With a flutter of wings and the crash and clatter of tools, Kris kicked over a utility table. “How can anyone do something like that to someone?!”
“Asks the gurl wit' wings.”
“Aargh! I have half a mind...”
“Tae do nothin', Kris,” Irish admonished her. “Ye wanna be a doctor, part o' that is respectin' yer patient's wishes. I nae like it enna more than ye, but the gurl has made it clear. She does na wanna file charges.”
“Right now!”
“Aye, righ' now. Later, she'll still hae the choice. Righ' now, ye'll respect her wishes and ye'll abide by confidentiality. Tha' means ye'll no be tellin' enna one. No Ashleigh. No Warren. An 'specially no Jason. He hae enough on his mind righ' nae.”
“Dammit!” Kris slammed her fist into a supply cabinet. “How can you just sit there so dispassionately? Doesn't it bother you?”
Irish crossed her arms. “Aye, it bothers me. It bothers me ye be rantin' an railin'. Ye break yer han' ye'll be the next thing ta useless ta me.”
Shaking her hand loosely, Kris shot a glum look at Irish. “I'm just venting.”
“Aye. I'm dispassionate on account I need ta be. Ye need tae bottle up tha' frustration. Take all'a yer emotions an clamp them down. Ya need tae think, Kris. Ye go all emotive wit' yer patients and ye won't be able tae do wha's necessary sometimes. As fur Theresa, I don't think ye needs remindin' wha' she done ta Dani yesterday when tae little hothead got tae wayward upset wit' her.”
Kris hung her head and sighed. “Your brogue is heavier than usual.”
“Aye,” Irish said. “Tha' 'appens when I git angry an upset.”
“I'm sorry,” Kris said sheepishly. “You think Jason was right?”
Nodding her head, Irish said, “Aye. I do. Realization sickness coupled wit' repression and denial. From wha' she's said, her mum was tae one tha' was her world. Her stepfather seems ta be a real piece o' work.”