by Diane Moody
“Oh, single. And thanks, but . . .” I stalled and stammered. I mean, how do you tell a pastor you don’t want to go to Sunday school? “But I just wanted to roam a bit this morning. Maybe next week.”
“Well, you just make yourself at home. Miss Colter, it’s such a pleasure to have you here worshiping with us. Next time, you go check out George Krause’s class. Those singles have a good, good time together in there. You’ll want to jump right in.”
And then, for no particular reason, my eyes filled again. I couldn’t believe it. Like I didn’t possess one ounce of composure.
He took hold of my hand again and stepped a little closer. “There, now, what’s all this? What could possibly bring a pretty young woman like you to tears on a morning like this?”
Through my tears I could see the honest sincerity in his eyes, which only undid me even more. I took a deep breath, blowing out my frustration. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me this morning.”
He patted my hand. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Um . . . I don’t know, I just . . .” And that was it. I couldn’t seem to find another word and was too embarrassed to try.
He patted my hand again. “I tell you what. You call the church office and set up a time to come see me this week. Let’s have us a nice long chat. What do you say?”
I just nodded. Apparently that was all I could handle.
“Good. I’ll look forward to it.” He gave me a wink and disappeared around the corner.
I dug in my purse for a Kleenex, wiped the snot off my face, and left the library . . . in all my glory.
Chapter 6
Monday morning, Sandra and I made the drive to town with all the demented Memphis drivers. We planned to take turns driving to work, and I’d insisted we take my car that morning. We tuned in to hear Rick Dees as we drove. The DJ was in rare form, doing a parody conversation as someone called Lester Roadhog Dees, a crusty old country DJ who kept touting something about “Roadhog’s used cold cuts and left-over deli treats.” Sandra laughed so hard I thought she’d spill her coffee all over my leather seats, but I had to admit he was funny. A nice companion on our morning commutes.
I’d already grown accustomed to wearing a suit to work. It felt good to be dressed like the rest of the girls. And I couldn’t believe the difference it made, wearing such professional clothing. I felt proud to be part of the team. More mornings than not, I couldn’t wait to get to work.
Half-way there, my Caddy started to sputter.
Sandra turn down the radio. “What’s the matter with it?”
“I don’t know. It’s never done this before.”
It coughed and kicked then seemed to rattle a couple times for good measure. “Great. Just what we need on a Monday morning.” I tried to pull over to the shoulder but a semi was blocking me. Then, as if we’d just imagined it all, the Seville stopped complaining and drove like a gem.
“That’s just weird. I’ll have to give Dad a call and see what he thinks. I’m sure he’ll want me to take it by the dealership.”
“No problem,” Sandra said, finishing her make-up in the mirror on the back of the passenger shade. “We can drop by on the way home. It’s not far from the hospital.”
Thankfully, we made it to work with no more problems. We parked in the garage and began our long walk to the hospital in the bright April sunshine.
I was slowly beginning to understand the more relaxed schedule of our department. Don’t misunderstand me. We worked hard, and we were on call the entire time we were on the clock. But Mrs. Baker was often away from her desk or in meetings a lot, so the routine wasn’t nearly as rigid as I’d first thought. Most days, we’d arrive by 8:00, check in, then mosey down to the cafeteria for breakfast until around 8:30. I loved the relaxed start. The cafeteria bustled that time of morning as the entire range of employees grabbed a quick bite to go or took more leisurely breaks over eggs and bacon and grits, and tapping the enormous urns of coffee.
After breakfast we’d hustle back to the office, gather our new patient cards and supplies, then head up to our floors. By now, I was getting to know my fellow workers up on Nine fairly well. Pamela was a natural when it came to people. She’d helped me learn their names, told me about their families and backgrounds, and instructed me what roles they served. They all adored Pamela, so I knew I’d have to work hard to fill her designer shoes.
That morning, she had an appointment in one of the administrative offices to begin finalizing her departure, so I was on my own. I stopped in to greet the staff then made my way to the desk roster to verify my patient information against their list. After culling the cards of patients who had already checked out, I began my rounds.
It was all becoming more natural for me, these patient visits. Most of them, surprised and pleased to know the hospital provided a service like ours, were extremely grateful. Some asked a barrage of questions while others simply accepted my card and brochure, said thank you, and sent me on my way. By 10:00, I had already made two inquiries for patients down at the insurance office, picked up some magazines in the gift shop for the 50-something lady in 905, delivered a sealed envelope of valuables from the man in 941 to the business office for safekeeping, put in a request for a chaplain to stop by and see the gentleman in 936, and bought some Sour Tarts for the guy in 950.
I only had two more new patient visits to make, then I planned to take a break. I tapped gently on the door of 922. “Good morning, Mr. Underwood, I’m Shelby Colter, your hostess, and I just wanted to stop by and say—”
I stopped. The tears on the face of the elderly gentleman staring back at me broke my train of thought. He was sitting up in bed under the soft glow from the light above him. “Mr. Underwood?”
He quickly rubbed his face as if he could hide his tears, then pulled a tissue from the box on the bedside table and blew his nose.
I approached the side of his bed, unsure what I should say or do. “Are you okay?” I asked quietly.
He took a deep breath and let it out. “Oh, well, I . . . who are you again?”
I handed him my card. “Shelby Colter. I’m your hostess. I’m here to run errands for you, make contacts for you—that sort of thing.” I smiled at him. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Underwood?”
He stared at my card then dropped his head back against his pillow, stifling a sob. “I’m just so worried about my wife . . .”
I pulled up the chair beside his bed and took a seat. “What’s wrong with your wife?”
He wiped his nose again. “We’re in here . . . in this hospital because of me. I was driving and I . . . apparently I blacked out. They said I had a mild heart attack. I don’t know. I don’t remember . . . but my wife . . . she wasn’t wearing her seat belt and she—” He stopped, breaking down again.
I waited, giving him time to compose himself. This was a first for me. None of the patients I’d visited with Pamela had responded anything like this. But she told me of several experiences she’d had with distraught patients. Sometimes they just need a listening ear. Don’t feel like you have to fill the silences with chatter. Let them talk.
And so I waited. And prayed for wisdom.
“She’s in intensive care. She was thrown from the car . . . they told me she had a ruptured kidney. They had to operate . . . she also had a concussion and broke her arm. She’s really banged up.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Underwood. Have you been able to see her yet?”
“No, not yet. I think my doctor’s afraid my heart can’t take it.” He looked down at the line of red, raised skin stapled together down the center of his chest, disappearing beneath his hospital-issued gown. His eyes welled up again. “It must be really bad if they won’t let me see her. Don’t you think?”
Careful, Shelby. “I’m sure they just want to make sure you’re okay first. You had surgery too. I’m sure your doctor doesn’t want you to exert yourself or risk something else happening to you.”
“But she must be so scared. We’re from Arkansas. We were on a trip to see our children in North Carolina. We don’t know anyone here, and now we don’t have a car, and—”
“Has anyone notified your kids yet?”
“I talked to my son this morning. He’s trying to make arrangements to get here. But it could be a day or two . . . he can’t just up and leave. He’s got people depending on him at work and . . .” He stopped again, unable to continue.
“Mr. Underwood, would you like me to check in on your wife for you? See what I can find out?” Even as the words came out, I wasn’t sure what the protocol for this type of thing might be. Would they even allow me into ICU?
“Would you?” he asked, his bushy eyebrows lifted with hope. “If you could just tell her I’m okay, tell her I love her . . .”
We talked a while longer and I jotted down some notes to find out exactly what he wanted me to say to his wife. By the time I left, his expression was visibly relieved. Now, if I could just deliver on my promise.
I called Mrs. Baker and told her about the situation. She told me to come to the office and in the meantime, she would make a quick call to ICU. By the time I got downstairs, she had the information I needed and told me who to check in with once I got to ICU. A few minutes later, I was at the bedside of Margaret Underwood.
I knew immediately why her husband had not been allowed to see her.
An unbidden thought rushed to mind—she looks like a corpse. So frail and tiny in that bed, surrounded by tubes and monitors and the constant beep-beep-beep of the machines. Her face was horribly bruised, her head wrapped in gauze with wisps of white hair sticking out here and there. Her arm was in a cast, held in a sling against her chest. And she was clearly out of it. The attending nurse told me she’d been in and out of consciousness and completely incoherent, though her recovery from surgery had gone well. I tried to decide what to do. Finally, I wrote a note on the back of my card and left it on her bedside table.
What on earth would I tell Mr. Underwood?
“Shelby, it’s not your responsibility to share the details of Mrs. Underwood’s physical condition with her husband,” Mrs. Baker told me when I returned to the office. “Still, it sounds like he could use some reassurance. Here’s what I would suggest . . .”
Half an hour later, I was about to leave Mr. Underwood’s room. I had told him his wife was sleeping when I’d stopped by and that the doctors and nurses were taking good care of her. He seemed relieved just to know someone had checked on her for him, and he was especially happy to hear I’d left a note conveying his love. We talked briefly, then I told him to call anytime he needed me.
As I gently closed the door behind me, I finally let out a long breath. I still didn’t feel totally confident in what I was doing yet, but I had to admit it felt good knowing I was there for someone in their time of need. As I knocked on the door of the new patient in 931, I wondered what kind of ministry opportunity I might find next.
“Hello, my name is Shelby Colter. I’m your hostess—”
“It’s about *#%! time you got here,” growled the disheveled middle-aged woman in the bed, flashing a couple of dollar bills at me. “The nurse told me you could go get me some cigarettes. I want a pack of Marlboro’s.”
Reality check. From Florence Nightingale to cigarette girl in mere moments.
Chapter 7
By 2:00 that afternoon, I’d finished my rounds and was trying to decide if I wanted to go get a Tab. As I stepped off the elevator, I ran into Tucker.
“Moonpie! I was beginning to think you’d fallen off the face of the earth. How’s it going?”
We stepped off to the side of the hall, allowing the other passengers to exit the elevator. I knew I’d eventually run into him again, but I had no clue what to say.
“Good. It’s good. Just getting acclimated around here. How are you?”
He tugged at my sleeve, pulling me along. “Come have coffee with me. I need to ask you something.”
Whoa.
He turned to look at me. “Oh, c’mon. You have time. It’ll only take a few minutes. You’re allowed a break now and then, you know.”
“I know,” I answered a little too defensively.
We entered the café at the far west end of the first floor on Madison. It was more of an oversized snack bar than café, but there were a dozen or so small tables for seating. We got our drinks and found a table in the corner.
I stuck my straw into my fountain drink. “So how many cups of coffee does a resident drink during any given 24-hour period?”
“You don’t even want to know. But I’d never make it without it. The hours are brutal.”
“Yeah, I’ve always heard that. How’s it going?”
He ran his hand through his hair and shook his head. “It’s tough. I keep asking myself why I thought I wanted to go into medicine. Course, then I work with patients, see a few miracles, and it all comes back to me. I just need to handle my off-hours better. Maximize my sleep time. That sort of thing. But enough about me.”
I took a sip of my diet drink and waited. Finally I asked, “And? What was it you wanted to ask me?”
“Oh, yeah. I want you to come to Bible study tomorrow night. It’s at Dr. Krause’s house. Great study. We’re going through Genesis right now. Very laid back, but we always have a good time. And it’ll be a good chance for you to get to know some of the singles.”
Oh, the bliss.
“Tucker, I appreciate it, but I’m just not ready for the whole singles thing right now.”
“Right now? What does that mean?”
I toyed with the wrapper from my straw then flattened my hands on the table. “Okay, I might as well just level with you so you won’t keep inviting me to these things. I just recently broke off my engagement. It was painful, I’m still not totally over it, and the last thing I want to do is being around a bunch of singles. No offense, but I’m just not ready to be back in a meat market environment.”
“Well, I’m glad you told me about your situation. And I’m really sorry to hear about the broken engagement. That had to be tough. But Moon— I mean, Shelby—it’s just a Bible study. It’s not a ‘meat market’ as you so delicately put it. Seriously, this group isn’t like that. I promise you. We all have a blast together. Just come one time and give it a shot. If you don’t like it, fine.”
“We’ll see. I’m having some car problems so I’m not sure if—”
“That’s no problem. I can give you a ride.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I wouldn’t want you to go out of your way.”
“Please. Will you stop acting like I’m some stranger and just come? Rachel and Rich said you moved out. You’re over near MSU, right?”
“Look, Tucker, don’t worry about me. Besides, I’m sure Cassie wouldn’t appreciate me tagging along.”
He drained the rest of his coffee and stood up. “Oh, Cass can’t come to Bible study. She has class on Tuesday nights.”
Oh?
He tossed his empty cup in the trash and pulled a card out of his pocket. “Give me your phone number and I’ll call you tonight to get directions to your place. And I won’t take no for an answer, so don’t even bother.”
I huffed. “You’re relentless, you know that?” I grabbed the card out of his hand and put it on my clipboard. I wrote down my home number and handed it back to him. “But so help me, Tucker, if one goofball starts clinging to me, I’ll never speak to you again.”
“Fair enough. Gotta run. Talk to you later.”
I shook my head, wondering why I’d caved so easily. Why couldn’t I just stick to my guns?
This has trouble written all over it . . .
Sandra caught a ride home with Chelsea, so I headed to the dealership. I’d called Dad earlier in the day and he insisted I take my car right over to Brentwood’s Cadillac as soon as I got off work. Since he’d worked there for so many years, he called ahead and made arrangements for them to take a look at my baby and see what was wrong a
s soon as possible. He also reserved a courtesy car for me to drive while it was in the shop.
I had vague memories of Brentwood’s from my childhood. We were in and out a lot of the time, stopping by to see Dad at work. Occasionally he’d take me to work with him on Saturday mornings. But I guess I was too young to remember much, and I certainly didn’t recognize anyone there. Still, as soon as I walked through the door, the familiar car dealership smell hit me like a wave, making me miss my daddy.
“So you’re Jack’s girl,” a rather portly man said after I’d checked in at the repair shop. “I’m Burt Brentwood, good friend of yo’ daddy’s. My goodness, how you’ve grown! Why, last time I saw you, you weren’t this high.” He held his hand low, as if I’d magically remember. I had no memory of this man, but since he was a Brentwood, I’m sure we must’ve met before.
“Nice to see you,” I said. “Did Dad talk to you this morning?”
“Sure did. And I promised him I’d take good care of you. We’ll make sure the boys get your Seville back running like a top. Meanwhile, I had that pretty little coupe out there washed and waxed for you this morning. That’ll keep you running while we’ve got yours in the shop.”
He handed me the keys as I looked out to see a shiny red clone of my baby. “Thanks, Burt. I appreciate it.”
As he waited for me to sign the form at the desk, he talked about my dad and how much they all missed him. “But no one misses him more than Elvis. Fact is, he was in here just this morning and asked how ol’ Cadillac Jack was doing down in Birmingham.”
I looked up. “Elvis asked about my dad?”
“Oh sure. Always does. Elvis loves yo’ daddy. He still buys his cars from us, but he always lets us know he wishes Jack was still here.”
“Wow. What do you know,” I mused, signing my name and handing the form to the clerk behind the desk.