Free No Regrets by Joann Ross Page B

up-close and personal look at society’s ills, none of the subjects shocked her. What was surprising was that viewers would be interested in watching all these depressingly dysfunctional relationships.
    She tried to read, but every time an ambulance cut its siren outside the ER doors, or a code came over the loudspeakers, she wanted to jump up and return to the battle. If her days were boring, her nights were anything but. Her sleep was interrupted at regular intervals by horrifying nightmares in which she was forced to suffer the rape, which she now remembered, over and over again.
    From her talks with the psych resident, Alan Bernstein, Molly understood the night terrors were her subconscious mind’s way of struggling to deal with the trauma she’d suffered. She also became convinced that as soon as she was allowed to return to the routine of normal daily life, the nightmares would stop.
    Yolanda remained sympathetic, but refused to do anything to help Molly escape what she’d come to view as her imprisonment.
    â€œReece says if you’re a good girl he may sign you out tomorrow.”
    â€œI’ve already been here five days.”
    â€œSo, you’ll be here six.”
    Molly muttered something that while not exactly a curse, wasn’t exactly nunlike, either. “At least tell me what’s happening down in The Pit. I never thought I’d miss that place, but I do.”
    â€œTaking religious vows doesn’t prevent you from becoming hooked on the adrenaline rush, just like the rest of us.”
    Molly couldn’t argue with that. She’d be the first to admit that the impatient streak that had once resulted in her being disciplined as a child with depressing regularity, now made her a natural ER nurse.
    â€œOh, there is some news,” Yolanda said. “About Benny.”
    Molly’s own petty frustration was instantly forgotten. Benny Johnson was a five-year-old boy who’d suffered more than any child should have to. He’d been born a crack baby on Molly’s first day in the ER. Hisnear-fatal withdrawal had been excruciatingly painful, making more than one battle-hardened ER nurse cry.
    Social Services had taken Benny from his mother. Unfortunately, they’d turned him over to his grandmother, who was no model of maternal expertise, either. By the time he was six months old, Benny had suffered a broken arm and possible head injuries from being shaken.
    He’d been put in a crisis nursery, only to be released to his mother again when she was released from a drug-abuse treatment program. Two days later, Benny was back with mysterious burns.
    The cycle had continued for five years. And each time Benny showed up in The Pit for treatment after another one of his accidents, Molly was more tempted just to take the poor little boy and run away.
    â€œWhat now?”
    â€œHe came in this morning all bruised, with cracked ribs. The court’s toughened up. He’s going to be released for adoption over his mother’s consent.”
    That should have been good news, but unfortunately, Molly knew better.
    â€œOlder children are difficult to place,” she murmured. She also recalled, with vivid clarity that long ago day when she’d eavesdropped on a conversation between the Mother Superior who ran the orphanage and prospective parents.
    The well-dressed couple who thought Lena “sweet” and were prepared to overlook the fact that Molly could be “a bit of a handful,” had been reluctant to adopt the sisters because of their background.
    â€œHow can anyone know about genetics, really?” theman had asked. “What if one of the girls harbors some impulse that might cause her to violently explode with rage? As her father did?”
    â€œThat’s highly unlikely,” the nun had assured him.
    â€œUnlikely perhaps. But you can’t guarantee it’s not a possibility.”
    â€œThere are no guarantees in life,