I wrote this as an entry to NPR's Three Minute Fiction; it needed to be under 600 words, and had to begin with the sentence The nurse left work at five o'clock. My entry wasn't even a finalist, so I'll share it with my MySpace friends instead. (The nurse is based on a real nurse I encountered three or four times in the early 1990's, and the boy is slightly based on my son.)
Confidentiality
by Shyra L. Latiolais
The nurse left work at five o’clock. He’d recently changed back to the day shift, and being able to go home at five still felt like a luxury.
His name was Ellis, and he was a large man; he knew people made comments like “He must have gotten through nursing school on a football scholarship.” He was well-suited to the emergency room, where his physical strength was often useful. Adult patients treated him with respect. He recalled a man who had a kidney stone, who lashed out at the doctors and other nurses. When Ellis took over wheeling the gurney, the patient quieted down, as if, even in his pain, he knew Ellis was not to be messed with.
Most children liked him. He liked them, too. He and his wife wanted children. Not just yet, though, as she was still in school, getting her nursing degree.
When he got home and opened the door, his wife, Laurel, looked up from her homework. “Hi, baby,” she greeted him. He walked over to the desk and kissed her.
“You want to go out for dinner?” he asked her.
“All right,” she answered, “twist my arm.”
They chose a Mediterranean restaurant. At a nearby table, a woman and a boy who was about eight years old were giving their orders. “I’ll have a chicken shawarma,” the boy said. Ellis figured the boy was familiar with the dish, as he knew how to say “shawarma.”
A waitress brought Laurel and Ellis their menus, and took their drink orders. The boy at the other table looked at Ellis and said “Hi!” The boy’s mother looked, too, and said to the boy “Sweetie, let those people enjoy their dinner.”
“Mom, we know him,” said the boy. “His name is Ellis. He’s the nurse. When I got hurt at school and had to get stitches in my chin.” The boy tilted his head back, indicating a barely-visible scar.
Ellis realized he remembered the boy from a previous stint on the day shift; he had been stoic about his injury until Ellis had cleaned it with hydrogen peroxide; apparently the cut hadn’t hurt, but the peroxide had, making the boy cry. “I remember you,” Ellis said to the boy, “I don’t remember your name, though.”
“I’m sure you see a lot of patients,” the boy’s mother responded.
“My name is Paul. You cleaned the cut on my chin, and I got stitches.” The boy tilted his head back again. “This is my mom, Lisa.”
“I’m, as you said, Ellis, this is my wife, Laurel.” Polite hellos were said all around.
“Do a lot of kids cry when you use peroxide on their cuts?” Paul asked. Ellis was mildly impressed that the boy knew what was used to clean wounds. Before he replied, Paul’s mother interrupted, “Paul, how about you let Ellis and Laurel enjoy their dinner.”
“It’s fine,” said Ellis, “Yes, lots of kid cry when I clean their wounds with peroxide. Even adults cry sometimes. That stuff stings.” Paul laughed at Ellis’ emphasis.
“You know what, though,” Ellis continued “there is a law called HIPAA, and because of it, I cannot share confidential information, like who cries in the emergency room. I have probably already said too much.”
Paul nodded his head and said “I understand. Enjoy your dinner.” Paul’s mother gave Ellis a look that said “good job.”
Laurel smiled warmly at Ellis. The waitress returned with their drinks and asked if they were ready to order. “Yes,” said Ellis, “I’ll have the chicken shawarma.”