A Moment of Weakness (4 page)

Shaunie considered that for a minute, and Jade ran her fingertips over the child’s forehead. The little girl’s skin had a yellow cast, and her eyes still looked tired from the infection that ravaged her body. The doctors had done more tests that week, and Jade hoped they wouldn’t find anything seriously wrong with her.

“My mommy and daddy don’t live too far away from me, do they, Jade?”

“Well, honey, no. But you don’t live here, you live with your mommy and daddy.”

“Sometimes I live here.” Shaunie didn’t seem distraught by the fact.

“That’s true, I guess. But Mommy and Daddy are very, very close. They can visit all the time.”

For now, anyway. Unless the county voted to shut down the children’s unit. A stab of fear set free a batch of butterflies in Jade’s gut. There had been talk about closing the unit for months. Budget cuts were needed, and someone had designed a plan to eliminate the children’s ward at Kelso General. If that
happened, sick children like Shaunie would have to go an hour south to Portland for care. An hour that meant the difference between a child getting to see her parents several times a day or being left alone in a hospital with infrequent visits at best.

The city was going to discuss the idea at a meeting that afternoon. The plan made Jade furious.

“Yes, honey, you can see your mommy and daddy any time you want.”

Shaunie nodded and wriggled about, an anxious look on her face. “I have to go potty.”

Jade helped her out of bed, careful not to tangle her IV lines. When the ordeal was through, she eased the child back under the blankets.

“You’re pretty.” Shaunie yawned.

Jade smiled and kissed the little girl on the tip of her nose. “Thanks. You, too, princess.”

“My mommy says you look like Meg Ryan with dark hair.”

“Does she now?” Jade laughed.

“Who’s Meg Ryan?”

“Oh, she’s someone in the movies.”

“I think you’re prettier than her.” Shaunie laid her head back on the pillow and rubbed her eyes. “I need to take a naptime now.”

“Okay, baby doll. You do that. I won’t be here when you wake up, but I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Where will you go, Jade? Home to see your daddy?”

She hugged the little girl close.
Only when I absolutely have to, honey
. “No, sweetie. I have to go to a meeting.”

“Okay.” Shaunie yawned again and her eyelids fluttered. “Night-night, Jade.”

“G’night, honey.”

Rarely had anything mattered this much to Jade. She slept
in the house where her father lived, but the hospital was her home. She had volunteered in the children’s unit since she was sixteen. Now that she worked there, she would fight the county with everything she had so Shaunie and Kelso’s other sick kids would never have to be shuttled away to a hospital in Portland.

Jade returned to the nurse’s station and glanced at the clock. It was nearly three. The meeting was at four and was expected to draw a hundred people.

Jade pushed aside her science book and began scribbling on the back of a blank admitting form. If she had a chance, she intended to talk about the kids at Kelso Hospital. Shaunie had given her an idea. She began putting her feelings on paper until she’d filled an entire page with notes.

The thought of Shaunie being separated from her parents made her throat constrict.
Help me, God. Let them see how badly we need this place
.

Jade was not religious—she didn’t attend a church or read a Bible—but ever since she was a little girl she had talked to God, especially when she was alone. And she was alone often.

She thought about the townspeople who would attend the meeting and wondered whether they, too, wanted to keep the unit open. Jade would know many of them, she was sure, and she hoped her words would persuade them to join the fight. While the people of Kelso who knew her did not go out of their way to be friendly to Jade, most of them didn’t seem to hold her father’s alcoholism against her. Jade didn’t care if they did. She didn’t need anyone’s approval. She didn’t need anything at all.

Except the children’s unit at Kelso General.

A unit whose fate was entirely in the hands of the county’s board of supervisors.

T
HE OFFICES OF THE
C
OWLITZ COUNTY BOARD OF SUPERVISORS
for the city of Kelso, Washington, were located above city hall and adjacent to an auditorium where town meetings had been held for the past fifty years. Tanner had spent the morning in meetings and used his lunch hour to unpack his files, reference books, and rearrange his office.

Tanner surveyed the worn-out cubicle that would serve as his workspace for the summer. His mother would have been appalled. Nothing but cherry wood and inlaid carpets for Tanner Eastman. A politician on the rise needed the right type of office even if it meant having his mother come down and make over the place herself.

He ambled toward the last of his things, a stack of legal books that would barely fit on his desk. These were treasured books, and whether he’d need them or not during the internship, he intended to read them:
Religious Freedom Fading Fast, Whatever Happened to God in America?, One Nation Under God?

He stood the books where he could see them, wondering what his mother would say if she knew what really interested him. Hogwash, no doubt. A waste of time. Silly notions. Extremism. Tanner smiled. The books were a secret, but they were nothing compared with the secret he harbored in his heart. The secret of what he really wanted to do with his life.

Fred Lang, one of the younger supervisors, peered around the pressed board that made up the east wall of Tanner’s new office. “You ’bout ready?”

“I think so.” Tanner reached for a folder.

“You did read the file we sent, correct?”

“Four times.” He handed Lang the folder. “I put together a few pages in summary, stating the board’s reasoning, highlighting the profit and loss statement for Kelso General’s children’s wing. It’s all in there.”

Lang took the folder and glanced through it. “Impressive.” He looked up at Tanner. “This is a hot one. Town’s pretty riled up about it, what with a closure affecting sick kids and all.” He hesitated. “What would you think about presenting your summary at the public meeting today? Since the townspeople don’t know you yet.”

Tanner shrugged. “Fine with me.”

Lang’s shoulders relaxed and the lines on his forehead were replaced with a broad smile. “Okay, great. We’ll introduce you, tell them you’re working with the board for the summer. Then hand you the floor. We’ll handle the questions when you’re done.”

Tanner shot a glance at his watch. “The meeting’s at four, right?”

“Right. We need to be there half an hour early to compare notes.”

“One question.”

Lang leaned against the particleboard but straightened again when it threatened to topple. “Shoot.”

“The file wasn’t real clear on the alternatives, other ways the county could cut the budget besides closing the children’s unit.”

Lang sighed. “To tell you the truth, there really hasn’t been time. Elections are coming up this fall, we’ve got the police staff about to go on strike. Budget cuts are a reality, and this was an easy choice.”

“Maybe not to the townsfolk.” Tanner wasn’t trying to be difficult, but if he was going to be on the front line, he needed to know how to respond to the fire.

“Don’t worry, we’ll take the heat. You just give ’em your presentation. Maybe then they’ll stop thinking we have something against their kids.”

“Small town syndrome?”

“Too small. Everyone on the board knows someone who’s taking this thing personally. The town thinks we’re a bunch of ogres who have it out for them.”

Tanner wondered. “Nothing personal involved?”

“No. Just the simplest cut we could make. The one that took the least time to figure out and helped us make ends meet.”

Tanner nodded. “Is there a Plan B?”

“Plan B?”

“The town’s coming out for the meeting, right? What if there’s more outrage than you’re counting on? It’s election year, after all. You said so yourself. Maybe we should have a Plan B.”

“Such as?”

“Such as taking the summer and seeing if we can find somewhere else to cut the budget.”

Lang gripped his chin with his thumb and forefinger and nodded slowly. “Not a bad idea.” He let his hand drop. “But don’t tell the people that.”

Tanner folded his arms. “First rule of sticky politics: Work like you have a Plan B, talk like you wouldn’t consider it.”

Lang smiled. “I like that. But it wouldn’t be us finding somewhere else to cut the budget. It would be you.”

Tanner chuckled. “I figured as much.”

Lang patted Tanner roughly on the shoulder. “Welcome to summer internships, my friend. We’ll keep you so busy you’ll look forward to final exams.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Lang had lightened up considerably in the past five minutes and seemed ready to make small talk. Tanner didn’t mind that he’d been made chief scapegoat on the issue. He didn’t know a soul in the state of Washington, and it wouldn’t hurt to have a friend in Lang.

The man shot a look around Tanner’s cubicle. “Public office, right? That’s the goal?”

“How’d you guess?”

“Princeton degree in poli-sci, political internships, get elected to councilman or congressman. Maybe the big time, state senator, or even the White House.” Lang huffed and a grin appeared on his face. “I’ve worked with you dreamers before.”

“Yep.” Tanner studied the stack of books he’d unpacked moments earlier. He suddenly felt like a load of bricks had been dumped on his shoulders. “That’s always been the big dream. Public office. An elected servant of the people. It’s something I’ve …” he searched for the right words, “known I’d do … as far back as I can remember.”

The ten-member board of supervisors had finished its private meeting and now sat along a panel at the front of the auditorium. The room was filling fast, and Tanner could feel the tension. Scattered about were clusters of townspeople, whispering and gesturing and casting disdainful looks toward the board.

This wasn’t going to be a discussion. It was going to be a lynching. They didn’t want to lose the children’s unit at Kelso General, and they appeared ready to demand the heads of the people who did.

Tanner scanned the room. Mostly older people, longtime residents, probably, and several serious-looking couples.
Parents of sick kids, no doubt. He continued searching the room … and his breath caught in his throat.

She was in the back row, sitting by herself. She couldn’t have been much more than twenty, slim and athletic looking with short, windblown hair the color of roasted walnuts. She was studying a pile of notes on her lap, and Tanner realized she was wearing a nurse’s uniform.
Great. Another voice against us
. Despite the scowl on her face she was breathtaking. The girl glanced up and met his gaze, and for a moment a look of recognition flashed in her eyes. Then she looked quickly away.

For a moment, Tanner’s political poise wavered, and he considered going to her. There was something familiar about her, though Tanner couldn’t decide what it was. He watched her for another few seconds, then returned to his notes. The girl didn’t matter.

If she worked with the children at Kelso General, then they were about to become enemies.

The meeting was underway, and several minor matters of business had been taken care of. Now Lang had the floor, and he was reading from Tanner’s resume.

“We have a young intern with us for the summer. He’s from Princeton University and—” he shot Tanner a look—“will probably become a household name one day in political circles. This afternoon he’s going to brief all of you on the budget status and the intended closure of the children’s unit at Kelso General Hospital.” A chorus of grumblings began to build, and Lang was forced to raise his voice. “If you’ll please give him your attention. Mr. Tanner Ghormsley.”

Tanner hesitated for a moment.
Ghormsley?
Some great start he’d made in becoming a household name if his boss couldn’t
even remember what to call him. He didn’t bother making a correction. He stood and felt a sense of serenity. Crowds did not make him nervous.

“Ladies and gentlemen, first let me thank you for coming. I understand that many of you have serious concerns about the closure of the children’s unit at Kelso General.” He paused, guessing that nearly two hundred people had packed the auditorium. Not one of them was smiling. His eyes found the girl in the back, but she was looking at her notes again.

He cleared his throat and began explaining in succinct detail the condition of the county’s budget. When it was apparent how desperately cuts were in order, he began talking about the children’s unit. The numbers told the story. Kelso General was owned by the county and simply was not making enough money to warrant a children’s ward.

“Children’s units are more costly because equipment must be adjusted on nearly every level. Smaller beds, smaller machinery, smaller needles and tubing and testing devices.” He looked for a softening among the crowd and saw none.

He went on to tell them how other units at the hospital were essential and that children could still be treated in the emergency room once the children’s unit was closed.

“Children who need hospitalization will be transported to Portland’s Doernbecher Children’s Hospital. Of course that facility is one of the finest in the nation.”

Finally, Tanner dealt with the most difficult truth of all. “The fact is, Kelso General is costing this county a lot of money. While none of you wants to see the children’s unit closed, it would be far worse to see the entire hospital shut down.”

He cited towns that had lost hospitals because of the drain on county funds. “The board of supervisors feels very strongly that this town does need a hospital. Kelso General has a
tremendous reputation in the medical community, and the staff there has played a part in saving the lives of hundreds of Kelso residents. You may know someone who is alive today because of Kelso General. Perhaps you, yourself, are here because you had the privilege of living near a top-notch medical facility.”