Disaster Status (3 page)

She narrowed her eyes. “Meaning?”

“Only that I would’ve known you two were related even if she hadn’t told me. Twice.”

“Oh.” Erin reached up to tug at her ponytail. “The red hair. Dead giveaway, I guess.”

“Hair? Oh, sure. But I was thinking more in terms of your—” he hesitated before choosing the words this time—“self-assurance.”

“Self—?” The short siren yelp from an incoming ambulance cut her off. “Haven’t we received the last of the patients from the ranch?”

Scott lifted his radio. “Yes. But this could be the ambulance the OB patient called. It was supposed to be canceled. At any rate, I can’t have it at the back doors right now.”

“OB patient? You mean it was true? I thought the reporters were making that up.”

He asked a couple of questions, gave a quick order, and then lowered his radio. “It’s okay,” he said to Erin. “This ambulance is here for a routine transfer. They’ll move to the front entrance. But that reporter was right. Plenty of your in-house patients saw the news coverage. Which, as you can imagine, is painting a grim picture. It doesn’t help that the Safe Sky group is stirring things up again. Their spokesperson has been on every TV channel since the news broke.” He frowned, knowing this incident was far from over.

He glanced at the ER doors. “That’s where your public information officer is now—helping administration calm things down. Assuring folks the entire hospital isn’t contaminated.” He lifted his gaze toward the upper stories of the hospital, his thoughts on Cody. “I need to get up there myself.”

“Up there? But aren’t you stationed out here?”

Scott gritted his teeth, deciding not to remind this charge nurse that as incident commander he made the assignments. She clearly had issues with territory. “I’m doing my job,” he told her, his tone more defensive than he’d intended. “No need to worry about that.” He nodded toward the hospital doors, thinking of the little girl he’d carried in there several hours earlier. Cody must have heard about her. “You just be sure you keep things safe inside.”

“Hey, wait. I didn’t mean—” Erin stopped short. “Never mind.” She jogged away.

Scott had the distinct impression that if she’d stayed a few seconds longer she’d have taken a swing at him. He probably deserved it. He shrugged, a vague sense of regret replaced by irritation. He didn’t need any of this. Where were those bagels?

+++

Erin handed Leigh her coffee cup, a mug with a fading photo of the Golden Gate Bridge, and took a seat opposite her at a pebble-topped visitors’ table adjacent to the ambulance entrance. “Just the way you like it, less than twelve hours old.”

Leigh sniffed the coffee. “Is it?”

“Probably not. But since the EPA wasn’t taking samples from the pot, I’m thinking that at least it’s not toxic.” Erin grinned weakly and watched as Leigh took a sip. She noticed that the ER physician, despite the brightness of her dark-lashed eyes and a faint, girlish sprinkle of freckles over her nose, seemed suddenly older than her thirty-five years . . . and bone weary. Erin was glad she had convinced Leigh to come outside for a few minutes’ break. Sea breezes and shafts of sunshine—finally breaking through the thick coastal fog—had to be good medicine. And a reward, since it appeared they’d survived the worst of the pesticide disaster.

Erin glanced back at the ER doors and noticed Sarge Gunther leaning his bulky frame against the stucco wall as he took a long drag from a cigarette. His usual spot. He was finally getting a break too. Thank heaven he’d been working the day shift today. He wasn’t much on conversation, but she could always count on Sarge to pitch in when the going got tough.

Erin turned back to Leigh. “So how’re you doing, Doc?”

“Oh, boy.” Leigh sifted her fingers through her hair. She looked out across the hospital parking lot, frowning as her gaze swept past the decontamination tent and settled on the remaining news van. And a pair of hoisted blue umbrellas. “Long day. Twenty-seven exposures—twenty-eight, counting Sandy. But we finally got things under control, including heading off that inpatient stampede. And Sandy’s stable.” She reached for her coffee. “Maybe you should ask God to keep our staff safe, in addition to helping us care for our patients.”

Erin nodded, knowing the doctor was referring to Faith QD—named after medical jargon for “faith every day”—a Christian fellowship Erin initiated a few months ago. So far she’d welcomed a dozen or so staff members from several departments. Not Leigh yet, though she hadn’t given up on her. The group gathered a few minutes before the start of their shifts; someone had dubbed it, “Asking God to be our team leader.” Or maybe even their—Erin glanced toward the fire captain still standing watch—
incident commander
? Which reminded her that she was dying to know what, if anything, Leigh Stathos knew about him.

Leigh continued. “And I want you to know how much I appreciate your coming in today. I hated calling you on your day off. I hope you didn’t have a date.”

Erin snorted. “The only date I had was a steamy tryst with a scrub brush and my moldy shower grout. I didn’t mind your calling. Except for the trouble getting past the fire department’s newest gladiator.”

“You mean Scott?”

Erin nodded. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before.”

“I had a tough time placing him myself. But then I remembered him from the ER in San Francisco.”

“He works there too?”

“Off and on, I think. Or did, anyway. Commuted to pick up a few paramedic shifts. And he dated one of our nurses for a while. But I think his family’s here. Speaking of family, how’s Iris doing?”

“Better,” Erin answered, feeling a twinge of regret that the subject had changed. But she smiled as she remembered her grandmother’s warm hug earlier. “Getting feisty again, puttering around with her baking, even looking for a volunteer job. But now she’s applied here at the hospital, so I’ve got to jump in and stop that.”

“Why? I think it would be great if she came back here. I still can’t get over her old photo in the lobby, with that button-front nurse’s uniform and the white stockings. She looks just like you.”

“So I’ve heard,” Erin said, tempted to glare in Scott McKenna’s direction. She picked up her coffee. “But as for Nana’s volunteering here, I’m afraid it would be too hard on her. Fighting my grandfather’s cancer took so much out of her. Physically, emotionally—” she felt the familiar snarl of anger twist in her stomach—“and financially. I still can’t close my eyes without seeing that bank-owned sign pounded into her lawn. Those heartless vultures. But then we all kept thinking the expense of the experimental drugs and all those alternative therapies would be more than worth the cost.”

Leigh reached across the table and touched Erin’s hand. “Of course you did. And I know Iris appreciates your moving here with her. Uprooting yourself, putting your life on hold to live here for two years. You’re amazing.”

“I’d do anything for her,” Erin said, uncomfortable with the praise . . . and the reminder that her family wasn’t happy with her plan. “And if Nana occupies that house, she’ll get the tax break when she sells. But I also think living here could help her recover, you know? That’s my real goal. And letting her volunteer goes completely counter to that. This place is full of everything she’s trying to forget—tragedy, sickness, and death. There’s no protective gear against that kind of exposure.

Chapter Three

Erin turned the letter over in her hands, frowning at the name on the front
. Erin Anne Calloway.
Ten years and he still didn’t get it. It wasn’t her name anymore. She looked over to where her grandmother washed dinner dishes at the sink. “Why didn’t you just throw this away? I won’t read Dad’s letters. You know that.”

“No,” Nana said slowly, drying the inside of a stoneware chowder bowl, “but I do know you.” She gave Erin her famous I-have-faith-in-you look. The exact same expression she’d employed when, at age seven, Erin stubbornly refused to include the class bully on her list for homemade valentines. She’d pointed out all his nasty flaws, then politely listened to her grandmother’s reminder about loving your enemies and turning the other cheek, all the while biting her tongue so she wouldn’t say she’d rather punch his ugly nose. She’d grudgingly pasted his valentine. Last. With no glitter. Then picked through all the candy conversation hearts until she found a green one inscribed
Back Off
, spit on it, and sealed it in the envelope.

“Besides, mail tampering is a federal offense. My rap sheet is long enough already.” Nana set her dish towel on the vintage Formica counter and reached for her cardigan draped over the back of a chair. “Let’s take our tea outside. I need to check my hollyhocks. And after all the hubbub at the hospital today, I think you could use some fresh air.”

“Amen.” Shower mold, pesticide scare, letter from Dad—ocean air was a great idea. Erin set the letter down on the glass-topped driftwood coffee table, telling herself she’d toss it when Nana wasn’t looking. Just because Mom was weak enough to let Dad back into her life didn’t mean Erin had to. Some things were too toxic to risk. She’d legally changed her name to sever the connection. And right now a change of subject would help keep that distance. She didn’t even want to talk about Frank Calloway.

Erin grabbed the mug of herbal tea and followed Nana outside, thinking this might also be the perfect opportunity to broach the subject of volunteering at the hospital. She couldn’t let her grandmother take that job. Hospitals were filled with pain and heartbreak. Not to mention frustration. The image of Scott McKenna intruded and she shook her head, thinking that over the course of the day he’d only managed to confirm her initial impression of him: rigid, humorless, stubborn. Although she’d been accused more than once of being too quick to judge when it came to men. Still . . . this firefighter already looked like a candidate for a menacing green candy heart.
Back off.

She settled into a paint-layered chair on the small tiled patio and watched as her grandmother fussed with her hollyhock seedlings in the waning light. Then she drew in a breath of damp, salty air and closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the sounds of the ocean just a short block away. Some people found the waves soothing, peaceful. As a child, she’d found her own comfort with the sounds, often lying in bed at night imagining Jesus orchestrating the movement of the sea using a piece of driftwood like a conductor’s baton. But now, the endless crashing seemed to stir Erin’s restlessness and left her feeling even more unsettled . . . lonelier.

“Did you see the thank-you note from Claire and Logan?” Nana asked, settling onto the garden bench near Erin.

“I did. I can’t believe they’ve already been married a month.” A sigh escaped that she refused to call envy.

The truth was, fellow nurse Claire Avery deserved every speck of happiness that came her way. Falling in love with Dr. Logan Caldwell, after so much loss and heartache, was a miracle. Part of “the plan.” Erin smiled, remembering Claire’s passionate belief that meeting Logan had been God’s plan.

She’d been convinced that something similar was in the works for Erin too. If only that were true. But unfortunately, Erin’s track record with relationships butted right up against her friend’s blissful enthusiasm. She was far more comfortable with a punching bag than any man she dated, and most of them had been knocked out of the ring after only a few awkward weeks. But “the plan” had indeed put her in a bridesmaid gown, with a bouquet of daffodils—and right back in the same Gold Country town as the long-wandering Frank “Flimflam” Calloway. Whom she’d artfully managed to avoid
. Back off, Dad.

Her grandmother cleared her throat. “Your mother’s planning a family dinner for Easter.”

“Hmm. Better not count on me. I’ve got a lot of things going here.” Erin turned to her grandmother, desperate to change the subject
.
“What else did Mom have to say?”

Nana hesitated, a maddeningly wise look in her eyes. “Only that she was glad I’m going back to volunteer work.”

Bingo. Here was the chance. “You told her about applying at Pacific Mercy?”

“Yes.” A smile spread across her face. “And I reminded your mother that the last year I worked at Pacific Mercy, I was pregnant with her. Of course, that was way back in the days when nurses were expected to stand when a doctor walked into the room, and bedpans were made of stainless steel. Drop one of those and they heard it in Cleveland.” Her smile faded. “And those were the years of the polio epidemic.”

Erin felt a rush of admiration for her gutsy grandmother. She’d endured plenty in her lifetime. And a polio epidemic certainly put Pacific Point’s brief pesticide scare into perspective.

“Anyway,” Nana continued, “thank heaven so many things have changed. Even in the twelve years since I retired.”

“Still,” Erin said, trying to segue as casually as she could, “a lot of it is the same. Despite better conditions and all the latest equipment, hospital work is still incredibly demanding, and—”

“Oh, darling,” Nana interrupted. She set her cup on the table and reached over to take Erin’s hand. “I wasn’t saying you have it easy, for goodness’ sake. Far from it. You know how proud I am of you. Don’t forget I watched the nurses all those weeks your grandfather was ill. I’m so grateful for their skill and compassion and for the way they understood how much I needed to be there beside him. Right up until that last . . .” Her words faded off.

Erin’s heart grabbed at the flicker of pain in her grandmother’s eyes. Renewed interest in baking and planting flower seeds hadn’t changed things; she’d been fooling herself about that. But spending time in a hospital could only make it worse.

She squeezed her grandmother’s fingers. “I know you’re proud of me. But what I was trying to say is that I don’t think volunteering at the hospital is the best thing for you right now.” A lump rose in her throat, and she swallowed it down. “It might be too soon after Grandy.”

Erin saw her grandmother’s lips press together and continued in a rush. “I didn’t mean you’re not strong enough. Or that they wouldn’t be lucky to have you. Of course they would. It’s only . . .”

“You’re trying to protect me.” Her grandmother let the pronouncement hang in the air for a moment, then shook her head. “You’ve always been that way. With your sister, your cousins, your classmates, your mother . . .”

Every time Dad let her down or disappeared. Or lied. Or cheated.

Nana chuckled. “Do you remember the Wonder Woman costume?”

Erin groaned. “I was six. Give me a break.”

“Magic bracelets and the golden Lasso of Truth.” Her grandmother laughed. “I’ll never forget you standing there in those red boots with your little fist raised. Or what a dickens of a time your mother had convincing you the costume wasn’t appropriate for Sunday school.” She turned and grasped Erin’s chin gently. “You’re still a fighter, darling. For your patients, your coworkers, that new hospital fellowship. I love that in you. And I understand that this need to protect me comes straight from your heart. But . . .”

“But what?” Erin wasn’t able to discern her grandmother’s expression in the near darkness, but there was something in her tone . . .

“I can’t be rolled in bubble wrap. Promise me you won’t try.”

Bleach alone wasn’t going to do it. The grout still looked gray. Erin frowned as she inspected the toothbrush she was using to scrub the shower tile. The bristles were falling out. Third toothbrush in three months. What was this, supermold? She’d never had this problem at her apartment back in the foothills. Of course, the air was drier there. But there had to be a better way to fight it.

Erin smiled, thinking of Leigh’s miracle answer to dingy tile grout: white shoe polish. Apparently she’d shared an apartment with two other med students, and one of the women tried daubing shoe polish onto the bathroom tile grout lines in a frantic attempt to tidy before her mother’s visit. Instant fix. Erin tried not to imagine how this might extrapolate into how that doctor practiced medicine today. She worked for the CDC.

Shoe polish wasn’t the answer. Maybe a stronger ceiling fan. And that all-natural eco-friendly cleanser she’d ordered on the Internet. She’d solve it. Like she’d solved the problem of the latest unopened letter addressed to Erin Anne Calloway. By stuffing it in the garbage can.

She stepped out of the shower stall, tossed the balding toothbrush into the wastebasket, and sighed. It felt like she’d been whacking a punching bag all day. The pesticide scare, Sandy’s contamination, the run-in with the media, and then that irritating exchange with Scott McKenna. And there were still so many things left to deal with—Ana’s uncertain prognosis, the interagency incident review, Sandy’s recovery . . .

Erin had almost nothing left of what should have been her day off. She still needed to finish the homework for her nurse management classes and go over a new prayer she wanted to offer at the Faith QD fellowship tomorrow morning. After which, she would start a more normal workday of kidney stones, minor burns, migraines, and asthma; complaints about waiting room times; struggles with staff about vacation schedules; and a few laughs with Leigh. A routine day without the intrusion of outside drama. She was looking forward to it.

Erin moved to the doorway, hearing her grandmother’s voice above the noise of the TV. “Are you calling me?”

“Yes, come look. They’re talking about that pesticide problem on the news.”

When Erin joined her grandmother on the blue-striped couch, an Action News reporter was speaking into the camera. The blonde that Scott thwarted with the threat of a public shower. But the news clip wasn’t a replay, and Erin didn’t recognize the background as hospital property. It looked dark and rural. “Where are they?”

“Out at that artichoke ranch. Where the plane crashed. Apparently they’re still doing cleanup. Oh, look.” She pointed to the TV. “Isn’t that your fire captain?”

My captain?
Erin started to protest, then stopped as she caught sight of him on the screen. Her stomach did an unexpected dip. It was Scott, all right, dressed in his regular uniform, blue shirt and twills and shiny fire-issue badge. But wearing the same expression she’d seen all day. Even in harsh camera lights that lit his rugged jaw like a kid playing monster with a flashlight, he still managed to look stubborn and calmly in control. He blinked as the reporter repeated a question.

“Captain McKenna, is it true that this cleanup—this very dangerous spill—is far more extensive than you’d realized?” She motioned toward floodlights and several vehicles in the distance. “Can you confirm that this morning’s fire was a result of the pilot hitting a structure used for storage of agricultural chemicals?”

More chemicals?
Erin leaned forward, waiting for his answer.

“I believe the sheriff will be making a statement in a few minutes. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”

“One more question, Captain McKenna. On a more personal note.” The reporter raised her microphone and the cameras bore down, lighting an errant thatch of hair on the back of Scott’s head. “Aren’t you the son of Gabe McKenna, the hero firefighter who died in that hostage situation back in 1988? And you’re now following in his footsteps at the Pacific Point Fire—hey, easy there. Don’t touch the camera!”

Erin flinched as the blurry image of an outstretched hand obscured the lens.

Whoa.
Erin held her breath as the picture angle widened and refocused on Scott. She caught a split-second glimpse of a man she barely recognized. His expression of calm control was gone, and his eyes were suddenly filled with what she could only describe as a mix of raw emotion. Smoldering anger, frustration, and pain, like a dental instrument scraping an exposed nerve. Scott’s voice was a low growl. “No. More. Questions.”

The camera refocused again, and he faded into the eddy of uniforms and newscasters.

The sheriff’s face filled the TV screen. He squinted into the cameras. “I assure you that Pacific Point citizens will be kept informed of the results of this continuing interagency investigation. There is no cause for panic; this site cleanup is being performed according to strict protocols. Everything is under control.”

The camera panned over the darkened rural landscape, then zoomed in on the crumpled single-engine ag plane, the remains of what looked like a storage shed, and at least a dozen workers, all outfitted in bulky hazmat gear. Her throat tightened.
“Everything is under control.”
Why did she suddenly have the feeling the sheriff was rubbing shoe polish into tile grout?