That earns a small smile. “Well, you’re very sweet to say so.” She shakes her head. “I thought PTSD was just something soldiers earned in war zones. I didn’t think it could happen to me. But I had never had someone that close to me die before.”
I wish I could say the same.
“So how’s it going?” I ask. “Now?”
“Better. I feel like I could, maybe, go back to the hospital. Maybe not the trauma unit, right away …”
“That’s a good idea. Maybe you could work someplace, I don’t know, happier. Maybe the maternity ward.”
Christine laughs. “Screaming babies? Anxious new mothers? Nothing stressful about that …”
I’m laughing now, too. “Guess you’re right. Anyway, I think it’s great that you still want to be a nurse. Someday. Somewhere.”
“I don’t know what else I’d do, Danny. My mom always said I was born to be a nurse.”
Funny. Mine always says I was born to be a pain in her patootie.
“And Shona Oppenheimer knew all about this … situation?”
“It was supposed to be kept super-confidential.”
“But somebody told Shona.”
“One of her plastic surgeons. The lady who gives her the Botox shots.” Christine taps her forehead. “Dr. McWrinkles works at the hospital sometimes, too. I guess she knew somebody who knew somebody who was in the mood to gossip …”
“Ohmigod,” I hear a woman shout.
“He should’ve chewed it more!” growls a man.
I whip around. It’s the family. The mom and dad are up off their picnic benches, hovering behind a kid, maybe ten, who keeps coughing.
“He’s choking!” screams the mom.
“I’m okay, mom,” gasps the boy. “It’s just stuck.”
Christine is up and over to their picnic table two seconds before I am.
“Can you breathe?” she asks the boy.
He nods.
“I’m a nurse,” she says, calmly taking the little boy’s wrist in her hand.