earlier. Mr. Frohike has taken the so-called 'comfy chair' (complete
with what passes for soft cushion in this place. Don't be fooled. There is
no truth in advertising here).   I feel my head going light as I do it and
quickly force it between my knees.

"Hey. Deb. You okay?"

I feel a soft hand on my back. Unbelievably tender touch.

The blood rushes back to my head. I don't faint.

Instead, I involuntarily burst into tears.

"Deb. Whassup?" He's stroking my back and hair now... oh God, what is wrong
with me?

"You want me to call the nurse for ya?" He asks softly.

"No, don't touch that call button!" Please. I've had enough for one day. "I
just... I need..."

"C'mere." He says it in a whisper. I'm not sure I even heard it. I slowly
raise my head. "Come over here." He uses his uncast arm to beckon me in his
direction.

I am a mess. My face is swollen with tears which won't stop. He probably
thinks I'm an ass now, I think angrily. But his face stays gentle and sweet.
"Bad day?" He asks me.

With that, the flood starts afresh. And before I know it, I'm lying with my
head across his chest. Which I shouldn't be doing, since he has broken ribs
and is still not breathing as   well as he should.

"I'm sorry," I pull up abruptly.

He gently forces me back down. "Nah, it's cool. Sometimes... you eat the
bear. Sometimes the bear eats you."

I laugh while I'm sobbing. "Looks like the bear got us both big time."

He smiles again. "Yeah, I'd say so." We both chuckle a little, although I'm
still in a fresh storm of waterworks.

He takes my chin in his good hand. Stares at me. God, he has beautiful eyes.
Even blackened and swollen, they're blue and soft.

He slowly gathers me closer to him.

Oh My God.

What is happening...

Before I can figure that one out, his lips and mine are softly touching, and
he plants a light, tender kiss on mine. His lips are chapped and cut.

Nothing ever felt so good... or so right.


"What's gotcha down?" He asks me when we finally come up for air.

"You should really get some sleep. That's what you need most," I tuck the
rough blanket around him.

"No, I wanna know."

He sounds exhausted. I should leave him be and force him to rest.

"You need   to rest now."

"What's it look like I'm doing, skydiving?"

He smiles again, this time wicked, charming, and lopsided from all the
facial injuries. Did the temperature just go up in here?

"C'mon," he gropes for my hand. "Talk to me."

"Listen, you don't want to hear about my life."

We're interrupted by the return of Mr. Frohike. "Langly, I've gotta take off
for a bit."

"Byers okay?" He blinks his light eyes.

"I don't know. I'm not going to be gone long. Do you think you'll be..."

He looks down to see our hands clasped together.

"I think you'll be fine," he growls, stomping out of the room.

Ringo closes his eyes again. "I think some sleep would do you some good," I
lean over and kiss his forehead.

"No, I want you to talk to me." He sounds almost pleading, like a
recalcitrant child. Normally, I object to whining in men, but he's still in
a lot of pain, so I'll cut him some slack. Not to mention that he's so damn
adorable.

"So you want me to tell you about my so-called life?" I sound more   cynical
than I wish I did, but living like this will do it to you. "Do you want to
know how many people in my care died today?"

He squeezes my hand. "Seen people die too."

"Have you?"

"Yeah. Sucks."

"I can't seem to get used to it."

"Me neither. Maybe we're not supposed to."

"So I'm told. But it makes it hard. Every time somebody dies, even if there
was really nothing I could do to save them... it's like a personal failure.
Do you know what I mean?" I don't feel as if I'm making an iota of sense
here.

"Yeah. I do."

I believe him.

"What do you do, Ringo?"

He chuckles. "Hmm, what do I do? Guess you'd say I'm a journalist."

"Do you always get so banged up on assignment?"

"This... this was something else."

"What was it?"

"For a friend."

His eyes close again. The morphine is working-it will frequently make you
fall asleep, then wake up a few minutes later, then drift back down again,
then wake up, lather, rinse, repeat.

"If this is what you'll do for a friend, then you're a good man, Ringo
Langly," I say quietly, and I mean it.

"Actually, I'm a real asshole," he says dreamily. "I mean... I live with two
guys in this hole in the wall... live on pizza and Twinkies..."

"So do I." A kindred food spirit.

"Really? Think being a doc and all you'd like try to eat healthy stuff."

"I try. But you know what my favorite meal is?"

"What?"

"One where I can sit down and use a knife and fork."

He actually laughs at my lame but truthful statement. "Yeah, that'd be
different, wouldn't it? Actually you oughta come down sometime, Frohike man,
he's a killer cook..."

"He's a good cook?" I would have never guessed that the little man in combat
boots and fingerless gloves would qualify as a gourmet chef.

"Yeah man, he makes Ch  inese and Italian and Mexican... oh man, making me
hungry thinking about it."

"Don't go crazy, boy. You're on clear liquids for the next 24 hours."

"Beer's a clear liquid."

"Doesn't mix well with morphine." We both laugh gently. Maybe that's what I
like so much about him. He makes me laugh. I've had the day from hell, and
we're talking about food and laughing.

His battered but lovely face turns serious. "You lose patients today?"

"I lost three." Depression is beginning to set in again -- I knew this was
too good to be true.

"Tough deal. How many'd you save?"

"Six."

"Hey, two out of three ain't bad... yeah, it's gotta suck though. Still,
like you saved more than you lost. Sometimes you gotta take what you can
get."

"You're right."

"So is it six with me or without?" he asks, the mischievous smile returning
to his lips.

"Actually, with you, it's seven."

"See? Better'n two outta three."

He lays a hand on my back again. I feel my eyes closing. I feel safe,
comfortable here. It makes me realize how tired I am. I could fall asleep
here in this chair. For about a week.

"You're a good doc, Deb," he says tenderly. "Mean that."

"Thank you. And now, Ringo, you have to go to sleep."

"Why?" The whining tone returns.

"Because I'm very tired."

"Oh, well, in that case..."

He shuts his eyes, and I feel my eyelids drop along with his. I fall asleep
with my hand tucked into his. Even in this hideous chair, I sleep better
than I have in months.

END OF PART 4

THINGS UNDONE 2: Mending the Tears, Part 5

FROHIKE:

I reluctantly leave Langly. He appears to be in good hands, but I worry that
we may have been exposed in our latest 'adventure.' God knows what would
happen. Still, I need to check up on Byers.

Time to bribe the security people.

Locating them is not difficult. They're armed here. This is a university
teaching hospital, thus, they take everyone and anyone, from criminals to
kings. I confront one that is roughly a foot taller and twice as wide as I
am. Looks a lot like one of the security guards we had an 'encounter' with
in Vegas.

"Excuse me." I approach him, trying to make my bearing like that of
Napoleon.

"There a problem?" His voice is very just-the-facts-sir. Not friendly. Not
unfriendly. Just there.

"Not at the moment. And I don't want one to develop."

He eyes me hard. "I've seen you before."

"I don't think so." I don't like being recognized, even if I do have the
suspicion that he is in fact the same person. Still, Las Vegas i  s a long
way from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

"No, I know you. Seen you somewhere." He keeps frowning, staring me down.
Eyes that don't blink. The sort of person you want on your side in a dark
alley. 

He gives first. Damned if I will. "You were in Vegas. Yeah, I know you were
in Vegas. At the Monte Carlo.
Spring 99. Defcon."

Shit. The alarm must be present on my face, because he immediately puts up
his hand in a conciliatory gesture.

"Hey, hey, take it easy, I got no gripe with you dudes. Feel sorry for ugly
guys who dress bad."

Oh, thanks a lot! "What are you doing here in the middle of Bumfuck,
Pennsylvania?" I ask him not really expecting an answer.

He shrugs. "My mama got sick. The Alzheimers. Real bad. I gotta take care of
her."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Alzheimers. A terrible way to go. I nursed my own
mother through it. It sounds cold, but it was a blessing when she passed on.

He shakes his head. "My job. You live round here?"

"What makes you think we live around here?"

  "Well, you sure as hell don't live in Vegas." Still hasn't cracked a
smile.

"No. We don't."

My tone indicates that I don't really care to discuss our residence. "I'm
very sorry about your mother," I say again. "My own mother suffered the same
fate."

"Tough as it comes," the big man shrugs again.

I sense I can trust this person. We do have some history, however minimal,
and some commonality.

"I was wondering if you could help me out," I begin the approach
tentatively.

He turns suspicious. A man after my own heart. "What way?"

"One of my...friends is a patient here."

"Which one,  the suit or the hippie?"

He does have a good memory, I'll give him that.

"The hippie."

"What happened to the suit?"

"He's not here." And I refuse to give up his whereabouts. We can't be too
careful right now.

"He get sick?"

"Injured."

He grows untrusting again. Some people are like that, I guess.

Then he rolls his eyes. "I'd ask you how it happened, but somehow, I'm
guessing I don't wanna know."

Smart   man.

"Would you mind keeping an eye on him? I need to leave for a little while.
He's with.. one of the doctors here --"

"With one of the doctors? Or with one of the doctors?"

As in the Biblical sense. "A little bit of both. He seems to have taken a
fancy to her. She to him, too. Still, I don't know her well --"

"What do I get in return?" He demands.

"What do you want?"

He thinks about that. Shit. I hope I have enough in my checking account to
take care of this.

"Fifth of Glenfiddich would do me good."

"Ah, a man of distinction."

"Like good Scotch whiskey, but can't afford it on my paycheck."

"I'll be back later."

As I make my way down the corridor, a song pops into my head. Unfortunately
for me, the song is, "It's a Small World." Bad music does indeed stay with
you, alas. But good people pop up in the most unlikely places.


I dropped Byers and Susanne at a Motel 6 out on Route 83. The snow seems to
have temporarily stopped, but the price of it is bitter cold setting in.

Next time I'll have to remember the gloves with the fingers. Where's the
paper with the room number on it? I've got so much crap in my wallet it's
not funny.

I find it. I'm about to knock on the door, but listen first, just to make
certain don't hear anything out of the ordinary. No sound.


I decide against knocking at the door.

I also decide that the security guard I'm bribing isn't the only one that
deserves to be warm tonight.

At the state store (liquor stores are state-controlled in Pennsylvania), I
grab two fifths of Glenfiddich single malt whiskey. My usual choice is J&B,
but seeing as everyone in the world is having sex but me, I decide that I
need to indulge at least one of my vices.

Before I step back into the van, I decide to call Byers, just in case my
ears deceived me at the 6.

"Hello?"

"Byers, you all right?"

"I'm fine. But how is Langly?"

"He's doing all right."

"Are you with him?"

"Not at the moment. He seems to have found someone to watch over him. Got my
back patch  ed up, though."

Byers lets that one drop. "Thanks for letting me know, Frohike."

"Have fun."

Might as well let him enjoy himself now.

Somehow, I don't think Mata Hari's a keeper.


I arrive back at the hospital to find my friend the guard standing outside
Langly's door.

"Aren't you supposed to be patrolling?" I ask him, handing him the brown
paper bag.

"Got off shift half an hour ago," he says, not blinking.

"You can go now, if you'd like."

He glares at me as if I'm the ultimate idiot. Which maybe I am, but don't
need to be reminded.

"What, you think I'm gonna let your sorry asses alone? I seen what kind of
trouble you dudes get yourself into."

"So you're gonna stand here all night?" I ask him.

"Unless you get me a chair."

I do better than that. I find me a chair too. It took some ingenuity but I
doubt the guy with his leg in traction will get very far if he decides to
chase me down.

I hand him one of the brown paper bags.

"Not allowed to drink on the job," he says, shaking his head  .

"Well, I'm your employer now, and I mandate drinking on the job." If I ever
needed a good drunk, it's now. Before I break the seal on the beautiful
golden liquid, I check in on my boy.

He seems to be resting comfortably. Very comfortably, I might add,
considering that Dr. Saint John's head is nestled against his uninjured arm.

I reach over to stroke his hair. He stirs a little. "Will you still respect
me in the morning?" he mumbles sleepily.

"Langly, I didn't respect you before. Why would I do it in the morning?"

"Oh, it's you." He barely opens his eyes.

"Oh, you're welcome," I snap at him.

"Uh-huh." His eyes are completely shut again. He's off in the world of
morphine dreams and sexual fantasies.

If I were any more of a pervert, I'd check to see if he's got a boner, but
that is definitely more information than I need right now.

I go back to the hallway. "You ready?" I ask the guard.

"You're the boss."

DEBORAH:

I awaken with a start at the sound of someone entering th  e room.

"What time's it?" I ask the nurse who enters. I recognize her as Alison, one
of the nurses on this floor. She used to work in emergency but like lots of
ER nurses, she got burnt to a crisp.

"Six a.m.," her gentle British accent is like a caress. "What're you doing
here, doctor?"

"He's... a friend of mine."

She gives me the once over. "I should say so."

I then realize my hand is laying on his hip, perilously close to one of
his... erogenous zones. He may be asleep, but he knows it's there. That much
is obvious.

Alison smiles at me. "You seem to be restoring him to health, doctor."

I blush.

FROHIKE:

"Telephone, Mr. Frohike."

Would someone please stop that noise? It's pounding in my head like a
jackhammer.

"Not now," I groan.

"It's   a Mr. Byers, and he says it's urgent."

Those words shake me out of my alcohol-induced stupor. Shit, I can't even
enjoy having a hangover and feeling sorry for myself anymore. I stagger to
the nurses station. "Yeah?"

"Frohike, she's gone."

"I'm sorry?" Something's not registering here.

"She's gone. Was gone when I woke up."

My heart sinks. I was hoping I'd be wrong. Shit. This is not going to be a
good day.

DEBORAH:

I spend the rest of the day with him. We talk and nap and talk some more.

As the day moves far too rapidly towards 7 p.m., the time I go back on
shift, I begin to feel terribly sad.

I will probably never see him again. He doesn't speak of the future, and
neither do I. Which is just as well.

I tell myself I'm being silly. I   just met this man. And he will probably
forget me just as soon as he is released, which, if he continues to improve
as he has been, will be tomorrow morning.

It's 6:30 p.m.

"I have to go soon," I say, trying to stave off the inevitable.

"Why?" he sounds like a pouty child.

"I have to work."

"You can take care of me," he smiles.

Oh God, would I love to take care of him... on a long-term basis. Finally, I
can no longer delay. As is, I probably won't have enough time to do chart
review before I step on the floor.

"Bye Langly," I whisper to him.

He doesn't say anything, just draws me close to him. And we share a long,
soft, wonderful kiss. I don't want that kiss to ever end. Just in case it's
the last one I ever get from him.

END OF PART 5    

THINGS UNDONE 2: Mending the Tears, Part 6

JANUARY 12, 2000
HARRISBURG, PENNSYLVANIA

DEBORAH:

Once again, I'm stuck staying over. Major bar fight in York nearby. 30
patrons. Bunch of loser local guys. Remind me again why I like my job.

I finally sign out. But I have one more thing to do before I head home and
(hopefully) make it to my sofa. I head as fast as my rather oversized feet
will carry me to the med-surg floor. Releases are generally between ten and
twelve. I pray they're running late.

I race to Ringo's room. The cleaning crew is there. I begin to feel dizzy
and nauseous. At the nurses' station, Sheryl is there. "Sheryl, Ringo
Langly. When was he released?"

"Oh, we got him out of here first thing. He was itching to go."

Shit!

I feel the tears stin  g my eyes.

"Did he leave a message or anything?"

"No. He was with the old guy and another one, younger guy. They seemed like
they were in a hurry."

I knew it. It was too good to be true.

"Deb, you okay?" She takes my arm.

"Uh...I just...need some sleep."

I am, of course, about as far from okay as one can get.


I drive home on autopilot (luckily, I have had a lot of practice. You try
driving when you've been awake for 72 hours at a crack). After struggling
with the iced-over lock -- the temperature has dropped into single digits --
I stagger into my living room and fall on to the sofa. Where I cry and cry
and cry, until there is nothing left.


The alarm goes off at 5:30 p.m., prodding me to get up and do it again.

  I feel beyond lifeless. And it's not just exhaustion. It's been days since
I checked my e-mail. I really should. My mother is probably thinking I died.
Does inside count?

AOHell announces that I have 147 new messages. Probably largely spam. I
delete a number of them unread.

There is an address on one of them I don't recognize. Probably some creep
trying to tell me his sexual problems. Med students get weirdoes like that
all the time.

It's from Blondie@wastedminds.com

I don't know anyone by that name. Before I delete it, sheer curiosity forces
me to open it. It's a very short note.

"Deb -- come play doctor with me? R.

That's funny, I don't remember giving him my email address...

END OF THINGS UNDONE 2: MENDING THE TEARS