DOCTOR'S ORDERS Read online

  Table of Contents

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  HIS BABY DUTY

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CONNECT WITH BELLA GRANT

  COPYRIGHT

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the author.

  Copyright 2017

  CHAPTER 1

  9:15 pm flashed at me from my phone, and for once, I intended to sleep in my own bed and not in my office chair. Stretching as I got up, I took off my long, white doctor’s coat and was in the process of hanging it up when the large, boxy phone on my desk rang. I glanced back at the clock and contemplated ignoring the damn thing since my regular office hours ended three hours ago, though the psychiatrist in me told me not to. I pulled up my iPhone's calendar—synced to my computer—as I sat back down. I wasn't on call for any emergency rooms for the night, but it wouldn't be the first time I had been called in when I wasn't supposed to be.

  "Hello, Dr. Sullivan speaking."

  "Dr. Sullivan? Thank God you answered. I can't get a hold of anyone else, and they don't have anyone scheduled tonight to take this," a nurse spoke hastily.

  "It wouldn't be the first time someone in scheduling messed up," I muttered under my breath. "I was just on my way out. Any chance a resident can pick it up?"

  “I’m afraid not. We've got an emergency on our hands. A suicide attempt. We had to pump the patient's stomach. No history of depression or any other mental illnesses in the family, though her parents recently died. She needs to be seen ASAP for possible admittance, Doctor."

  Fuck. A female? I caught myself thinking and immediately shoved the negative thought back down. Now was not the time for self-doubt. Even with the gnawing reminder that lately, I’d slacked in the popular category with female patients, someone needed me.

  "I'm heading down now. Patient's name?" I replied as I cradled the phone on my shoulder and grabbed a sticky note.

  "Fiona Sims. Age twenty-one. See you soon, Dr. Sullivan. I'll be waiting at the front desk." Click.

  I grabbed my coat and pulled it back on before heading down to the familiar hallways of the University of California San Francisco Medical Center, my old stomping ground through my residency of four years. Thankfully, it was just a hop, skip and jump away from my current office housed in the attached psychiatric hospital known as Langley Porter. It was quite an upgrade with a gold name plaque adorned on my very own door, my own private space—something I worked my ass off to get.

  As I strode down the hall and into the elevator, my mind was reeling with possible treatment options based on the loose information given. At the age of twenty-nine and with years of experience dealing with maniacs who had full blown conversations with telephone poles, to the suicide survivors who attempted to jump off the infamous Golden Gate Bridge, I had seen and treated it all. Nothing bothered or surprised me anymore.

  I looked down at my phone before sliding it into my coat pocket.

  9:30. If I do this right, I can still be home before eleven. Or at the very least, midnight, with a well-rehearsed speech and reassuring smile usually does the trick, keeping the patient at bay until we could meet behind office closed doors to go deeper down the rabbit hole.

  Double doors upon double doors opened at the wave of my doctor's tag as I walked with purpose down the stark, bright hallways, passing night-shift nurses, orderlies, and the occasional restless patient.

  “Hey there, I thought being dubbed ‘Doctor of the Year’ got you out of things like this?” a resident called out as I strolled by.

  “Nope. It just means they expect me to put the fires out without question,” I called back in a light manner. It never ceased to amaze how one nomination could make any unheard-of doctor an instant celebrity overnight. No matter where I went, someone catcalled or congratulated me on last year’s distinguished award, and my phone was constantly blowing up with unscheduled, on-call emergency room visits and rounds. Superman’s work is never done.

  I arrived at the last double doors leading to a packed emergency waiting room. I eyed the crowd and headed for the receptionist’s desk. "Full house tonight?" I commented to the blond nurse behind the desk who was typing furiously.

  "It's always like this on a full moon," she replied without looking up. Once she did, she did a double-take and blushed. "Dr. Sullivan? What are you doing down here?"

  I sighed and leaned on the counter. "Picking up the slack of the psych department, I suppose. Got a patient under the name Fiona Sims in there?"

  The nurse immediately grabbed the files piled high next to her keyboard. She searched through them and then went through them once more. "Hmm… I can't find her file. Are you sure that's the name?" she asked as an older nurse with short brown hair came running towards the front desk.

  "Dr. Sullivan!" She reached me and handed me the file. "In room 40—follow me," she explained, out of breath, as she led me down the hallway where most of the rooms had a curtain drawn. I could hear some crying, some yelling in pain, and their visitors trying to reassure them. Maybe the front desk nurse was right about the full moon. We stopped at the end of the hall. The nurse told me to wait before she opened the curtains enough to let herself in.

  "Hi, Fiona. I have Dr. Sullivan with me. He is the psychiatrist on call tonight and will be evaluating you to see if you should be admitted. Dr. Sullivan?"

  That was my cue. I cleared my throat and pushed through the curtain, my usual spiel already queued up in my head. "Good evening, I'm Dr. Sullivan, it's a pleasure to—"

  My words died right in my throat, my gaze settling on the woman on the stretcher bed. She didn’t even look at me, her attention on a girl sitting across from her. My eyes traced the lovely expanse of her neck, the air around her drawing me in. She’s so beautiful. She peeked up when silence filled the room and it only got worse for me when I saw icy blue eyes directed at me. Her eyes are captivating.

  "Cat got your tongue, Doc?' the blonde in the chair asked, snapping my attention back into the room and out of those mesmerizing eyes.

  "Right." I cleared my throat and started again. “I’m Dr. Sullivan, one of the head psychiatrists of Langley Porter. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Fiona Sims.”

  She continued to glare at me, so I continued, flipping open the manila file in my hands. “Let’s get to what we know so far. It looks like you were found on the bathroom floor by your best friend with a half bottle of sleeping pills this evening, the int
ention of committing suicide assumed by the fact that after the gastric suction done on your stomach, the other half of the sleeping pills were found.” I closed the file and met her cold gaze. She snapped her head back to her friend.

  “You’re point? I admitted to the crime, so can I go home now?” She spat her words at me and I knew her questions were for me to answer, not the blonde. I learned early on in my career to expect the hostility before the surrender.

  “Well, as much as we would all like to go home, I’m afraid it’s not that easy. You see, Ms. Sims, the act of an attempted suicide is taken as seriously as a successful one. If you are all right with it, I’d like to further investigate as to why such a young woman like yourself wanted to take your life instead of seeking help. But in order for further treatment, we need consent from you to do so,” I explained before I realized I was doing it again.

  Being mechanical with no empathic tone in my words, like a robot programmed to repeat the same explanation to every new patient. The very reason why my boss, Mr. Dean, was keeping an eye on me after a quite a few of female cases were coming to him and demanding a transfer to another doctor. A doctor who could “understand women better.” Apparently, talking at them instead of talking with them wasn’t doing anyone any favors. I simply had a hard time relating when I had a patient tell me she couldn’t stay faithful to her partner, or when another one told me she felt like she was failing her husband because she couldn’t conceive. With my robotic, medical terms, I came off as more of a pompous ass than a caring shrink, even after years of practice. I was losing my touch, and the nomination of “Doctor of the Year” didn’t help like I thought it would.

  I cleared my throat before she responded. “Let me try that again.” I took a step closer to the bed and tossed the file onto the nearby table. “Look, I don’t know why or what would have triggered you to try such a permanent solution to your problems, but speaking from an outside perspective, you probably have so much more to live for than you realize. If you decide to give me the time of the day, I’d love to evaluate you myself and help you get over whatever hump you’re stuck at the bottom of currently. If you don’t even try to give me a chance…well, then we are both back at the bottom with nowhere to go.”

  She didn’t even have to respond. Her body language said it all for her—slumped shoulders, curved back, and her head hung low. The telltale signs of defeat. With one word of consent, the pen would be ready, signing her life into my hands for the next week or so.

  “Can he go now?” Her voice was barely audible, but I heard her loud and clear.

  Her friend simply sighed and narrowed her eyes at me. Before, I would have gladly taken my exit to go in search of a colleague to deal with the mess I couldn’t. It would have been easy to wipe my hands clean and walk away when I had the reasoning of not being on call to back me up. Yet I wasn’t going anywhere or pawning this case off on anyone else. Not after the moment I had set my eyes upon such an intriguing creature as beautiful as the one glaring at me from the hospital bed.

  There goes being home by eleven, I thought as I sat down on the swiveling stool, actually looking forward to the long night ahead.

  CHAPTER 2

  My mother helped me pick out the dress I wore that night. A long, midnight-blue dress with a heart-shaped strapless bodice fit like a glove. The bottom of the dress jutted out from my hips and flowed elegantly behind me. It was the perfect dress for what was supposed to be the perfect night of celebration.

  I scanned the growing crowd from my perch at the top of the staircase. With one hand on the black iron railing and another holding my glass of wine, a smile spread across my face as I looked down at the fruits of my hard work. It was all right in front of me, the charity gala I had brought to life. Paintings of all kinds decorated the art gallery’s bare white walls, the local artists not straying from their exhibitions. I watched them talk up their work as admirers stood listening. Anything to get their paintings sold. A part of the money raised would go to them as well as a ‘thank you’ for participating in the charity to feed the homeless children of the Greater Bay area. We couldn’t have starving artists on top of starving children to defeat the purpose of the cause.

  High table-tops with bright orange gallery flyers were scattered about the modern space along with a table of hors d'oeuvres and champagne flutes filled up for the eight o’clock toast. A man took up a flyer and sipped his drink, reading the upcoming events for the gallery, my bargaining chip to reserve the space for free. If I were going to manage my own non-profit one day like I had dreamt, I would have to practice putting on events at the cost of close to nothing.

  Not to mention this was the real deal, not a mock one like I had done so many times before. One where ninety percent of the money would go towards the cause and where all of it would goes towards credits to my close-to-completion business degree.

  The gala was a giant step towards my future visions, and in between my packed school schedule, homework, and part-time retail job, I had pulled it off. It unfolded in front of me as I sipped my wine. I couldn’t help but continually search the crowd for the pair I yearned to see the most.

  My parents. They were my number one fans. They had nourished my selfless attitude towards life from day one. While my mother tagged along with me to soup kitchens and community gardens, my father taught me the fundamentals of how to save and spend my money meaningfully. My mother would help me make banners for my own little charity funds through school, and my father taught me how to negotiate by keeping in mind the best way to make sure everyone got what they wanted.

  They were my heroes, my inspiration, and my everything, and a bottle of champagne was reserved with their names on it. To toast and celebrate my accomplishments together as a family.

  I looked down at my gleaming slim wrist watch, a gift from my father when I had graduated high school. He once told me a watch was what made a great businesswoman. It was about 7:30, so I checked their text to me once more.

  On our way, Fifi. Can't wait to see my little girl all dressed up in front of her dreams come true.

  The text was sent at 6:30, the timestamp causing a low panic in the core of my belly. My parents didn't live far from the art gallery, and even if there was the usual evening traffic, they should have arrived by now. Frowning, I sent a quick text to see if they were all right when a woman dressed in a long silver dress came up to me to ask if I was the coordinator of this event. I nodded, graciously encouraging a conversation with the socialite who I eventually led to some art pieces I thought she might like.

  My phone buzzed frantically in my silver clutch, interrupting our conversation. "Could you excuse me for a moment? It's important."

  I made my way to the back of the gallery and answered without looking to see who it was. I just assumed it was my parents. "Mom? Dad? Where are you guys? You had me worried."

  "Is this Ms. Fiona Sims?" A low, authoritative male voice cut me off, and I pulled my phone away from my ear to see a number I didn't recognize.

  "Um…yes, it is. How can I help you?"

  "And you are the daughter of Dale and Cynthia Sims, correct?" he asked, his voice keeping the same tone.

  I swallowed and looked at the crowd of people talking and laughing with wine glasses in their hands. "Um, yes, I am. Are they okay?" I asked, my heartbeat quickening.

  "Ma'am, I'm Officer Mike Schwartz, and I'm sorry to inform you like this but your parents have been involved in a car accident—"

  "Are they okay? What happened? Are they there? Did an ambulance come? Do I need to sign off on something?" I fired question after question, not giving myself a chance to breathe because my brain was slowly catching up to all the missed cues. The police officer's grave voice, the hesitations, the formal questions—it was all missed until he spoke again.

  "Miss, I need you to come to the hospital. I can't disclose any further information on the phone."

  There it was. His hesitation before he spoke. My heart beat hard, but I listened
for the hospital’s address and hung up.

  Everything, after that, went by like a slow-motion movie. I didn't even bother to let anyone know I was leaving as I weaved through the sea of people, hailed a cab, and gave him the address. My body was on autopilot, and I gave the cabbie my money without checking the exact amount before I ran to the revolving doors of the emergency room. Panting, I marched to the front desk and demanded to know where my parents were.

  The nurse looked me up and down, about to tell me to have a seat when, out the corner of my eye, I saw shapes and colors of two distinct types of people. A cop and nurse conversing down the hall. Without another thought, I kicked off my heels and ran towards them, the front desk nurse shouting at me from behind.

  "Where are they?" I breathed, shaking with anxiety. "Where are my parents?" The cop—Officer Schwartz, his name tag read—glanced at the nurse before taking me gently by the arm. He guided me further down the glaring white hall to stand awkwardly in front of a closed hospital room. Before we could walk in, a doctor came out of the room and met me with sorrowful eyes.

  "Is this the daughter?" he asked Officer Schwartz, like I couldn’t speak for myself. Officer Schwartz simply nodded and stepped back. The way they moved around me fueled the heavy feeling in my body. The doctor gave me a small smile, but it wasn't reassuring in the least.

  "Are they…okay? Please tell me they are okay, right? Please." I was panicking and the doctor could tell.

  "I'm sorry, Ms. Sims, but your parents didn't make it. They were involved in a hit and run and were hit rather hard, I’m afraid,” he explained.

  I waited for him to finish up with a ‘they’re in critical condition’ or ‘they were rushed into immediate surgery.’ I wasn’t prepared for the words he spoke. “They were pronounced dead upon arrival," he stated. The weight had dropped on my lungs.

  "No." I shook my head and backed away from him. "No, they can't be. They were on their way to see me. To toast with me, to celebrate with me. No, you’re… you’re wrong." I backed up to the cold reality of the wall behind, reminding me where I was. I was in a hospital, with two pairs of eyes trying to empathize with me. Trying and failing. The nurse who was previously speaking with the officer caught up to us, and with one look at me, she scurried off, calling for others. The words “Ativan” and “stat” were yelled, and it got harder to breathe as tears streamed down my cheeks. I clutched at the wall in protest, the doctor moving his lips to speak. It would all be in vain, though.