Trauma Plan (38 page)

“Ah.” The man’s eyes darted to her cell phone.

“He’s a doctor,” Kate said a little too loudly. Perspiration trickled beneath the bodice of her dress. “My . . . husband is a heart surgeon. He can’t always get to a phone.”

“Of course.”

And I’m an idiot who never seems to learn.

“I think I’ll go over to the theater, then. Thank you,” Kate said, folding her napkin and standing. “You’ve been very kind.”

She squared her shoulders and walked away from the table, vowing that she would not make another call to Griff—or cut him any more slack. She’d left half a dozen messages in the last hour and invented twice as many excuses for him: the unexpected business meeting had run long; he’d taken a nap after the drive from Dallas and accidentally overslept; his phone battery died; he was stuck in the I-10 traffic. But after an embarrassing hour without a word, Kate could only forgive Griff Payton if he were lying under a bulldozer on some remote building site. She winced and reassured herself it wasn’t likely. It was far more plausible that after a successful meeting he’d celebrated with drinks or . . . something else? She recalled the ER doctor’s suspicion that Griff was a drug seeker. And then told herself even that thought amounted to giving the man an excuse—too stoned to call.

No. The truth was that the handsome and very charming Griff Payton had simply stood her up. Well, fine. Another lesson learned. Kate refused to be bummed by it. In fact . . .

She smiled, reaching for a mint at the table near the exit. Kate had half a mind to take her little black dress, Italian heels, and Tex-y toes to that Tex-Mex place in Alamo Heights. The one that used to be an auto service business. Taco Garage. Yes. She’d go there, order the Cadillac carnitas, and forget—
forget completely
—that she’d ever believed in firefly magic.

Kate grimaced. First she’d take a side trip to the Bohanan’s ladies’ room. Three glasses of ice water were more than enough to add injury to insult.

Adiós, Griff.

* * *

“It’s been over two hours. They won’t be back.” Bandy reached down to tuck the flowered dish towel around Hobo where he’d fallen asleep beside the kitchen chair. “Scared silly of my watchdog.”

Jack glanced toward the window. “I’ll give them something to be scared of. I should have heard them out there.”

“What you
should
do is get out of here. It’s nearly ten, and—” Bandy shot Jack a knowing look—“it doesn’t look good for a man to be knockin’ on a young lady’s door late at night.”

“Who said anything about knocking on doors?”

“The look on your face did, Doc.” Bandy sighed. “I’m not asking what all that was about earlier, but you need to go see Riley. Get it straightened out. Even if swallowing some pride is on the menu.”

“Doesn’t anything get by you?”

“Armadillos sometimes, but . . .” Bandy waited, ever patient.

“Riley has some things all wrong about me. She’s upset. I don’t know if I can do anything about that.”

“She’s the woman who believes in you—remember telling me that?”

Jack’s throat squeezed. “I’m not so sure that’s true anymore. There are things in my past . . . things I did that I didn’t get right. And now I don’t know.”

“We all make mistakes, Doc. We’re human.” Bandy’s eyes did that familiar ceiling inspection. “That’s where grace comes in. But even in the beautiful light of that, we can still do a little somethin’ to get things squared up.”

“What are you saying?”

“Go talk to her.”

Jack looked out the window again, uncertain.

“I’ll be fine here.” Bandy shook his head. “And the truth is, I’m plain tuckered out—too old to be hauling a hose around like a fireman. As soon as I get Hobo settled outside, I’m going to take two of those pain pills and hit the sack. I don’t care if it knocks me for a loop. And you . . . you’re going to go knock on that young lady’s door.”

Jack opened his mouth to protest, but Bandy raised his hand and cut him off.

“Maybe you don’t know it yet, but you
need
her. Take it from a man who knows. You don’t want to fool around and take a chance of losing someone like her.”

You need her . . .
“Okay . . . I’ll think about it.”

“Past time for thinking.” Bandy rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, considering our particular history, but it’s time to take the bull by the horns, Doc.”

31

Riley sat on her couch in the dark. She was bone-weary, wrung out. Numb. Empty. Even tears weren’t an option. She’d used them all up holding Lorna Collins in her arms. Hearing her heart-wrenching sobs, feeling her tremble . . . helping a loving mother let go. The little girl who’d clapped and clapped to save Tinker Bell, eyes bright with hope, had taken her last breath at 7:39. When Riley was at Jack’s office, letting go of him. And now . . . Riley drew her knees up and sank back against the pale, cool leather of the couch. Now there was nothing left. Because just when she thought things couldn’t get any worse . . .

Her gaze moved to the stapled trio of papers lying on the table beside her Bible. The long-awaited medical report. A thorough assessment, complete with measurements and comparisons of push-pull strength, grading of paresthesia, muscle tone, and reflexes. And a cover letter signed by her Houston neurosurgeon that, though eminently gracious, did nothing to soften the impact of the bottom line.

Unfortunately, the patient’s dominant arm still exhibits significant weakness and sensory deficit. In my opinion, it would be both unwise and unsafe for her to perform the physical tasks presented in the job description provided . . .

It had gone on to say that while the highest percentage of nerve recovery occurs during the first year, there was perhaps hope for some small measure of improvement. The letter concluded with personal remarks about Riley’s “valuable and inspired” work as a trauma chaplain.

She’d screamed out loud, grabbed the papers, hurled them as hard as she could. And watched them flutter pathetically onto her foot because she’d used her unsafe, “significantly weakened” arm. Then Riley screamed at God. But she doubted he heard her.

“You aren’t there,” Riley whispered to the darkness. “You’ve given up on me too. You knew the one thing I needed and you took it away.”
“Valuable and inspired”?
She groaned. “Because you know that my faith isn’t strong enough. That I’m a fraud. And I don’t deserve—”

Riley’s cell phone jumped on the table with an incoming call.
Jack.
She waited a few more rings before picking it up.

“Your gate code isn’t working.” His voice was low, hesitant.

“I changed it.”

There was a short silence. “Why?”

Because I can’t see you anymore.
“What do you want?”

“I want to talk with you. I need . . . to see you, Riley.”

“We talked. There’s no need—”

“There is. Please let me in.”

The emptiness began to ache.

“Riley?”

“It’s . . . late.” The ache choked her like a merciless assailant. “And I can’t do this anymore.”
The clinic, the hospital . . .
She glanced at her Bible.
I can’t even hope.

“Please . . .”

“Good-bye, Jack.” She disconnected, then touched her fingers to her cheek, surprised to find it wet. Apparently she’d had a few tears left.

Before Riley could set it down, the phone rang again. She’d let it go to voice mail, erase Jack’s message without listening, and . . . Riley squinted at the display. Vesta?

I was supposed to call.

“I’m so sorry,” Riley said quickly. “I promised I’d call, and—”

“Thank . . . God . . . you’re there. I’ve been so frightened, and I couldn’t . . .”

“Vesta?” Riley stood. “Are you sicker? Should I call an ambulance?”

“No—oh no. I can’t go out . . .” She gulped air. “But I have to. I have to do something. I saw him. That man. Oh, dear God—
he’s here!
”

Man?
“Someone’s broken in?”

“No, no . . . But I saw him . . . on the TV.”

TV?
Vesta wasn’t making any sense; it had to be a panic attack. Or her diabetes.

“And now,” Vesta wailed, “I need to do something. But my eyes . . . I’m so dizzy. And I can’t find my shoes.”

“Wait. Don’t move.” Riley reached for her purse. “Stay right there. I’m coming.”

* * *

The Mercedes’s engine roared to life—it had taken Vesta two tries because her hands were shaking so badly. Only minutes before, she’d vomited in the Mexican sage bushes near the oriole feeder. She wasn’t sure if it happened because her sugar was too high or because she was scared out of her wits. But it didn’t matter now. She was here in the car; she’d made it. In her bedroom slippers, carrying the baseball bat—and the scrapbook. It had taken Vesta some time to find the collection of yellowed newspaper clippings and her handwritten notes; she wasn’t sure it would be of help to anyone, but it had seemed important to have it with her.
When I finally do the right thing.

Strangely, that thought made her feel better than anything had in a long time. She glanced at the passenger seat, where Corky would ride if he were still alive. The colonel’s small Bible lay on the leather seat. Vesta wanted that with her too. Maybe because she needed to feel the presence of both—her wonderful husband and God.

“Are you there, God? Even if you aren’t, I’m doing this. I have to. I can’t die . . . being afraid to live.” She shivered, searched for the headlights but turned on the windshield wipers. Then got it right. She squinted as the beams lit the wall of the garage; then she took hold of the gearshift and found reverse. She smiled despite another wave of dizziness. “If you’re there, God, fasten your seat belt; I haven’t done this in a long time.”

* * *

Riley realized two blocks from home that she was low on gas. She pulled the Honda into the nearest station. She could have made the short distance to The Bluffs, but she was still on chaplaincy call at Alamo Grace. And with the way things had been going . . .

As if to prove her point, a fire truck and ambulance sped by with lights flashing, sirens squealing. Heading the same direction she was. Riley dreaded the thought of the traffic delay. And the thought of Vesta becoming even more anxious.

She pulled out her phone, tapped the redial for Vesta’s number. Let it ring . . . and ring . . . and ring—and go to voice mail.
“We’re not able to take your call right now . . .”
Riley’s concern increased. Vesta hadn’t made it farther than the mailbox in two long years; surely she wouldn’t . . .

“I can’t find my shoes.”

Riley stopped the pump, replaced her gas cap, impatient to leave. She debated calling the paramedics or the police or . . . who? And why? Because a panic-prone diabetic bird-watcher had been frightened by something she saw on TV? It would take Riley less than ten minutes to get to Vesta’s house. And if necessary she’d call 911 from there.

Please, God, I’m asking this for her . . .

Even though it was well after 10 p.m., the San Antonio Street traffic was painfully slow. And it looked as if that ambulance had been dispatched to a location just ahead. The looky-loos brought the line of cars to a near standstill. Riley strained to see as the cars began to crawl again. Then saw the flashing lights, first responders in firefighter gear . . . medics. And—the Honda inched closer—the wreck. A car in one of the shallow trenches excavated for construction of the security gate. Fortunately, it looked more precariously tipped than damaged. Light blue, a Mercedes convertible, and—
Oh, dear Lord!
Riley hit the brake, heard the car behind her blast its horn. She stared, heart wedged into her throat, at the TYGRR-mobile.

In minutes that seemed like hours, she found a place to pull the Honda off the road and jogged back to the accident scene. She brushed past a firefighter trying to stop her, explaining breathlessly, “I’m a nurse. Please let me by.” She struggled to see, and it occurred to her that perhaps it wasn’t Vesta, that maybe someone had stolen the Mercedes. Maybe a car thief was “that man” Vesta had been so frightened about.

“Vesta!” Riley called out, catching sight of her on the ambulance stretcher. “I’m here. I’m coming.” She squeezed past another firefighter, hurriedly identified herself to a medic, and made it to Vesta at last.

“Riley . . .”

Riley reached for Vesta’s hand, throat constricting at the sight of her: chin secure in a cervical collar, small laceration on her nose, bloodied lip, a swollen bump above one eye. And a flood of tears. “It’s okay, Vesta. I’ll stay with you.”

A paramedic caught Riley’s eye. “You’re a family member?”