Chapter 24: Monday

My daughter learned to walk on a Tuesday, in Ansel's kitchen, after the Subaru was already packed for a weekend at the lake.

She let go of the table leg, took a few wobbly steps toward his knees and sat down hard.

He said a word I did not allow in front of her, and then he was on the floor laughing.

A year had gone by since I put that scalpel down on a blue towel.

It had been a year of hearings, a recredentialing board and a hospital skills lab where nobody was allowed to be kind to me.

On the first Monday of October, I walked into St. Brigid's at six in the morning with her on my hip.

"She comes to work with me today," I told the security desk.

"She's cleared," the guard said gravely. "She's a Coughlan."

The emergency department was quiet.

The cloth was gone from the far wall, and there was a plaque under Patsy's photograph, a small one in brushed steel.

Patsy Coughlan, RN.

She stood between two bays for everyone to see, grinning at the camera in her purple scrubs.

I crouched with my daughter in front of it.

She stared at the picture for a long moment.

Then she put her flat palm against the steel and said, very clearly, "Nay."

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