Trauma Plan (13 page)

“Thank you.” Kate took a deep breath, adjusted her stethoscope, and walked back toward the ER nurses’ station.

Fifteen minutes later, through the doors of the chapel, Riley heard the PA system play a few bars of Brahms’s Lullaby. Alamo Grace Hospital’s announcement of a baby’s birth.

* * *

Jack opened his condo’s front door, made somewhat difficult because he’d neglected to change the burned-out porch light for weeks now and had to fumble in the dark every time he came home late. Which was maybe six out of seven days. Unlike his neighbors, he wasn’t much for security systems and motion sensor lights. He smiled, thinking of what Bandy had said about the newly mounted lights at the clinic blinding Andrea Nichols’s Persian cat when it came slumming onto the property. Then he realized, as always when he came back to his dark residence, that he was envious of Bandy settling down for the night at the clinic. In his long johns and worn-out cowhide slippers, with a mug of tea—Jack chuckled—and a smuggled donut, probably. He’d do one last round to check the doors, then climb into the office’s lumpy sofa bed and put one of his gospel albums in Jack’s CD player. The old bull rider had called the ramshackle clinic building home for nearly a year now.

Home.
It felt like that to Jack, too, more than he cared to admit to anyone. He’d picked this condo because it was an easy commute to both the clinic and the hospitals and because it had a secure garage for the Hummer and his sports gear, but apart from that . . . He switched on the entry light and frowned at the condo’s glass, chrome, and battleship-gray interior. Furnished, cold, anonymous. It didn’t help that in a year of living there he’d never completely unpacked; he fell asleep most nights fully clothed atop the bed in front of cable news.

Jack glanced at his duffel and briefcase tossed on an end table, still untouched after his Reserve weekend, thinking he should gather things up so the cleaning service could dust. He scraped his hand across his beard-stubbled chin, heard his stomach growl. It had been a long day. And he had no doubt he’d be seeing the worst parts of it replayed on the late-night news. He dropped his keys on the entry table and headed for the refrigerator, remembering what Rob Melton had said—that tire tracks on the clinic’s patchy lawn and damage to the lower step of the porch suggested a car had pulled up as close as possible in order to dump Jane Doe. Barefoot, brain-injured . . . pregnant, hemorrhaging, hardly breathing, and—

Jack slammed his palm against the refrigerator door. “Oxygen-wasting bottom-feeder!”

He let out a ragged breath, asking the questions that had made his gut wrench too many times to count in the past fifteen years: Where was a merciful God in something like that?
Are you even there anymore?

He shook his head, then stooped to retrieve a magnet that he’d knocked to the floor along with the clinic’s monthly volunteer calendar—he’d penciled in dates for the skydiving appointment, mountain biking with Rob, a second rock-climbing lesson in Fort Davis. He had them all logged into his BlackBerry, but he liked having them here too. A concrete list of the few things he looked forward to, that made him feel alive—besides the clinic. And who knew how long that would last after the incidents with Gilbert and the girl? He’d go before the clinic board again, prepare his defense for the city council meeting, and rally the few volunteers he had left.

Volunteers . . .

Jack pulled his phone from his pocket and touched its screen, searched the stored contacts. They’d exchanged cell numbers. He found it and tapped to connect.

“Um . . . hi.” Riley’s voice sounded wary.

“Hi. I wondered if you had an update on Jane Doe.”
Besides the one I got an hour ago.

Riley sighed. “She survived the craniectomy, barely. The injury is extensive, and they expect a lot of swelling. They’re keeping her in a drug-induced coma. The police are still trying to identify her and find family. Baby Girl Doe is doing better than expected—five pounds, three ounces. I saw her.” There was a soft groan. “What a horrific . . .” Riley’s voice faded off.

He nodded, remembering the shell-shocked look on her face as she stood in the clinic after the ambulance pulled away. “Riley?”

“I’m here. Was there something else?”

“I . . .” His brain fumbled. “I want to pay for your dry cleaning. Make that right.”
Let me make something right today.

“Thank you. But that’s really not necessary.”

“Look, you only came to the clinic because I badgered you into it. Everything that happened wasn’t supposed to. It was a mess. I’m sorry about that. But . . . you did good.”

It sounded like her breath caught.

“Let me pay for your dry cleaning, Chaplain.” He waited for what seemed like forever.

“I’ll keep the scrubs instead.”

Huh?

“They fit,” she explained. “And I can wear them when I come back to work. Friday afternoon?”

His jaw went slack. “Ah . . . sure. Great.”

“See you then.”

Jack disconnected, shoved the phone in his pocket, then reached for the refrigerator door. The calendar slid and he secured it with another magnet . . . resisting a sudden, irrational urge to pencil in
Riley at the clinic
somewhere between rock climbing and skydiving.

10

Riley reached for Vesta Calder’s door knocker, a pewter woodpecker, but paused and glanced back toward the yard. The guest cottage sat in a lush and private woodland glen with lantern-lit granite pathways, a modest trickling-water feature, and more bird feeders than she’d ever seen in one place. Built with dark limestone to match the hill country style of the main house, it had a standing-seam metal roof and quaint beveled glass windows trimmed in red—the exact shade of a Texas cardinal. It was a complete contrast to the peeling birthday cake of a building that housed Jack’s clinic, only half a block away.

Riley breathed a soft prayer, the same as before all of her chaplain’s visits, then set the pewter woodpecker to tapping against the carved door. She wasn’t sure what to expect. At their last meeting, Vesta was an escaped ER patient, bleeding, hyperventilating, and nearly catatonic with panic.

The impeccably dressed and warmly gracious woman who opened the door in no way resembled that frightened patient.

“I’m so glad you came,” she said, ushering Riley toward a pair of pink plaid chairs by the bay window. A large set of binoculars rested on the windowsill next to an open birding guide, one of hundreds of books tucked into ceiling-high shelves covering three walls of the cozy exposed-stone room. A graying cedar cross graced the wall behind Vesta’s chair, along with a myriad of framed photos.

“You look well,” Riley told her, feeling a rush of relief. She hadn’t realized until this moment how much she’d dreaded discovering that her initial suspicions were true. She’d feared that Vesta’s panic disorder—perhaps a hospital phobia—could put her health, her sanity, and even her life at risk. Seeing her this way soothed Riley’s soul, especially in light of Jane Doe’s situation. The sad case had deeply affected the hospital staff, and Riley had concerns that a few were showing signs of stress. It had been a painful week all around. Riley needed some good news today.

“You seem well-rested and strong, Vesta,” she observed happily. “Have your blood sugar readings been stable?”

“Fairly stable. For me.” Vesta’s smile displayed almost-girlish dimples. She swept a stray wisp of hair off her forehead. “My diabetes has always tended toward brittle. I was diagnosed at age eleven.”

“Wow.” Riley winced. “That’s a lot of needle sticks.”

“Not so bad, except for finding new injection sites. That’s always a challenge. After I was married, my husband gave me my insulin. He was an incurable adventurer and we were always traveling . . . climbing this mountain and hiking into that wild and woolly forest.” She chuckled. “But he always kept an eye on my health first. Quite the taskmaster about diet, rest, and fitness. Military man, my colonel.” Her wistful smile was replaced with a flicker of sadness. “He’s been gone sixteen years now.”

“I’m sorry, Vesta.”

“I am too. But I don’t dwell on it—the colonel would
hate
that. ‘Don’t wallow in sorrow when you have legs to dance!’ he’d say.” She sighed and then lifted her brows. “Where are my manners? I made tea.” She rose.

“May I help you?”

“No, you stay comfortable,” Vesta instructed. “I’ve got everything ready in the kitchen.” She smiled. “My diabetes journal is on the table by the chair if you want something scintillating to read.”

Vesta disappeared down the hallway, and in moments Riley heard the soft clatter of dishes blending with the sound of distant music.

She sank back into the overstuffed chair, letting her gaze drift to the colorful array of photos on the wall. It was a collage of a well-lived life and proof indeed that Vesta’s colonel had been an adventurer. The romantic travelogue offered photos of the smiling couple in a hot-air balloon, posing atop Yosemite’s Half Dome, on the rail of a cruise ship at sunset . . . even one of Vesta wearing a fur-lined parka in the snow, laughing as she waved from a dogsled. All evidence that, despite some episodes of anxiety, Vesta was strong, independent, and she—

A sharp rapping at the door interrupted her thoughts.

“Delivery!” a voice boomed from the porch. “I have your groceries, Mrs. Calder.”

Riley stood, glanced toward the kitchen. “Shall I get the—?”

The pewter woodpecker pecked again.

“Mrs. Calder, it’s Gordy from Central Market. Everything okeydokey in there, ma’am?”

Riley opened the door to a young man in a tropical-print shirt and backward ball cap, holding a grocery sack. A single gerbera daisy rose cheerily from the top of it.

“Mrs. Calder’s in the kitchen,” Riley explained. “I’ll get her for you.”

“No problem,” Gordy said, his eyes taking in her hospital name badge. “There’s no need to sign anything. Mrs. Calder’s a regular.” He handed Riley the sack and carefully rearranged the daisy. Then smiled, his dark eyes kind. “I always like to check on our housebound customers—say hi, try to brighten their day a little if I can. You know.”

“Yes,” Riley said, stomach sinking despite her smile. “I do.”
Housebound.

“Okay, tell Mrs. C. that I’ll see her next week, same time, same place.” Gordy started to turn away but stopped and tapped his cap. “Oh. Almost forgot. Will you tell her that I saw her hairdresser at my last delivery? Billie said to tell Mrs. Calder that she’ll be here for their appointment, but she’s runnin’ a little late. She’ll phone first.” He clucked his tongue, then grinned. “Gotta love a small world.”

Riley carried the sack inside, glad it was light enough that her weakness wasn’t an issue. She closed the door, noticing the locks for the first time. Lots of locks. Dead bolts, chains, peephole. Security alarm box . . . and an aluminum baseball bat wedged discreetly between umbrellas in a stand beside the small foyer table.
She’s afraid. Of what? And how much is it crippling her life?

“Here we go,” Vesta said, arriving with a laden tray. “The cookies are low carb, so . . .” Her gaze swept the living room before moving to the foyer—and the sack in Riley’s arms. A faint flush rose on her cheeks.

“I’ll take it to the kitchen,” Riley offered, noting the discomfort in Vesta’s expression.

“It’s fine on that little table there—no perishables.”

Riley did as she asked, then settled back in the chair beside Vesta. She took a slow breath, reminding herself that she was here to listen, not to judge or to fix. “Gordy said to tell you that he saw your hairdresser at his last delivery. She’ll be here for your appointment, but she’s running a little late.” Riley waited for a response, felt the silence broken only by the ring of Vesta’s spoon against her china cup. “You don’t drive?”

“I haven’t in years,” Vesta said, making eye contact for a split second as she handed Riley a cup. “I sold my last car five years ago. Poor timing, I suppose, since this cottage comes with a very nice two-car garage. It’s sitting there empty.”

Riley shook her head. “I have the opposite problem. Two cars. And after my roommate moves in, only space for one.” She thanked Vesta for the tea, cinnamony Constant Comment. She pressed carefully ahead. “You walk to the store for small things? Bread, coffee, creamer?”
Do you go out of this cozy cottage at all, dear lady?

Vesta toyed with a cookie on the platter. “My landlady goes to the store almost every day. She always calls to see if I need anything. I wouldn’t bother her for a larger order.”

“Vesta—” Riley set her cup down, leaned forward, kept her voice as casual as possible—“I’m asking if you
ever
go to the store. Or . . . anywhere else.” She managed to connect with the woman’s eyes. Smiled gently. “I’m asking because I’m concerned. . . . I care. You were so uncomfortable at the hospital. Was your panic attack because you have trouble leaving this house?”

* * *

Vesta set her tea down before it could slosh over the edge. She pressed her hands together to keep them from shaking. A familiar mix of shame and defensiveness swept over her. “I have a treadmill; if you look at my journal, you’ll see that I log the time and the miles. Every day.” She flexed her fingers, told herself to breathe slowly. She’d begun to perspire beneath her thin cotton sweater. “When I had a dog, I’d walk him for miles. But Corky died, and . . .”