Tecumseh
By Tidia & MOG, May 2006
SnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsN
Chapter 5/18
The unfortunate part about living in a double-wide trailer was that it
was, essentially, a tin can; and when someone was knocking at your door
at 2 a.m. the sound reverberated through the entire structure like
banging pots in a military mess hall.
Dr. Ben Metis was used to these emergency wake-ups. He’d stopped
sleeping in the nude several years earlier, because finding clothes,
let alone dressing, took extra minutes that some people couldn’t
afford. He stopped short of wearing shoes to bed.
“Washekee sheke,” he muttered, slipping into his native Shawnee. ‘a
fine day’ - it was a sarcastic expression he’d learned when he was a
boy from his father.
He ran a hand through his long, straight black hair as he made his way
to the entry of his home-slash-clinic. He pulled open the door and
stared at the face in front of him for several seconds before his eyes
grew wide with recognition.
“Jesus! Dean Mitchell, it’s been fuckin’ years. . .”
Ben pushed his hair out of his face again and looked over the tall,
young man whom Dean was holding upright on the front steps.
“Okay, let me help you there. . .” Ben took over the job of holding
open the screen door from Dean and grabbed his new patient’s other arm.
He could feel the heat radiating off him. ‘Gonna be a long night...no, make that
morning.’
“This is my brother, Sam,” Dean said, taking most of the weight. “I
think he has strep or something.”
“Second door on the right.” Ben helped guide them down the hallway,
picking up his stethoscope from where it hung from a hook on the wall
as he passed. “Sam, can you hear me?”
Dean’s younger brother nodded, though didn’t open his eyes.
“He has strep,” Dean repeated insistently, as they eased Sam down onto
one of two hospital beds in the main treatment room.
“Hey, who’s got the framed certificates on the wall, huh? Why don’t you
let thedoctor make the diagnosis. And so help me, if you brought some
nasty plague in here, like the white-ass man you are. . .”
Ben’s handling of Sam belied his diatribe. He gently guided his patient
to lie down. As he spoke, he checked Sam’s temperature with an ear
thermometer.
“Sam? My name is Ben Metis. You’re at my clinic.” The thermometer
beeped and Ben read the results aloud for Dean’s benefit.
“One-oh-three-point-five. Definitely not a hangover.”
Dean clung close by and Ben eyed his friend, while slipping on the
stethoscope. “Dean, back off and let me work, ‘cause you’re a shitty
nurse.”
“Yeah, right, whose stitches left who a scar?” He dropped down into a
chair in the corner, and watched Ben work. “Fix him up, okay? And
something stronger than amoxicillin.”
The exam revealed nothing surprising to the young doctor. He’d seen too
many childhood cases of group A Streptococcus infection to count.
Granted, Sam’s symptoms were more acute than many of Ben’s recent
cases; but it didn’t stop him from merely shrugging and nodding when he
showed the positive results of the rapid strep test to Dean twenty
minutes later.
“The throat swelling is a little tricky,” Ben said, as he carefully
draped two more blankets over his patient. “I’d like to start him on
some intravenous antibiotics.”
“Sure,” replied Dean quickly. “Whatever you need to do.”
“I mostly only treat my pregnant strep patients with the IV’s, but with
all that pus down there and the swelling I-”
Dean abruptly cut him off. “Dude! I do not need to hear about throats and
pus. Just…do your thing, will ya?”
In less than an hour, Ben had an IV started and noticed a positive
change in his patient’s pallor.
“He’s going to be fine.” Ben gestured for Dean to pass him another
clear liquid-filled bag from where it sat on the exam room counter. “I
need you guys to stick around so I can give him a couple rounds of the
antibiotics.”
Dean nodded.
“Grab a bed.” Ben gestured to the other side of the room. “I gave him
some morphine for the throat pain, he should rest for awhile. In three
hours I’ll do another round of antibiotics.”
Three hours later, Ben didn’t have to set his alarm clock for the
recheck. He usually started his day at 6 a.m., getting in a run before
patients showed up at the small clinic. Today, he would skip the run,
and take a long, hot shower, before checking on his ward.
He poured out two cups of hot, black coffee and made his way down the
hall to the main exam room.
Sam opened his eyes as the doctor walked into the room. In a tired,
raspy voice he called for his brother. “Dean?”
The older Winchester responded instantly. Though still sleepy, he
pushed himself into a sitting position on the second bed. “Hey,” he
cleared his throat and rubbed at his eyes, trying to wake up. “How ya
feelin’?”
“Like crap. And I sound like one of Marge Simpson’s sisters.”
Ben smiled at the response and passed Dean a cup of coffee. “Sugar and
milk’s in the kitchen if ya need it.” He took a sip of his own drink
and spoke to Sam. “You’re going to be fine. The voice should be back to
normal in the next day or so.”
“We’re at a clinic,” offered Dean. “Ben here is the doctor that fixed
you up. He’s a friend of mine.”
“You have friends?” Sam asked, with a deadpan expression. He studied
Ben briefly. Under scrutiny, Metis again pushed back his hair. His
uncle frequently found a way to remind Ben that his long straight hair,
‘made him look 20 instead of 33, and maybe people didn’t trust doctors
that looked like kids.’
In Ben’s experience, it was his skin color that was the issue. Too many
people thought his Native American heritage meant he wouldn’t be a good
doctor. Though why they thought it qualified him to work in a casino,
he’d never know.
“I’m probably it,” Ben stated, with a wicked grin. He moved to the
white Formica cabinet to retrieve a vial of Clindamycin.
“Oh, you’re a funny one, man,” replied Dean. He flashed an equally
mischievous smile and continued. “Speaking of friendly relations -
how’s Frankie?”
Ben involuntarily flinched at the name and the vial he held slipped
from his fingertips. It bounced and clattered against the linoleum
floor but rolled to a stop, unbroken. “Damn it, Dean.” Ben leaned over
and scooped up the small glass container. “I swear, his name gets
mentioned and the guy comes knocking on my door.”
The only schedule that Uncle Frankie’s visits seemed to follow was one
of odd coincidence. Though he lived within miles of Ben’s home, there
were times the young doctor wouldn’t see his uncle for several weeks at
a time. Then he’d show up suddenly, usually when Ben needed help or an
extra set of hands. Uncle Frankie’s timing was unnerving.
Dean slid off the bed and patted his brother on the leg. “Get some
rest, Sammy, I’m gonna go get something to eat.” He lifted the mug of
coffee to Ben in a mocking salute and drifted from the room.
SnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsN
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