Title: O is for Occupational Hazards (response
to third ABC challenge from
smkfanfic)
Author: Chanda
Synopsis: An outsider's view of Lee Stetson
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Original characters belong to
Warner Brothers and Shoot the Moon
Productions. This story is written for entertainment purposes only, not for
profit.
Warning: This story invents some action in
between scenes of "Mission of Gold"
which some readers may regard as AU.
Timing: During "Mission
of Gold". It occurs after the last scene in which we see
Lee capture the bad guy (Scott) and before
the tag where he arrives at the
hospital.
Feedback: Please be gentle. This is my
first posted story to the list. Any
comments or suggestions would be greatly appreciated, on list or off.
Archive: Smkfanfic and Chelfriends. Others,
please ask first.
Acknowledgments: I would like to thank my
wonderful beta, Miriam. Without her
help, I would still be lost in a sea of confusion.
Notes: This story is based on the song "It
Didn't Look Like Alcohol," written by
Rebecca Lynn Howard and Trey Bruce. The song lyrics are listed at the end. The
character Liesl (pronounced Lee-zul, for
those not familiar with the movie Sound
of Music) is loosely based on my colleagues
that I work with as a NP and CM in a
hospital.
Occupational Hazards
The local bar is dark and smoky when I walk
in to forget a day filled with stress
and grief. Located across the street from the
Community
Hospital in Las
Palmas,
CA,
it's the perfect place for me and my colleagues to unwind after a
long, hard day. Especially since some days
are more harrying than others are.
Today. I need a drink.
Walking over to take a seat at the bar, I
nod to some of my peers. They won't
ask me to join them today; they know I need to be alone. Normally, we share our
day, whether good or bad, seeking relief
from each other. It's easier to share
your frustrations with your peers than to take the stress home.but not today. As
I sit on the tall barstool, I remember what
brought me down today. Events that
were devastatingly out of my control lead to the urge to drown my sorrows in
alcohol.
For the past several years, I have worked
as a Nurse Practitioner at the
hospital. My practice focuses on bone marrow diseases, so most of my patients
are in the medical intensive care unit:
MICU for short. Early this afternoon, my
friend Elizabeth died. She just stopped.
Sadly, it wasn't unexpected. There
wasn't anything else we could do.that I could do.
Some people would call Elizabeth my patient
rather than my friend. I met her when
she was admitted to the hospital for a bone marrow transplant several years
ago. Over time, I grew very close to her
and her family. Personally, I consider
myself her friend first and her chosen caregiver second. But that's how I treat
all my patients. Some say I become too
attached, but it's my nature. It's the
only way I know how to function in my job. I guess you could call it an
occupational hazard.
On days like today, when my emotions are
out of control, I call my husband to
pick me up. Today, his last meeting is running late, and he has a long commute
home from
San
Francisco, 60 miles north. So, here I am.waiting.
I decide to order a drink to calm my nerves
while I wait for Jim. I'll slip it
slowly while I sit here and do research. In my spare time, I people watch to
study human behavior, hoping one day to
become a published author. I try to
commit to memory things that will help me better understand the human spirit,
hoping this will help me be a good writer,
an improved practitioner, and a better
friend. Sometimes, I write my observations on cocktail napkins, but
today, I'll just watch.
While waiting for the bartender to take my
order, I notice a man walking into the
bar. He looks lost, and I don't recognize him. He must be a tourist.
Las
Palmas
is such a small town, that one notices strangers, especially in this part
of town. He slowly crosses over to the
other end of the bar and takes a seat in
the corner while placing his order. He's
too far away for me to hear him, so I
move inconspicuously closer.only a few chairs.
He looks sad.troubled.almost devastated.
He's tall and handsome, with sandy
blond hair. He's wearing brown khaki pants; a white and brown plaid, cotton
shirt; and a dark brown, leather bomber
jacket. His clothes are very casual and
normal except for the dirt and stains. He
looks like a child who has been
outside playing in the sandbox and forgot to dust off his clothes when he came
inside.
I can't tell what he's drinking. It's a
clear liquid.possibly vodka, gin, or
some other drink I'm not familiar with. As he reaches for his drink, I notice
his hand is shaking like a willow leaf that
has been rustled by a gentle wind.
Then he rubs his eyes tiredly with his hand, and I see they are bright with what
look like unshed tears. He runs his hand
through his hair and shakes his head as
if trying to clear his thoughts. Finally,
he rests his head on his hands, as his
shoulders slump in defeat. Something really bad must have driven him in here and
brought him to this state.
The worry and fear are reflected in his
hazel eyes, like there's a storm brewing
in his heart. Quietly, almost in a whisper,
I think I hear him say somebody's
name, but I can't quite make it out. It seems like he's silently pleading with
someone that I can't see. I suddenly feel
guilty for eavesdropping on his grief.
Abruptly, he stands up from the barstool,
as if he's in a hurry to leave. As he
turns toward the door, his eyes lock with mine. His hazel eyes are so
expressive. it's almost like looking into
the depths of his soul. There's
definitely something dreadful happening deep within his psyche.
Then he looks away and strides quickly
toward the door. I watch him as he
leaves, pushing the swinging door just a little too hard. It has only been ten
minutes since he walked into the bar.
Suddenly, I remember that I haven't ordered
yet. As the girl behind the bar
finally comes to take my order, she nods towards the stranger's abandoned glass.
"I guess he forgot me."
"Don't worry," I say. "I'll get his tab.
And give me two of whatever he had."
She looks at me in confusion. "Water?"
Remembering the pain behind the stranger's
eyes, I change my mind. If he didn't
need alcohol to relieve his suffering, then neither do I. Placing a couple of
dollars on the counter; I call out to
Lesley, the bartender, "Never mind about
that drink. I need to get back to the
hospital."
Noticing me as one of her regulars, she
nods goodbye. "Okay, Liesl. Don't work
too hard. See you later."
I decide to stop at the pay phone and call
Jim so we don't miss each other. After
dialing the familiar number, I ask for his extension and patiently wait to
be patched through. "Hi, Jim. It's me." I
sigh not knowing where to begin. I
already talked to him once today after
Elizabeth
passed. Now, I once again long
for his strong arms to hold, comfort, and
soothe me.
I can hear the love in his voice as he
welcomes another call from me. "Hi,
honey." A note of concern creeps into his voice. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm okay. Listen, I decided to go
back to the hospital. Can you pick me
up there instead?"
"Sure. Why are you going back?"
"I'm just not in the mood to sit in a bar
tonight. Anyway, how much longer until
you get here?" I brush a stray lock of hair away from my face. "I see you
haven't left yet."
"I know, honey. I'm sorry." I can hear the
remorse in his tone. "Something came
up. But, if it's any consolation, I've been taken off the duty roster until
Monday. So, how do you feel about a long
weekend with your sexy husband? Huh?"
"Really? How did you manage to get off?
What did you have to promise this time?"
I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. "Of
course, I would love to spend the weekend
with you. I really could use a lot of Jim
time this weekend. It's been a
terrible week." Remembering the sexy comment, I feel my cheeks burn. After all
these years, he can still make my heart
flutter. "Sexy, huh? You better let me
be the judge of that."
His deep, rich laugh immediately makes me
feel better. "I'll get you for
that.but later, much later." In the background, I hear his secretary's muffled
voice. "Okay, I'm back. Susan just handed
me some paperwork. Anyway, the reason
I'm late is that I received an important phone call just as I was walking out
the door. My old boss from D.C. called and
told me one of my friends was in
Las
Palmas.
He want's me to check on him. It seems that his partner was shot and
he's taking it pretty hard."
I gasp and swallow a sudden lump in my
throat. "That's terrible. Maybe we can
invite him over this weekend for dinner. He could probably use some support, and
I wouldn't mind meeting one of your old
friends. Do you know how his partner is
doing?"
"Well, they're at the
Community
Hospital. I don't know what room or how bad off
she is." I hear him sigh. "I just hope
she'll be okay. I haven't seen my friend
in a long time.not since his last partner
was killed. He was in terrible shape
after that. I think he may just need someone to talk to, honey. We can invite
him over, but he may turn us down. The last
time this happened, he shut everyone
out - including me."
Hearing the hurt in Jim's voice, I want to
reach through the phone and pull him
close. "I'll find out what I can when I get back. What's your friend's name?
"Lee - Lee Stetson. The call was such a
shock that I didn't get his partner's
name. But maybe you could check around. There's not many gunshot wounds in
Las
Palmas."
I nod, forgetting that Jim can't see me
over the phone. "I'll find out what room
she's in and what her diagnosis and
condition are before you get here. When are
you leaving?"
"As soon as I get off the phone with you,"
he teases.
"Oh, okay. Go, get.and drive carefully in
all that crazy rush hour traffic. I
love you."
"I love you, too. Bye," he whispers.
I hang up the phone and begin the walk back
to the hospital. This has been a day
filled with such sadness:
Elizabeth's death, the news about Jim's friend,
and
that poor man in the bar. I wonder whether
the stranger in the bar also has a
loved one who has just died or is very ill. Most of the people who stop in the
bar are in some way affiliated with the
hospital, after all. It's hard to
imagine that anything but the loss of a loved one could drive him to become so
unnerved.
I shake my head to clear the daze. Now I
have another soul to worry about.
Someone I might actually be able to help.
It's late spring, but with the sinking sun,
the wind has become cooler. Looking up
toward the sky, I notice that it's almost dusk and the moon is beginning to
peek through the fast approaching blanket
of night. I wonder if the old tale is
true: "Pink sky at night, sailor's delight; pink sky in the morning, sailors
take warning." If so, we're going to have a
beautiful day tomorrow.
Reaching the hospital, I take a deep,
cleansing breath as I pass through the
automatic doors. Doors that less than a half-hour ago I ran through seeking
escape. I begin the trek to my office down
the long, winding corridors, knowing
that I will pass the nurses' station along the way.
Unexpectedly, I see the man from the bar
walking toward the MICU. I pick up my
pace just a little to make sure I don't lose him, but not enough for him to
notice. He must be visiting a friend - or
maybe a loved one. His hands are
shoved in his jacket pockets, and his head is down. Based on his demeanor, now
and at the bar, I would guess the prognosis
isn't good.
I continue to follow him into the MICU
since my office is located in the back. I
stop at the nurses' station to inquire
about my husband's friend, as well as
this stranger. To my good fortune, my friend Becky is working. If you want to
know anything about the internal workings
of the hospital, Becky knows
everything, including things you don't want to know.
Catching Becky's attention, I motion for
her to meet me in the break room. When
she walks in, I start my barrage of questions. "Hey, Becky. What do you know?"
She grins at me and looks around slyly to
make sure we're alone. "Well, what do
you want to know?"
I laugh and shrug my shoulders. She knows I
always come to her for the juicy
gossip. "First, did you see that tall guy down in the waiting room? Who is he
and who is he with?" I give her a wink.
"Second, has anyone been admitted lately
with a gunshot wound?"
"Hey, I thought you were happily married."
She teasingly shakes her finger at me.
"He is handsome, isn't he? I guess there's no harm in just looking." Her
face becomes more serious. "He's here with
a woman named Amanda King, in room
346C. She's been critical but stable. And she's the only person I know who was
recently admitted with a gunshot wound."
Pausing for a moment, Becky seems to weigh
a decision, as if making up her mind
about revealing a big secret. "It's strange, Liesl. At first I thought they were
married, but they have different last
names. I guess that's not so strange; lots
of women keep their maiden name for
professional reasons. At first, though, I
noticed that he was wearing a wedding ring.
But the moment her Mother showed up,
it began to disappear - except when he's visiting her alone. I think he may be
slipping the ring in his pocket. I wonder
why they would try to hide something
like that?" She shrugs her shoulders. "Of course, it's none of my business. And
you didn't hear anything from me, okay?
Remember patient confidentiality. I know
you won't tell anyone."
"Thanks, Becky. I saw him earlier. He
looked awful, and I just wondered who he
was. Do you know his name?" I assume an
innocent expression.
"Yes," she drawls out. "It's Lee Stetson."
I try to hide my surprise, but it must have
shown through.
Becky looks at me, obviously curious. "Do
you know him?"
"No, but I know someone who does. What
happened to Amanda King?" I wonder out
loud.
"Well, she was shot down by the marina a
few days ago. It's really a sad case.
She's been wavering as far as her status is concerned. Worst of all, this
morning, she went into cardiac arrest. I
thought we had lost her for a moment."
Becky looks sad, remembering, but then she smiles. "The cardio-version must have
been what she needed. Her vital signs have
improved and she's doing much better
now.but I guess he doesn't know that yet. He left right after they brought her
back. But he'll be happy soon enough. Her
prognosis is good now, and," she
grins, "she just woke up."
"That's wonderful. I'll peek in on them
later, and see if there's anything that
I can do. Thanks for the
4-1-1,
Becky." As we walk out into the hallway, I call
out, "Don't work too hard tonight."
Feeling better than I had since morning, I
begin to smile at what was finally a
positive ending to this once rotten day. I walk to room 346C and slowly ease the
door open just a little. I want to peek
into Mrs. King's room just to make sure
they're all right. As I do, I overhear
their conversation.
The man from the bar, Jim's friend, is
kneeling beside her with a look of relief
on his face. His attitude is very different
than it was earlier, in the bar. Now,
I can see hope rather than despair on his face.
The woman looks pretty groggy, but she's
smiling at him. She seems to be
struggling to keep her eyes open. In a raspy, breathless whisper, she asks, "If
I go to sleep.will you sit with me for a
minute?"
He smiles and tenderly says, "I love you,
Mrs. Stetson," as he leans forward,
lightly brushing his lips against hers. Then he relaxes back into chair beside
the bed, keeping his eyes on her face,
apparently oblivious to everything but
the woman in the hospital bed. He takes a deep breath, releasing a ragged sigh
as he wipes a silent tear from his cheek.
Feeling like an intruder, I quietly close
the door and head to my office.
Shaking my head ruefully, I chuckle at myself. Here I go again, getting attached
to a stranger and a patient that isn't even
mine. That's okay, though. I know Dr.
Neely would love to let me help on this case. He always lets me assist. He
says it's just to further my knowledge
base. I think it's really because I care
about my patients as if they were a part of
my own family.
I walk into my office, turning on the
florescent lamp while I collapse in the
high-back leather chair. This couple will
have a long recovery period. I'm sure
I can help out with that. She's going to need extensive cardiac rehab and lots
of moral support. If, by helping, I make
another friend in the process.even
better.
Taking a deep breath, I look at the clock.
Jim should be here soon. I begin to
laugh at a wicked thought that passes through my mind. Of course, I'll tell him
what room Mrs. King's in and her prognosis.
I did promise to find that out for
him. As far as what Becky told me about the wedding ring and the conversation I
overheard.well, that's a secret. A need to
know secret. And Jim doesn't need to
know.
The End (or is it?)
"It Didn't Look Like Alcohol," written by
Rebecca Lynn Howard and Trey Bruce.
It didn't look like alcohol to me
But his hands were shaking like a willow
leaf
Reaching out for one more drink
He didn't look like a loser to me
But he was lost behind his tears
Something had to drive him in here
He don't fit in with this crowd
Somewhere, sometime he was proud
There's a storm stretched out a million
miles across his heart
And a war he's fighting in the dark
Whatever it is, something bigger than him
drove him too far down to crawl
But it didn't look like alcohol
Thought I heard him say somebody's name
But I pretended like I didn't hear
I just wished that I could disappear
He was cracking like a desert of burning
shame
Pleading with someone that I couldn't see
He might as well have been on his knees
Like a bomb ticking ready to blow
He got up in a hurry to go
There's a storm stretched out a million
miles across his heart
And a war he's fighting in the dark
Whatever it is, something bigger than him
drove him too far down to crawl
But it didn't look like alcohol
The girl behind the bar says she guesses he
forgot her
I said, "Don't worry I'll get his tab and
give me two of whatever he had."
And she said, "Water?"
Whatever it is, something bigger than him
drove him too far down to crawl
But it didn't look like alcohol
It didn't look like alcohol to me