Arrhythmia Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 Johanna Danninger

  Translation copyright © 2015 Christiane Galvani

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Previously published as Vorhofflimmern by Amazon Publishing in Germany in 2014. Translated from German by Christiane Galvani. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2015.

  Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503947153

  ISBN-10: 1503947157

  Cover design by Scott Barrie

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  About the Translator

  Chapter 1

  The emergency room of Wollbach County Hospital was hot and sticky. Even though it was only late May, the temperature was already in the mideighties, and our ancient ventilation system was struggling to keep up. The humidity seemed to rise by the hour, and by late afternoon each of the rooms felt as if it might spawn its own thunderstorm.

  “Please turn on the light, Lena,” Dr. Heimer instructed.

  I was loath to do it because the large lamp was practically a space heater. Our admins seemed not to have heard of LEDs, so we still had to deal with hot old-fashioned bulbs.

  Still, knowing Dr. Heimer needed more light to perform the procedure, I turned it on and focused it toward the surgical site. The patient flinched.

  I gently patted his shoulder to reassure him.

  “Almost done,” I purred, which seemed to do little to comfort the man. He whimpered softly. I looked him over: shallow breathing, pasty complexion, cold sweat . . . Years of experience in the ER suggested that he risked going into shock.

  Dr. Heimer and I exchanged meaningful glances.

  “Well then. Let’s get to work,” he sighed. “Forceps, please.”

  The patient began to whimper more audibly as he stared at the large tweezers I handed to the doctor.

  “Don’t watch,” I admonished gently.

  “This isn’t going to hurt a bit,” Heimer added.

  The patient moaned incredulously, but he lowered his head and closed his eyes in resignation.

  The attending physician leaned over the man and carefully positioned the instrument. “There it is . . .”

  “Ahh!”

  “Hold still!”

  “All set!” I announced.

  I handed the doctor a gauze pad in exchange for the corpus delicti.

  “Is it out?” the patient asked breathlessly. “Is it all out?”

  “Let’s see now . . .” I scrutinized the black object on the gauze. “Body, legs, head . . . Yes, it clearly is a complete tick.”

  The man squinted with relief and groaned. “Thank God!”

  Dr. Heimer raised one eyebrow and began to jot down a few lines for the primary-care physician. Well, just two lines. Diagnosis: tick bite. Treatment: removal of tick. Follow-up: monitoring of the bite wound.

  A waste of paper, really, but just another part of the health care bureaucracy.

  While the patient slowly recovered, I drowned the tick in some disinfectant and placed it in the garbage as per protocol.

  “You can get dressed now,” I told the patient, seeing that his complexion was returning to normal.

  “But what about the wound?” he inquired anxiously. “Aren’t you going to bandage it?”

  I furrowed my brow as I examined the red dot that did not even remotely merit being described as a “wound.”

  “You know,” I finally said, “I believe that, in this case, we can manage without a bandage.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t think it’s going to be very pleasant to remove an adhesive bandage from your testicle.”

  The man thought about it for a moment and agreed. “Probably not.” He got up and pulled up his pants.

  The waiting room was tense when I returned the patient to his concerned wife. Given the hysteria with which he’d arrived, uninformed onlookers were surely convinced we’d just saved the man’s life.

  Of course we had. That’s what the ER is for, isn’t it?

  I shook my head slightly as I returned to the treatment room and joined Dr. Heimer, who was busy examining an X-ray.

  He glanced at me archly. “What’s wrong, Lena? No man-hating jokes? That isn’t like you!”

  I cleared my throat. “I’m cultivating my sense of compassion.”

  Heimer smiled. “Aha.”

  He didn’t believe me, of course. We’d been working together too long. The real reason for my failure to make a snarky remark was that there were too many to choose from. I swallowed all my quips about tough guys with soft parts and instead took a close look at the X-ray of a broken forearm.

  “Are you planning to reset the arm?” I inquired.

  “Yes. There’s too much swelling for us to operate. First, we need to immobilize it for a few days.”

  I nodded. “Bier block anesthesia?”

  “Yeah, ten milliliters should do it.”

  “Should be plenty,” I said as I turned to go. “After all, the arm belongs to a woman.”

  Three hours, six contusions, four fractures, and several lacerations later, I was sitting in the nurses’ kitchen with my favorite colleague, Sandra, enjoying a well-earned cup of coffee.

  The room was really so much more than a kitchen. It functioned as a staff lounge, an office, a conference room, a de-stressing center, and a gossip hub. In short, it was the nucleus of the entire emergency department.

  Even though my top was sticking to my back with sweat, I relished sipping the cup of caffeine. As far as I was concerned, it was never too hot for coffee.

  The peaceful atmosphere of our short break was broken when Dr. Reinmann swept into the room. The elderly surgeon was always stressed out. I couldn’t remember ever having seen the ruddy-faced, beer-bellied man relaxed. His walk was stressed, his laugh was stressed, and for all I knew, his sleep was stressed. Still, he was an excellent physician, and his challenging demeanor made him a unique member of the hospital community. Reinmann also had a superbly dry sense of humor, and he and I loved to debate which wa
s the stronger sex, men or women.

  Reinmann plopped down into a chair and groaned as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. “It’s hotter than hell in this place. I don’t know how a person can be expected to put up with it.”

  I ignored his lamentations and spread the newspaper on the table in front of me. Sandra took the bait and bought the good doctor a round of pity.

  “Oh, poor Dr. Reinmann. What are you still doing here at this late hour? Are you on duty?” she asked.

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Oh dear!” She used the tone of voice you use when consoling a small child who’s skinned his knee. The attending physician seemed pleased.

  “Yes, well, I don’t know why I have to be on duty so much,” he complained.

  I rolled my eyes. “Because you get paid for it,” I muttered, without looking up from the paper.

  “Lena! Why are you being so bitchy?” he asked.

  “I’m not being bitchy. I’m just telling the truth.”

  Reinmann chuckled and went to grab my newspaper.

  Seriously?

  “Hey!” I objected and held on to the paper. “I’m obviously reading that! The least you could do is ask.”

  He held up his hands defensively. “I surrender! Are you always like this?”

  “When I need to be.”

  “Well, I sure don’t envy your future husband!”

  Sandra jokingly punched me in the shoulder. “What future husband? No men have the balls to get near our Lena.”

  “Because they’re terrified?” ventured Reinmann.

  “They’re all too intimidated by her!” Sandra said.

  Hey! I’m sitting right here!

  I angrily shoved the sports section toward the doctor.

  “I’m just too strong for weak men,” I declared.

  This amused Reinmann mightily. Sandra shook her head.

  “You’re so demanding, Lena,” she said.

  “I’m not demanding at all, Sandra! I simply have standards,” I insisted, wondering how to get them to leave me alone.

  “How old are you, if I may ask?” Reinmann said.

  I bit my tongue and resisted telling him that he may not ask. Instead, I replied as coolly as possible, “I’m twenty-five.”

  “What? Twenty-five and not married?”

  Excuse me?

  “When I was your age, I was already considering divorce,” he said.

  I knew that was nonsense because Reinmann had been married to the same woman for forty years. Sandra knew it, too, and reminded him.

  “You do know what the German word for marriage, Ehe, means?” he asked with a smirk. “It stands for errare humanum est. Which translates as ‘To err is . . .’”

  “Human.” Sandra and I finished the joke in unison, having already heard it a thousand times before.

  Reinmann still took pleasure in the punch line. He straightened the section of the paper that I had been gracious enough to hand over and read a few lines before looking up at me as though he had just had the most splendid idea.

  “Come to think of it, our new resident starts next week. He might be perfect for you!”

  “God forbid! Never a doctor.” I sniffed with conviction.

  “Why not?”

  I gave him a knowing look. “Because they’re always stressed out.”

  Sandra giggled. Apparently, the attending physician had missed my insinuation.

  “Oh, whatever,” he said. “In that case, just choose a gyno. They’re used to women and don’t get their feathers ruffled.”

  Inwardly, I rolled my eyes at Reinmann’s nickname for OB-GYNs. Outwardly, I put on a dead-serious face and said, “Men who know more about my vagina than I do creep me out.”

  Reinmann exploded with laughter, while Sandra gasped and then dissolved into giggles.

  “Have you met the new resident?” she asked Reinmann, finally letting me off the hook for a second.

  “Yes, yes,” he said eagerly. He leaned forward with an air of conspiracy. “An absolute catch, as far as a man like myself can judge.”

  Based on the way his past pronouncements about fine specimens turned out to be total duds, I knew he couldn’t.

  “And he seems extremely competent,” he continued, but I knew well enough to take even this professional assessment with a grain of salt. “He’s been doing surgery for quite some time and is only six months from his boards, so I’m assuming that he is pretty accomplished already.”

  I had to admit that was a relief. No one is born a master, but the residents who came to us fresh out of med school could be a serious pain.

  Reinmann had more gossip to share, but the doorbell screamed, announcing a new patient.

  I looked longingly at my still-half-full cup as I shuffled out of the kitchen with no desire to get back to work.

  Patients really had a way of ruining one’s entire shift . . .

  Chapter 2

  I was having the weirdest dream: I was sitting on a throne and watching in silence as Dr. Reinmann stood in front of me, laughing and waving a newspaper in my face. All of a sudden, my mother was there next to him, staring reproachfully at me. “Why won’t you give me grandchildren?” she wanted to know. I tried to defend myself, but I couldn’t get my mouth to open. Her expression grew more and more urgent and pleading, but I just stared blankly while Reinmann continued to laugh. Losing patience, my mother wrenched the newspaper from the doctor’s hand, rolled it up, and proceeded to hit me on the head with it until my ears started ringing. What the heck was she doing? I wanted her to stop. The paper vibrated in her hands and . . .

  I awoke and was suspended for a moment in that confusing state between dream and reality. I saw the rolled-up newspaper lying on my nightstand, vibrating and singing to itself. I was still angry with my mother. As I was brooding about what made her think she could treat me that way, I realized the vibrating newspaper was my cell phone, and the melody seemed familiar because it was my ringtone.

  The shutters were down, so there wasn’t much light in my room. My clock radio was blinking 9:34 at me in its usual intrusive fashion.

  What kind of idiot had the nerve to call me at this ungodly hour during a week when I was working nights?

  Half-asleep, I reached for the phone while making noises reminiscent of an ape in drug withdrawal and knocked my bedside lamp to the floor with a dull thud. I made a sound like arggm, finally got hold of the source of the horrible disturbance, and answered without looking at the caller ID.

  “Grra . . . llo?” I croaked.

  “A wonderful morning to you,” a cheerful voice rang out.

  Oh shit. Too cheerful, too early in the day. The voice on the other end definitely belonged to an obnoxious, bubbly person by the name of Vera.

  “Lena? Are you there?”

  I wanted to reply, but a grunt was all I could manage.

  “Oh. Did I wake you?”

  Stupid question. No, I always answer the phone sounding like a parrot in the middle of puberty.

  I forced myself to roll onto my back and cleared my throat. After all, Vera was my best friend, and I figured I owed it to her to attempt a pleasant conversation.

  “I hate you,” I said.

  Vera snickered. “I know, I know. Sweetie, it’s a glorious day. You can’t just sleep all morning.”

  Oh yes, I could! Why the hell shouldn’t I? I was single, had no children, and was living in a tiny apartment. What else was I supposed to do all morning? All my friends worked days, and all the daytime TV shows were garbage. And besides, sleeping happened to be one of my very favorite activities.

  “Hellooo, Lena! Are you asleep?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh come on. Don’t be so grumpy. Don’t you even want to know why I’m calling?”

  “You obviously called to wake
me up because you’re sadistic.”

  “Nope. I just found out something that is going to interest you.”

  “Does it have something to do with you winning the lottery and wanting to share it with me?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then I’m not interested.”

  Vera sighed loudly. “Why don’t you hear me out first, silly?”

  I grunted and ran my hand over my face. “Fine.”

  “A coworker just told me that Pink is coming to Munich in September,” Vera announced.

  As I shot up in bed, I almost poked out my eye with my thumb. “What?”

  “There. I knew that would get your attention.”

  Of course she knew. We’d been friends since elementary school and inseparable since then. Vera knew me better than anyone, and maybe better than I knew myself. So she was well aware that I was a rabid Pink fan and desperate to see her live.

  “Are there any tickets left?” I gasped. My grumpiness had miraculously evaporated.

  “That’s the problem, which is why I called you so early,” Vera said slowly. “I wanted to get us tickets on the Internet, but it seems that the online quota, or whatever it’s called, is sold out.”

  “Oh, awesome. And that’s what you’re calling to tell me?”

  “Shut up already. Online sales are closed, but there are still some tickets available in ticket sales offices that are part of some club program or other. I can’t remember the program name, but I know that . . . drumroll, please . . . the newspaper shop on Kahnstrasse belongs to it.”

  I scratched my head incredulously. “Our Kahnstrasse? In Wollbach? In this dump of a town?”

  Wollbach, our small town in Lower Bavaria, was home to barely ten thousand inhabitants, a grand total of two gas stations (neither of which was open past eleven), and not so much as a single fast-food restaurant.

  The term “dump” was more than appropriate.

  “Yes! You know, that little shop next to the shoe store,” Vera said. “Who would have thought anyone in Wollbach would have even heard of an exclusive musical club program?”

  “Much less belong to one.”

  “Exactly. That’s what I thought. So I called them, just to make sure it wasn’t a mistake. And it turns out they really do have tickets—only they wouldn’t let me buy them over the phone. The last tickets are for sale only at the shop.”