by Doug Lutz
The ambulance jostled front to back to front again as it came to a stop in the rear of the small county hospital. Ubiquitous red and white signs clamored that we were now at the Eastern Shore Memorial Emergency Department.
The doors swung open as the crew extracted the gurney and my grandmother along with it. As they wheeled her through the bay doors, I sprinted around to the waiting room, looking for a receptionist to see what else had to be done. I slid my finger through my phone’s contact list. I would have to call my parents, too.
The woman behind the desk was pleasant and empathetic. That said, she held up a ream of paperwork. Before I could finish rummaging through Velma’s purse to see if she had her insurance card, the charge nurse came out of the treatment room. She told the receptionist to put away her paperwork. This would be a pro bono case per Doctor Jones. He was our guardian angel.
The nurse’s words left me with a little less weight on my shoulders, but I still needed to find out what was wrong with my grandmother. I flagged down the RN as she was leaving and asked if she knew anything yet. I knew it was early, way too early, but I needed answers and I would not stop until I found them.
“Ma’am, you must be Winnipeg. Velma told us you would be worried. Come this way and I will explain what is going on.”
We went to a small unoccupied office. I toyed with the pencil holder on the desk while the nurse spoke.
“Ma’am,” the nurse said, “it looks like your grandmother’s heart is fine. But something triggered her to faint. When the rescue squad arrived, she was holding her heart and talking about palpitations. Then Doctor Jones called to let us know he was on the way, too. Said he had never lost a patient, and he wasn’t about to start now.”
“So, no heart attack? Then what else could it be? Anxiety attack?”
“Could be,” the nurse said. “Has she experienced greater than normal stress?”
“Well, there is the police harassment and a bogus murder charge.” I could feel my own heart rate spinning up.
“I’ll just put down yes,” the nurse said, rolling her eyeballs at yet another irrational relative.
“Just put down that Velma Kepler’s granddaughter blamed the chief of police, Captain James Billy Larson, for any and all undue stress and anxiety placed upon her grandmother.”
As my inquisitor gave me the stink–eye for being so forthright, another nurse walked into the office to let us know that Velma was now stable. Taking the statement as an invitation to invade the secure confines of the emergency department’s treatment area, I thanked the nurse and left before I even knew which exam room to infiltrate. Fortunately, the Eastern Shore Memorial ER only had eight beds.
I didn’t need a crystal ball or a ten–dollar psychic to find Grandma. The staff used so many monitors and testing devices that her exam room was an opera of beeps, chirps, and buzzes.
Peeking around the rust–brown wrap–around curtain, I found my grandmother sitting up in bed, eyes closed. She still had the plethora of electrodes connecting her to a heart monitor, and one tube ran a saline drip to a port in her right arm.
“Grandma, CAN YOU HEAR ME?”
“Dear, I had chest pains, not wax in my ears. No need to yell.”
“Sorry, Grandma. I thought you were in a coma or something.”
“That’s silly, dear. I’m fine, but the good doctor didn’t believe me.”
“Can I get you something? Have you eaten? Are you allowed to eat?”
Velma motioned for me to come a little closer. “The nurses want to take real good care of me since they think I am a fragile little thing. So I figured I would let them for a few hours. I need to ask you a favor. But only if you have time. I don’t want to interfere with any job interview you might have lined up.”
“Grandma, I know you want me to take that job with Mint Street, and yes, a job’s important, but not as important as you. What do you need me to do? Call Mom and Dad? Fluff your pillow? Another cup of ice chips?”
“Calm down, Winnipeg. I’m fine. Like I said, just a little chest pain. Heard some unexpected news from Doc Jones, that’s all. Took the wind right out of me. But look, I need you to do something. Two somethings, actually. Can you do it? Them, I mean?”
I looked at my grandmother with the eyes of a baby duck ready to follow its mother for the first time. “I’m ready to help. What do you need?”
Before the patient could say another word, a nurse walked in pushing a computer cart. Like clockwork, every patient had their vitals recorded every three hours. Now it was Velma’s turn. She started to record Velma’s vitals. Temperature. Check. Blood pressure. Check. Blood oxygen. A bit low but still Check.
Afterward, the nurse almost demanded I leave “to allow your grandmother to get some needed rest.”
I fluffed the pillow beneath Velma’s head and said, “The nurse has a point, you know. Now, in one hundred words or less, tell me what two things you need me to do. And they need not involve the café. I’ll just post a note on the door. People can go up to the gas station diner on the highway and get a burger if they’re hungry. We can stay closed until you return.”
Grandma chuckled. “Winnie, did you forget the contest? I prepared the food, it just needs to be heated and served. Dinner’s at six tonight. I know you can do it.”
“I can do that. I’ll just need to call the taxi and have him come get me. Shouldn’t be a problem at all, as long as I’m back by five. What’s the other thing you need help with? Do you need me to tell old J.B. Larson off? I’d be happy to do that, you know. That’s a freebie.”
Grandma said something about the police captain, but her words slurred; she was dozing off. I had assumed the events of the day had now taken their toll on the aging woman, but then a multitude of warning lights blared. Her vitals were crashing.
I ran past the curtain, hoping to catch the eye of any nurse or doctor in the area. Over the years, I had been in enough hospitals with my dad—a hazard of having a private detective for a dad, I suppose—to know there are many times when there are no spare nurses to be found due to budget cuts and staffing shortages. I said a quick prayer, asking that this not be the case today.
Before I could say amen, a trio of nurses rushed into the room. The decision was made to take Velma up to the second floor, the surgical wing.
“Winnie,” a tiny voice said. “I need Winnie.”
The nurses told my grandmother to relax and that everything would be okay. Another voice came over a nurse’s radio saying that Doc Jones was already up in surgery, with a cardiologist standing by. It was as if Doc Jones had predicted this medical emergency.
The nurse with the radio pointed to me. “You can wait upstairs; there’s a family waiting room. We’ll keep you updated.” I wasn’t sure she meant it. The words left her mouth in a mechanical, scripted fashion. Like Captain Larson’s cheat card of Miranda rights, I suppose she had just the one benign statement deemed safe to tell worried family members.
Hearing the gurney’s wheel latches unlock, I acted fast, shoving my foot in front of the wheel.
“Grandma, what is it? What did you want to say?”
She pulled me down by the shirt collar, saying, “Tell him—”
“I’ll tell J.B. you are here. No problem at all. I’ve got that, Grandma.”
“No. Listen. This is very important. Tell him I know, and . . .” Grandma lapsed into unconsciousness.
“Heart rate is dropping,” said one nurse. “We’re going—now!”
I stepped out of the way just in time; my foot was still throbbing from the hard rubber of the gurney wheel. All I could do was blow a kiss as she disappeared into a waiting elevator.
What does she know? And how is this J.B.’s fault?
A tear formed in the corner of my eye. My mounting anger toward Captain Larson, however, prevented it from falling. I did not know what caused my grandmother to be in this precarious situation, but I knew Larson must have been the trigger.
Larson would pay. Yes, he
would.
I found my way upstairs to the waiting room. The next hour was tense; no word from the charge nurse, nothing from the operating theater. For distraction, there was a smattering of well–worn books and magazines, the kind you see in doctor’s offices but never on the supermarket shelf.
Just to stay busy, I found a tissue and dusted the few plastic plants set about to make the room look more like home.
Old habits never die, I guess. I reverted to checking my cell phone every few minutes. No call from Mint Street Bankers today, either. Perhaps I didn’t get the job after all? Maybe they tired of trying to reach me? The way today had gone, why should I have expected anything other than more disappointment? And why was I disappointed? I liked working at the Cat and Fiddle.
The cardiologist walked in, looking around the vacant waiting room as if there might be someone else there waiting for news. “Are you . . .?” The man hesitated, looking at his chart before he finished his sentence. “Are you Winnipeg Kepler?”
“Why, yes. How is my grandmother?”
“She’s fine. Doctor Jones gave me your grandmother’s chart, and when I saw the heart cath data, I decided it was time for a stent. The procedure went fine. She’s practically hop–scotching trying to get released now, so I think we found the cause of her problem.”
“Oh, I am sure she wants out of here, but is that the wisest idea? Shouldn’t you keep her for observation or something?”
“Our policy is to keep a patient for at least six hours after any procedure such as inserting a stent, just in case something unexpected crops up. The real problem is that once we release Ms. Kepler back to her room, she could, in theory, refuse further treatment and walk out of here. In fact, she already told the nurse she would do it.”
“That’s my grandmother. But I know a way we can keep her here until tomorrow, if you think she should be here that long.”
“Wouldn’t hurt,” the man said. “Doctor Jones and I both think a night of observation would be the best choice, but other than chain her to the bed, what can we do?”
“You worry about the medical issues, I’ll take care of the rest. Hold her in the recovery room for at least an hour more, will you? Then you can send her back to her room. And you better tell the cook to prepare her dinner. She will stay overnight.”
The cardiologist agreed to the extended stay. He left without asking how I planned to accomplish the task. Plausible deniability, I think they call it.
As I returned to Grandma’s room, I knew it was time to call a taxi. After several unanswered calls to the Eastern Shore’s only car service, I hoofed my way to the highway. I had a trash bag full of my Grandma’s clothes slung over my shoulder, and upon reaching the highway, I took shelter under a covered bus stop. The canopy and accompanying bench were provided by the Shore’s only bus company, which did not want its over–the–road coaches to pull into town. Drivers could just stop along the highway and gather cash–paying customers on a milk run or trying to get to work. There were lots of poor people in these parts without the financial means for a car.
With only a few dollars in my pocket, I wasn’t sure I had enough to pay the fare to Seaview. Then, I saw my white knight approach, white clouds of steam billowing on the horizon.
The Southern Comfort was on its way to the rescue!
The train track ran parallel to the country highway. In years past, the railroad provided passenger service up and down the entire Eastern Shore. The trains connected the local working families to the big cities of Washington, D.C., and New York; even Boston, if you were of exceptional financial means. Today, however, the only train running the rails was the rolling diner belonging to the Babbitt family, all one of them. And was I ever thankful.
The train’s bell rang, and I could see Cosmo and Bailey almost falling out of the conductor’s window as they tried to wave. The hiss of the steam made it impossible to hear what they were saying, but their frantic movements told me the two culinary Casey Joneses had received my voice mail.
The train slowed and soon came to a full stop. The steam engine was still firing its boilers, so I had to wade through clouds of damp white vapor to reach the black metal railing leading to my chauffeurs.
“Going my way?” I held my thumb out like a hitchhiker.
“Permission to come aboard granted, but we must turn around in the next roundhouse,” Cosmo said. “We can have you back at the Cat and Fiddle in less than an hour, if that works for you? Not that you have much choice.” Cosmo finished with a chuckle. He knew what needed to be done, and his confidence rivaled that which I saw when he was commanding his mechanical kitchen devices.
I checked the time. If we made it back in an hour, I would have just enough time to heat the chicken and the pie. Any later, and the judges would suffer with nuked leftovers. I was proud of my grandmother’s cooking; I wanted to ensure all the food had, at the very least, a decent shot at winning. No one entered a contest of any kind hoping to get second place. That’s why it was called winning. Given no unexpected delays, I determined an hour of travel time would work; an hour and a half would not.
Soon enough, the train’s engine roared back into high gear, its tanks churning with boiling hot water fueled by the coal shoveled into the furnace by train engineer and budding chef, Bailey. That girl was wiry, but dang if she didn’t have some muscle on her. I guess refitting a train on your own does that to a person. If things get nasty with Drake later, I could enlist the help of Bailey as my tag–team partner. I’m sure we could take him. Heck, Bailey looked like she could put the slimeball into a headlock with no problem.
The next roundhouse was up the road about a mile. By the time my legs grew used to the unsteady rocking of the train, our little train was pointed south and chugging back to Seaview. I checked my cell phone at every intersection, almost hoping to see something from Mint Street. No such luck. On a positive note, there were no calls from the ER or my grandmother, either.
I recalculated the travel time, a moot point given there was nothing I could do to make the train go any faster. But it gave me hope, so I kept on, trying not to be too obvious. Again, no such luck.
The train pulled into Seaview, but before coming to a complete stop, I jumped off like a Hollywood stuntwoman. God’s grace and soft grass allowed me to land on both feet. It was a risk, but when you’re in your mid–twenties, that’s what you do.
I waved back at Cosmo and Bailey, thanking them for the ride. It was a quick wave, though, since my self–imposed deadline was looming. I started walking, then picked up my pace, bolting for the café. Even from that distance, I could see the judges, their pastors, and the one and only Drake Grimsby already waiting outside the locked front door of the Cat and Fiddle. As I approached, Grimsby glared smugly.
“Winnie, I’m afraid we will have to disqualify your grandmother. She’s not here, and it’s time for the judges to make their decision.”
As I unlocked the door, I turned around and said, “I understand, Mr. Grillsbut. Why don’t we all go inside and I’ll whip up a batch of fresh and healthy cinnamon streusel–crisp cookies for everyone? You and these fine judges can snack for a few minutes while I plate up the food my grandmother cooked for you today. If you would rather leave hungry, I’ll just eat the cookies myself.”
The judges, hearing the optimal word cookies, said that leaving would be the utmost in poor manners. An unofficial leader within the group spoke for all, saying they decided it best to wait for the food to warm up. And the cookies, while unexpected, would be more than welcome, another commented. A third judge, a rather large woman concerned about the healthy aspect of the snack asked me to reassure her that the cookies were not just sugar and flour.
“Oh, perish the thought,” I replied. “These cookies might actually be good for you. The cookie itself is, yes, a basic sugar cookie, but it is a proven fact our bodies need sugar for energy. As long as you don’t eat more than a half dozen at one sitting, your blood sugar levels might be fine.” I was being
careful to not promise anything.
I continued, “And then there is the cinnamon and the crushed pecans. The spice has proved to have a possible effect on lowering blood pressure. Wouldn’t it be great if we could all stop taking those silly blood pressure pills just by having cookies? You should check with your doctor first, but I would think so. And the pecans; well, we all know nuts have numerous health benefits.”
“So these cookies are good for you? Every bit of them?” I think three judges asked this same question at the same time. Nothing motivates rationalization like a decent cookie.
“Well,” I said, “the caramel sauce drizzled on top is the only part of the cookie that might be just a little too much. But when I make them, I’ll just use the sauce sparingly. No worries.”
I didn’t think I did that good a job with the sales pitch, but as the judges entered the café, one of them whispered into my ear, “Now dear, don’t be too stingy with that caramel sauce. I think we can all handle it.”
My plan worked. Drake could try to make Grandma look bad, but the judges’ intense desire to eat tasty food prevailed. These were formidable women, bent on a culinary mission; they would force him to go along. Now all I had to do was bake those cookies and hope they lived up to my promises. If only I had a recipe.
If grandma fooled them with her apple–free apple pie, I can get away with an improvised cookie. My confidence had returned as if Velma was standing next to me.
As the judges made themselves comfortable, and Drake sat at the soda fountain bar looking like a poor, unloved dog without a bone, I went back to the kitchen and assembled my new creation. The camerawoman tagged along, which was fine. I think she wanted to get away from her boss. And that made sense.
Seeing me put three cans of sweetened condensed milk into the dishwashing machine, she put her camera down and asked, woman to woman, “Is this a real recipe or did you make the whole thing up to get people to stick around?”
“Sometimes you do what you have to do, right?”
“Are you even a baker, or a cook? You seem different. Smart. Smarter than these people. And conniving, perhaps? You don’t fit in this town, Winnie Kepler—and not in this diner. You, woman, are not all you appear. What’s your game here?”