Disaster Status (16 page)

She nodded and picked up her pace as she crossed the lobby, reminding herself she still needed to make an appointment with the lawyer. The mention of it had stopped Nick from contacting her again. Good.

Leigh flinched as loud screeching sounded overhead.
What’s that, the fire alarm?
She stopped, her gaze traveling across the lobby.

A second alarm joined the first in an earsplitting crescendo, and visitors scurried toward the exit, holding their hands over their ears. The Little Mercies volunteer rushed from her shop just as the operator page shrilled overhead: “Code Red area one. Code Red main lobby.”

+++

“Uncle Scotty, if it was a real fire, the sprinklers would put it out, right?”

“Right.” He watched as his nephew scanned the ceiling. Trying to act brave, while lying in bed attached to an IV, with his leg pieced together like welding shop project. Scott’s chest constricted. He’d gotten upstairs as quickly as he could, but he still wasn’t sure he’d convinced Cody he was safe.
Safe . . .
Guilt stabbed him.
Now I worry about keeping him safe?
Scott made himself nod confidently. “I had two of my men crawl up into the space over the lobby. Everything looks okay. The alarm was tripped by accident. Promise.”

Cody gave an exaggerated shrug. “I’m not worried.”

“Good, then.” Scott’s gaze lingered on his nephew’s face for a moment, noticing how the boyish roundness was gone. Cody’s chin seemed sharper, his cheekbones more prominent. There was pallor in place of his usual sprinkle of freckles and a pinched look to his expression. Tragedy, loss, and pain had aged him far too much this past year.

Scott swallowed against the ache in his throat. “What if I come back tonight? We’ll play one of the DVDs. I’ll sleep in the chair like I did that other time. Keep you company. I don’t know as many jokes as your grandpa, but—”

“Is he better?” Cody interrupted, his features pinching again.

“That’s what your grandmother told me,” he said, realizing that though it was the truth, he’d be willing to stretch any truth to ease the look in Cody’s eyes.

“Were you there?”

“Where?”

“At church, when Grandpa started feeling worse.”

“Uh . . .” Scott’s stomach churned, and for some crazy reason he saw Erin’s face.

“You don’t come with us anymore,” Cody added. A statement, not a question.

“No.” Scott scraped his hand across his mouth. “I don’t.” He realized with another sickening wave of guilt that the past year’s tragedies had made this boy not only older but far wiser. He looked down, hoping that Cody wouldn’t ask—

“Why not?”

“I . . .” Where did Scott find the answer for that? How could he say his sister died when Cody lost both of his parents—worse, saw his father try to kill them all? explain that he was hurting too much when his nephew was lying there hoping to keep his leg? or admit to Cody that he couldn’t face God, because he’d failed his family, and now nothing felt good anymore, except swimming? Fighting those cold currents and sometimes finding a rare, merciful warm spot . . .

Cody met his gaze, the impossible question still in his eyes.

Scott’s breath escaped. “I don’t know why. I have a lot to figure out, I guess.”

Cody was silent for several seconds, then nodded. It almost looked as if he understood.

“So,” Scott said, after clearing his throat, “movies—sleepover? I have to go to the ER and get my stitches checked, but I’ll come back.”

“Don’t you have to work in the morning?”

“I can go from here. I know you’re not a little kid anymore, but I could keep an eye on things.”

Chapter Nineteen

“Are you okay, sir?” Erin’s gut instinct told her that he wasn’t. She’d been heading toward the administration offices when she saw him leaning against the wall beside the elevators. A muscular man maybe sixty years old, salt-and-pepper hair, dressed in a blue work shirt layered over a thermal one—and in obvious distress. She had a feeling that the ER’s laid-back Wednesday morning was about to change gears. “Can I help you?”

“No, really . . . I’m fine,” he said, telling a complete whopper. “Just a little stomach upset. It caught me by surprise; that’s all.” He forced a smile that did nothing to change the look of pain and anxiety in his eyes. His skin was ashen, and sweat beaded on his forehead. The stitching over his breast pocket read,
Wells Bros. Electrical.

“It looks like more than an ‘upset.’ When did this start?”

“On the drive over. I was going to visit my grandson upstairs before work, and—” He pressed his palm flat over his sternum and groaned softly. “I’m sure . . . it’s . . . nothing.”

Erin reached for his wrist. “And I’m not so sure.”
Skin damp, cool, pulse steady, but . . .
“Any health history? Heart trouble, diabetes, high blood pressure?”

“Diabetes and some pressure problems.”

Two out of three.
“I’m Erin Quinn, the ER charge nurse. And I want to take you down there to check things out. To be safe. Really. I think this is necessary—you’re pale and sweating and short of breath. Mr. . . . ?”

“Wells. Gary.” He grimaced. “But I—”

“No buts. Please trust me on this,” Erin said gently, feeling empathy for him, sensing he was embarrassed. That he was someone who valued staying strong. She knew that feeling all too well. But if she was right and his pain was of cardiac origin, every minute counted. “Stand right here while I grab a wheelchair.”

“I’ll see the doctor. But I can walk; I don’t need—”

“Wheelchair, Mr. Wells,” she said, tempering her firmness with as much compassion as she could. “We’re playing this by the rules.”

Within five minutes, she got Mr. Wells on an ER gurney and alerted the physician, and in the next ten they’d obtained a history and vital signs, done a twelve-lead EKG, and begun routine cardiac protocols.

Erin finished prepping his arm for an IV. “You’re going to feel a needle stick, sir. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

“It’s okay.” He watched his heart blip in neon green across the monitor screen. “But I still think if I’d had some Tums I would have been fine.”

Denial. Still.
How many patients do we lose to that?
“Maybe. But we always play it safe with chest pain. And your diabetes does add risk. Now here comes the needle; bear with me, please.” Erin poked the 18-gauge needle carefully through his skin and into the forearm vein, confirmed a blood return, and then inched it forward a bit more before threading the plastic cannula into place. “All of these things—the monitor, EKG, oxygen, aspirin, and this IV access—are routine.” She secured the needle with tape and drew several vials of blood before flushing the attached tubing with saline, then plugging it with an access port. “I’m sure your family will want us to take good care of you.”

“I appreciate all that’s been done, and you’ve been especially kind. It’s only that I hate to burden my family with this. They’ve had too much to deal with lately. Way too much.” His voice thickened with emotion. “I’d do anything to spare them.”

“I can see that,” she said, touched by his concern for his family.
What a blessing to have a father like that.
She shoved the thought aside. No time. No point. “And so far, so good. The doctor said your EKG looks great. And—” she checked the cardiac monitor—“your rhythm’s as good as mine, your blood pressure’s back to normal, and your pain’s subsided. Right?”

He nodded.

“Great. We’ll check your cardiac enzymes and get a chest X-ray.” Erin picked up the blood vials and pulled off her gloves, then caught sight of an attractive middle-aged blonde standing in the doorway. “Hi. Are you . . . ?”

“Lynda Wells. That stubborn man’s wife.” The woman’s smile faded, and her eyes brimmed with tears. “Oh, Gary—” her fingers moved to a small silver cross at the collar of her denim shirt—“I should have stopped you from going to work this morning. I was afraid you weren’t feeling as well as you said you were. And when they called and told me you were here in the emergency department . . .”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Erin waved her forward. “Come in, please. I was just telling your husband that everything’s looking good so far.” She stepped aside as Mrs. Wells took her husband’s hand and pressed it to her lips.

“His pain is gone,” Erin continued, “and nothing yet points toward a serious cardiac problem.”

“Thank goodness,” the woman said, settling into the chair beside the gurney.

“Mostly,” Erin added, “he seems to be worried about worrying you.”

Lynda Wells shook her head. “That’s my Gary.” Affection warmed her eyes. Beautiful, expressive eyes with dark lashes, a striking smoky gray . . . and somehow familiar, though Erin couldn’t recall having met her before. “But when our son arrives, he’ll have plenty to say about Gary pushing himself so hard, taking chances with his health. He’s a paramedic with Pacific Point Fire Department.”

“Really?” Erin said. “I’ve probably seen him here.”

“Maybe not.” Mr. Wells lifted himself up higher on the gurney. “My stepson doesn’t work the ambulance much since his promotion, and . . .” He glanced toward the doorway and his face lit with a smile. “Scott, we were just talking about you.”

+++

Iris inched the library cart closer to the doors as the elevator settled to a dipping stop at the third floor. Then smiled as the doors opened to reveal Hugh McKenna.

“Well, good morning, Iris. What a pleasant surprise. Here, let me hold that door for you.” He slid his arm through the open doors, the movement shifting the bright-eyed Chihuahua tucked against the front of his corduroy blazer. “Jonah and I took the stairs.” Hugh chuckled. “He’s watching my cholesterol.”

Iris laughed, then eased the cart out into the pediatrics foyer. “Thank you. Both of you. I was bringing Cody a magazine, but if I’m interrupting a visit . . .”

“No, no. Not at all.” A flicker of concern crossed his face. “In fact, your being here could be a blessing. Scotty and I were in Cody’s room, and—”

“Scott’s here?” Iris glanced warily down the corridor.

“Don’t worry. I meant that he was here a few minutes ago, but he got a call on his cell. His stepfather, Gary, is down in the ER. He was on his way to visit Cody and started having chest pain.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“So am I.” Hugh stroked Jonah’s head. “But I just phoned my daughter-in-law. She’s been assured that Gary’s out of danger.”

“You can’t help but worry. Does Cody know his grandfather’s ill?”

“Not yet. He got his IV out, and he’s expecting Gary to pick him up for an outing. I’m not sure how we’ll handle it. That’s why I’m glad you’re here. I told Cody that Jonah was needed for a pet therapy visit, but actually I wanted to slip down to the ER myself.”

“Go. And take your time.” She touched his arm. “I’m always glad to sit with Cody.”

“Thank you.” A smile spread across his face, and his eyes held hers for moment. “What would we do without the Quinn women?”

Iris raised her brows.

Hugh chuckled. “I hear your granddaughter is Gary’s nurse. Strong team, you two.”

Her face warmed unexpectedly, and once again she felt that wonderful sense of being needed.
Strong team?
She liked the sound of that.

“Well, Jonah—” Hugh tightened the straps on the dog’s carrier—“ready to jog the stairs?”

Iris waved as they disappeared down the corridor, then pushed the cart to Cody’s door. He was sitting in a wheelchair, leg extended, and his immediate grin made her heart soar.

“Iris! Cool—you found my magazine?”

“Yes,” she said, glad she’d made the trip to Arlo’s Bait & Moor. The hospital selection offered donated paperbacks and very limited magazines. Fashion, sports and fitness,
Bon Appétit
. . . But
Sport Fishing
? Not exactly. “You’re quite the fisherman, then?” she asked, handing him the magazine.

“Trying, anyway.” He shrugged as his gaze moved from the glossy photo of a marlin to his propped leg. “Not so easy right now.”

Her throat tightened.

Cody looked up. “But my grandpa’s coming to pick me up. He’s taking me to the wharf.”

Iris nodded despite her stomach’s descent like the hospital elevator. How disappointed was this child going to be if the outing was canceled?

“I’ll have to stay in a wheelchair and be back in time for my whirlpool treatment, but we’ll still have plenty of time to watch the fishing boats. I’m taking my camera. You never know what they’re going to catch out there.” Cody’s smile faded, and there was a flicker of discomfort in his eyes. Along with a sudden shimmer of tears.

“What is it, Cody? Are you having pain? Should I call the nurse?”

“No,” he said, taking a shuddering breath. “I’m okay. I just remembered the time my mom caught her first halibut. It was a nice one, maybe thirty pounds. They’ve got both their eyes on one side, you know?”

“I’ve heard that,” Iris said softly.

“Well, Mom did this big girly squeal after she hauled it onto the boat and got a look at it. So Uncle Scotty started teasing about how its eyes were that way ’cause she’d pulled up too fast. Her mouth dropped open really wide . . . then he started laughing and I did too. My uncle laughed so hard his sunglasses fell overboard. Mom said it served him right; see if he got any when she cooked it. It was so funny, a great day, and . . .” Cody’s voice cracked, and the look on his face broke Iris’s heart.

Father, help me comfort this child.

He swallowed and the tears slid down his face. “I miss her . . . all the time.”

She stooped down and he flung his thin arms around her neck, burrowing his face against her shoulder. She patted his soft curls and rocked him ever so slightly, murmuring soothing sounds. And let him cry.

When Iris began to push the library cart down the hall, she remembered what Hugh said earlier. That she and Erin were a strong team. Though she’d loved the sound of that, it wasn’t true. Not if one team member was sneaking around behind the other’s back. Nothing strong there. It was ridiculous—and wrong. She had to tell Erin she’d been visiting Cody. Explain that instead of being exposed to heartbreak and tragedy, her time with him made her feel better than she had in a long while. And next time she’d bring Elmer Fudd along, just the way she’d promised before she left today.

There was nothing for Erin to worry about. No need for her to be so overprotective, always imagining dangers. Iris stopped abruptly alongside the door to the housekeeping closet, frowning. It felt like she’d rolled over something on the floor, and now the cart refused to budge. She wanted to get downstairs and find Hugh, see if Cody’s grandfather was being discharged. But this silly cart . . .

She tried again, pushing hard against the heavy weight of the books. The cart creaked sideways and faltered. It felt like something was . . . Iris knelt and checked the wheels. Yes, something had wedged itself into one of the casters. She peered closer. What was that? It looked like a half-chewed, sticky strip of . . . beef jerky?

+++

Sarge grabbed the sack of OB department trash and hurled it onto the pile near the huge hospital trash sanitizer at the north end of the hospital, feeling heat through its iron doors. He’d seen it in action these past nights when he slipped out for a smoke during his watches for Cody. From the closet to the stairwell, only a few paces. And not hard to sneak by the pediatric nursing staff—all staff levels were down, especially on nights—but he’d also had to figure out a way to bypass the outside door alarm.

It had been worth the risk. Smoking and drinking were the only things that eased the gut-gnawing edginess that replaced the dulling effects of medication. No, not the only things. The boy made him feel better too.
More than anything has . . .
since I last saw
my son
.

He hefted another sack, heavier than it should be, from the cart and pitched it onto the growing pile. He frowned; the orthopedics staff was probably dumping half-empty irrigation bottles again. Water bottles. He thought of Cody and how he was replacing the boy’s drinking water from the supply he’d stocked in the housekeeping closet. The hospital provided bottled water, but he didn’t trust any bottle he hadn’t inspected himself.

He’d learned that only too well in the Gulf. The lives of his squad had depended on it. Only bottled water shipped from the States was safe to drink, snort up their noses—sputtering, coughing—in futile efforts to wash the gritty, all-invasive sand from their sinuses, and for saturating pieces of wool blankets they’d stuff under their gas masks to filter the noxious stench of hundreds of burning oil wells. Black, sulfurous, and suffocating as the very air of hell—toxic.