Here and Again (16 page)

“I have never been an answer to a prayer. I have been prayed over. I must confess, I was hardly an obedient son. I perpetually spilled things I shouldn’t have touched or broke things I shouldn’t have played with or rode away to a far, distant place on a horse that was not our own. Many a time have I heard the prayer ‘Lord, give me patience with this boy’ as the switch hit my backside. Never would my father believe I would be the answer to anyone’s prayer.”

Ginger looked up at the rearview mirror. Samuel’s face was shadowed by the light of her dashboard and he was smiling in the darkness of the empty road.

“Well, maybe, Samuel, one day I’ll meet your father and set him straight.”

“Will you?” He chuckled.

“Yes.”

“And what will you say to him?”

“I will say that in the darkest day I have ever lived, your son came as an answer to my prayer. And I know now—I know, Samuel—my husband rode the Elysian Fields home and is watching over me. Watching over our children.”

She put on her blinker and pulled into the hospital parking
lot, which held more than ten vehicles. In her three shifts at Franklin, the parking lot had never had so many cars when she arrived. It was a busy night at the hospital. The truck crawled closer to the lights.

“Better go now, Samuel. This is no moonshine and I would never wish you to hurt on account of me.”

“Very well. I will be home when you return,” he said quietly, and as Ginger turned into a parking space far from the emergency room door, she gazed over her shoulder to find Samuel gone.

Peas in a Pod

G
inger walked into a full ER.

There were six people seated in the waiting area. A man of indeterminate age leaned forward, holding his stomach as a woman about Ginger’s age rubbed his back. There was a young girl around fifteen years old with hives sitting with a woman who looked to be her mother. Both the girl and her mother were texting and didn’t look up. Seated very near the door was a middle-aged man staring at the TV on the far wall. Finally, Ginger spotted the young man who had come in with the two-year-old bronchitis two nights before. He coughed miserably, forcing a smile as Ginger stepped around the triage desk.

There she found Margery T., RN, pulling a cuff from the arm of an old woman who was seated in one of the hospital’s wheelchairs with a rag held to her eye by her frail, shaking hand. The old woman grinned up at Ginger. Nurse Margery did not. Peering toward the back rooms, Ginger could see both Janet and Debbie, the acute care LVNs, buzzing around the hall.

“Okay, Mrs. Kimber,” Nurse Margery said. “All done. Janet?”

Janet walked briskly to triage.

“Please take Mrs. Kimber into room two.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Janet replied and grabbed the handles of the wheelchair.

“AGA,” Margery said. “Acute Gravity Attack.”

“Ah.”

“Her Yorkie got under her feet,” Nurse Margery added. “Her son out there brought the dog in against his will because his mother was quite agitated. She was more worried about it than herself.”

“The dog okay?”

“Don’t know. Looked chipper so I touched its paws and ribs and nodded to Mrs. Kimber. She seemed satisfied.” Margery stood. “The choly is next,” she said.

Dropping her purse in the drawer, Ginger looked at the list of names on the entrance sheet. Mr. Russell, cholecystitis, an inflamed gallbladder, was next. Ginger poked her head around the wall of the triage desk.

“Mr. Russell?”

The man holding his gut lifted his bottom from the seat but could not straighten up beyond ninety degrees. As he shuffled slowly over, he was held across the back by the woman who was with him.

“He’s in terrible pain,” she said. “It happens every time he eats pizza.”

“Yes. Have a seat, Mr. Russell.”

For two hours, Ginger sat at triage as Nurse Margery aided Dr. Patterson in the back. Mrs. Kimber was sent home with her son, who turned the TV off as he left. Lauren O’Brian, who had the hives, was given a shot of prednisone and released with a
prescription for the same. Todd Parker had bronchitis. After receiving antibiotics, he walked out as a twenty-five-year-old expectant mother, Ruth Agee, and her husband walked in with breakthrough bleeding.

So it went, one after another—a true full-moon night in Franklin District Community Hospital. At six thirty-two a.m., an hour after Nurse Margery finally left, Ginger stood at triage completing the discharge of Mr. Russell and his wife.

“No more pizza,” she said.

Mrs. Russell shook her head and as Mr. Russell signed the release Ginger heard the ER doors open. They closed as she checked to make sure there were, in Mr. Russell’s instructions, clear directions to go see the nearest GI physician. It was there in black and white, just as it had been for three months’ worth of prior ER visits. As she handed Mrs. Russell the papers, she heard breathing on the opposite side of the triage wall. It was loud and heavy and scary, as if Darth Vader had entered the emergency room. The Russells looked at Ginger with concern. She looked at them, listening intently. Finally, she smiled a half smile and then asked, “Mr. Wolfe?”

A throaty guffaw was the only response.

“Good night, Mr. Russell,” Ginger said as she helped the man to his feet. He no longer stood at a right angle to the floor. He could lift himself to forty-five degrees. Following the Russells around the triage desk, she found the waiting room empty except for Jack Wolfe, who stood as pale as the fluorescent lights above him.

“Been eating chocolate bars, I reckon,” she said.

He didn’t answer, for his breath was too labored. Instead, he smiled weakly as Ginger took him by his arm.

“You’re lucky Margery is gone,” she said.

He coughed a laugh.

As she helped Jack Wolfe by room one, she found Dr. Patterson washing his hands in the sink while Janet ripped the paper sheet off the bed and wadded it up.

“Janet, we will have another guest coming into acute care.”

“Would you like your usual bed, Mr. Wolfe, or a room by yourself?” Janet asked with a broad smile. “You have a choice tonight.”

“Mr. Wolfe?” Dr. Patterson inquired as he gazed from Jack to Janet to Ginger.

“Dr. Patterson,” Ginger said. “This is Jack Wolfe—sixty-six-year-old white male. He’s COPD, CHP, diabetic, noncompliant. Mr. Wolfe, this is your doctor for about fifteen more minutes.”

Jack harrumphed.

“He’s laughing at us,” Ginger said and continued to room two of the ER.

Dr. Patterson furrowed his brow, and after pulling out a paper towel to dry his hands, he followed Ginger and her patient down the short hall.

“We need blood work,” the doctor said.

“I’ll order the usual,” Janet replied as she headed toward acute care.

“Mr. Wolfe!” a voice loudly declared from behind.

Startled, Ginger stepped on Jack’s left foot as she was about to lower him onto the bed. “Sorry,” she whispered and gazed over her shoulder.

There she found a short, dark woman with salt-and-pepper, long braids, maroon lipstick, a white coat, and a stethoscope. Her badge read, “Dr. Demazilliere.” Her smile was so bright, the night shift squinted as they looked at her.

Jack Wolfe moaned.

“Come to spend some quality time with us, have you, Jack?” she inquired, reaching her hand out to Dr. Patterson. “Sorry I’m late, Doctor. Problems with the grandbaby. I’m Mavis Demazilliere.”

“Ernest Patterson.” They shook hands.

“You must be Nurse Martin.”

Ginger looked over her shoulder quizzically. “I am.”

“Call me Dr. D. Name’s hard for some people to say,” the doctor said. “Jack here talked about you when I saw him in town yesterday.”

“He did?” Ginger asked, helping Mr. Wolfe off with his coat.

“Yup. Said you wouldn’t give him a candy bar or a dollar.”

Jack winked at Ginger as she laid him back on the bed.

“But he did take your advice and looked at the contents of the candy bars he was purchasing. Three Musketeers bars have less salt.”

Jack smiled and broke into a deep, throaty cough, closing his eyes with a wince.

“Oh.” Ginger shrugged and found Dr. Patterson looking at her with a smirk.

“Best advice he’s gotten in a long while. He’s gonna eat ’em anyway. Try to find the least worse one. Good. Good. Well, let’s have a look at this gold-star body of yours, Mr. Wolfe. It just keeps a-goin’ no matter what you do to it.”

Dr. Patterson chose to stay, helping to stabilize Jack Wolfe as a seventy-two-year-old man with gout came in complaining of chest pain. Ginger and Dr. D. dealt with the newcomer, Barry Bartholomew, who was followed shortly by a screaming ambulance flying out of the driveway across from the ER. The waiting room filled up again and there was no downtime from seven a.m. until Ginger’s shift ended at two p.m. At that time, she handed
off her patient load to her relief, grabbed her handbag, and headed for the door.

Just as she was about to walk out, she stopped. She had meant to discuss chocolate bars and her private medical advice about choosing which ones to eat against doctor’s orders with Mr. Wolfe but had found no time to do so. With a scowl on her face, she about-faced on her heel and headed to acute care. There was no need to ask where he was; she could hear his breathing before she got to his door. Very gently, she opened it and found Jack Wolfe lying in bed with his eyes closed.

But she was surprised to see in the second bed Jacob Esch, flipping through channels on a silent TV. His eyes met hers and then went wide.

“Sorry,” she said softly. “I was going to talk with Mr. Wolfe.” She stepped back out.

“Virginia Moon, RN?” Jack rasped.

“Yes, Mr. Wolfe.”

“Nurse Virginia?” Jacob asked, scooting himself up in the bed. He winced.

Ginger cocked her head. “Yes?”

“Come in, come in,” Mr. Wolfe said. “Didn’t get you in trouble, did I?” He breathed in heavily and smiled through weepy eyes.

“Not at all, Mr. Wolfe,” Ginger replied. “But I did want to talk to you about doing things that are not good for you.”

“I’m sorry I threw up in your car,” Jacob blurted out.

She gazed at him and then Jack. “You were sick,” Ginger said.

“Nurse Margery says it was a real mess. Were you able to clean it up?”

Jack watched her with a pop eye.

“I’m nearly there,” was all she could reply. The boy looked stricken.

“As soon as I am out of here, I’ll clean it,” he said.

“Thanks, Jacob. But I live far away and I’m not sure I’ll be back.”

“You’ll be back,” Jack said.

“Really? And how do you know that?”

“Because something’s happening.” He closed his pop eye and breathed in as if the sheets weighed two hundred pounds.

“What’s happening?” The question came out of her mouth before she could stop it. She bit her lip, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.

“I am an expert on ERs. I’ve been in them for years—especially this one.” Jack breathed. “I have found that those who choose to administer medical care in an ER do it because we are just a bunch of illnesses walking through a door. If we have vital signs, we’re either admitted or released. If we don’t have vitals, y’all try to get us to have ’em. If you can, we’re admitted. If you can’t, we’re off to the soil to rest. No name. No connection. No nothin’. That’s ER, isn’t it? The ER cares but don’t really care.”

His eye popped open and his gaze hit her so hard, she leaned back against the door. She had no answer—no answer because it had always been true of her.

“Now, you know me and Jacob here, and look, you have your purse and you’re off and where are you? Here.” He muffled a laugh as he closed his eyes.

Ginger gazed at the man, who was so pale and weak. As she rested against the door, she thought how odd it was that she should be there. Mr. Wolfe was very sick—on his way out, really. But he was going on his own terms. It was why she had made the chocolate bar comment in the first place. What did she mean coming in here?

“When you come back, I’ll clean your car,” Jacob repeated.

“I most likely won’t be back, Mr. Esch. I’m not going to practice nursing much longer.”

“Why?” Jack Wolfe inquired.

“Because I’m going to far—” Ginger broke off. She stared at Jack and then peered over to Jacob Esch.

“Did you say farm?” Jacob asked.

“Mr. Wolfe. Joshua Wheldon came in here and said you had a cow for sale.”

“Not for sale.”

Ginger paused. She was sure Mr. Wheldon had said the cow was for sale.

“Josh Wheldon said he met you. Said you were right nice to him.”

“You don’t have a cow?” Ginger queried.

“I have a cow. A Guernsey.”

“Best milkers, Guernseys,” Jacob said. “Great cream.”

“You’re not selling it?” Ginger pressed.

“Beautiful ginger-colored girl,” Mr. Wolfe said.

Ginger stood straight up from the door. “Beg pardon?”

“My cow. Named her Ginger. She’s a beautiful ginger color.”

Ginger’s mouth dropped open.

“You got a farm, Nurse Virginia?” Jacob asked.

She shook her head. “I’m making one,” she whispered.

Jack tilted his head and stared at her with his pop eye. “Need a cow?”

She nodded slowly.

“I’ve got a cow that needs a good home. But not for sale.”

“What you need?” Jacob asked, shimmying up straighter in the bed.

“Need to take the goat with her,” Jack replied.

“Goat milk is good on a farm, too,” Jacob said with a bright smile.

“Billy goat,” Jack whispered.

“Ach.” Jacob’s nose screwed up as if he’d smelled something awful.

“Ginger needs the goat. They’re family.”

Ginger shook her head. Which Ginger needed a goat?

Jacob stared slack-jawed at Jack. “Billy goats are smelly and nasty,” he said. “Not useful at all unless you’re looking to breed goats.”

“Ginger’s free with the goat.”

“How much without the goat?” Jacob asked.

“Not for sale,” Jack said.

Jacob sat on the bed looking at his hands for a minute.

Ginger just stood there, watching the entire conversation with not a word to say. She was still processing the fact that the cow’s name was Ginger.

“Good milkers are thousands of dollars, Mrs. Martin,” Jacob said at last. “Guernseys have really good milk.”

“Ginger has the best and a lot of it,” Jack rasped.

“You getting a lot of cows for a dairy farm or what?” Jacob asked.

Ginger shrugged.

“What kind of farm you got?” Jacob asked.

“I—I don’t know.”

Jacob’s jaw went slack again. “You don’t know what kind of farm you have?” His lip curled slightly.

“It was a corn farm but I have to make it keep me and my kids and Grandma Osbee . . . together.”

“Mrs. Martin lost her husband in the war,” Jack Wolfe explained through a cough.

Jacob stared at her for a long while.

She shifted from her right foot to her left.

“You have a family farm, you need a milker. Cows are never
free, and though I think the goat is a waste, if it comes with the cow, you should take it.”

“I should take it,” Ginger repeated.

“Done!” Jack Wolfe announced and held out his hand.

Ginger walked over and took it.

“Best decision you’ve ever made, Virginia Moon.”

She shook his hand and gazed up at his drip. It was going too slow. She reached up and adjusted the flow.

“Mr. Wolfe. Since you and Mr. Esch here are roommates for a bit, maybe you can tell him all about your wild life.”

“I drank too much. I smoked too much. I had a great time doing both,” he said hoarsely.

She released his hand.

“I’d do both now if I could,” he added.

“I know. Mr. Esch is thinking he might want to do so also.” Ginger flicked her eyes to Jacob, who slid down deeper into his covers. She smiled wryly.