Rescue Team

by Candace Calvert

  “We’re outta here, pal.” Lauren grinned from the lime-green convertible VW Beetle braking to a stop behind Kate’s car. “Gonna hit the gym, then give the family a call and see where I fit on Mom’s long task list for our Houston turkey day. And maybe try to get a handle on how things are going with my sister. If she’s in a talkin’ mood, that is.” Concern clouded Lauren’s expression for a second. Then she tilted her head, the smile returning. “I never asked—are you traveling home for Thanksgiving?”

  Home. Kate made herself shrug casually. “We’ll see. I’ll be calling Dad tonight, so . . .”

  It was the truth. She did call on Wednesdays, sometimes Mondays or Fridays. Between 7 and 8 p.m. The hour her father attended the Presbyterian church AA meetings—or at least when he’d let voice mail pick up so she’d think he was at the meetings. It was a painful dance they’d perfected as flawlessly as the stars waltzing in the finals on that sequin-studded TV show. She’d call and leave a quick, always-chipper message saying that work was great and she was fine. He’d forward e-mails that featured heartwarming images of animal antics—horses and puppies, his favorites. They posted happy birthday cards on each other’s Facebook pages. Texted once in a while. But they hadn’t actually spoken, really talked, in nearly a year. And the very last thing Kate wanted in the world was for that to change.

  “Have fun at the gym,” she said as Lauren put the VW into gear. “I’m making a request for a better day tomorrow.”

  “You and me both.”

  Kate climbed into her car and headed for the highway, glad for the distracting chaos of Austin’s commuter traffic, everyone eager to put the workday behind them and enjoy the live-music capital of the world. University students, politicians, arts enthusiasts, aspiring musicians with guitars strapped on like turtle shells, foodies—Kate’s stomach rumbled. Dinner.

  Chuy’s Tex-Mex, definitely. It was in Barton Springs, not far from the small guesthouse she rented. She’d get a to-go order: green chile chicken taquitos with creamy jalapeño sauce, pico de gallo, and a side of refried beans. She braked, waited for two bearded cyclists—one in tie-dye, the other in a faded purple Keep Austin Weird T-shirt—to weave through traffic. Then she rounded the next corner, and—

  Oh . . . Kate’s heart cramped. The mother. Standing on the busy corner with a long scarf draped over her hair. And that sign with the beautiful baby’s face. Need money for my baby’s funeral. The light from a single candle flickered on the face and downcast eyes of what could have been a likeness of the grieving Madonna.

  Kate’s foot found the brake and she reached for her purse. But at the sudden blare of car horns behind her, she drove on, all thoughts of dinner extinguished. All she wanted was to get home and close the door, blot everything out: that poor woman on the street corner, the girl in shadows this morning, the tearful triage nurse . . . and a baby born on the bathroom floor.

  By some miracle, Roady had been home. Raspy meow, scabbed ears, swaggering pet-me-while-you-can attitude. Filled to bursting now with canned albacore, he lay sprawled on the couch beside Kate.

  She’d rescued the cat in San Antonio after he fell asleep under the hood of an ambulance. And lost most of his tail in the fan belt. Not that the trauma, or a subsequent neutering appointment, had curbed the orange tabby’s wanderlust. She smiled, thinking of what she’d said to Lauren about wanting to “cut and run”—Roady had that skill in spades.

  Kate stroked his striped belly, felt his rumbling purr. She was grateful for his company. And thankful, too, that she’d found a measure of peace after all. She’d shed the day like she had her scrubs. Showered, pulled a Pilates tunic over leggings, and reheated some leftover Annie’s mac and cheese. Then opened a celebratory can of tuna for her prodigal cat.

  Kate glanced toward Roady’s food bowls in the tiny blue-tiled kitchen. “Do you have water?”

  Got water? She was caught off guard by the sudden image of Wes Tanner. Those blue eyes and dark lashes, that broad chest . . . the warmth of his skin when he shook her hand. And the memory of his concern and quick action when she’d bumped her head. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, reminding herself that he was part of the plan to further derail her staff with psychobabble. Even more importantly, that her instincts regarding men had brought her nothing but trouble all her life. Her last real date, months ago in San Antonio, had been a no-show. Which turned out to be merciful, considering the man was now doing prison time. It proved her point: Kate made bad choices. But tonight, right now, was comfortable. Her cat, her home—such as it was.

  She glanced around the one-bedroom guesthouse, set on a vine-tangled hillside lot near Zilker Park. Close enough to a creek to hear it through the screen at night, once the cicadas stopped their deafening jungle hum, and lit by magical fireflies in summer. The house had come complete with bleached muslin curtains tied back with brown raffia and dried flowers. Leftovers from the last tenant, a college student who’d also hung a hammered-tin cross near the front door. Kate left the cross there for a few days, then carefully wrapped it in newspaper and tucked it in the closet. She spoke to God even less than she spoke to her father. And had no doubt that God preferred it that way.

  Kate took a slow breath, telling herself that this place was as much a home as she needed. A place to run to, a door to close when painful reality crowded in. It had worked today, hadn’t it?

  She drew her legs under her cotton tunic and pushed the button on the TV remote. She froze as the news camera zoomed in on the emergency entrance to Austin Grace Hospital.

  “The premature baby boy,” a reporter continued, “was found on the cold tile floor of an emergency department bathroom early this morning. The time and circumstances of his birth are unknown. It is speculated that the mother may have intended to surrender her infant under Texas Safe Haven law. This can be done without legal penalty against the mother.”

  Kate hugged her knees, feeling them tremble.

  “However, since the law requires that the infant be placed directly into the hands of a Safe Haven provider, the mother, if located, may face criminal charges in this tragic case. The police have few leads but are—”

  Kate jabbed the remote before it slipped from her shaking fingers. She squeezed her eyes tight. It didn’t help; she still saw the face of the girl in the shadowy entrance to the ER. The fear in her eyes. The desperation. Kate knew without a doubt that this girl had spent months in lonely denial. Then labored in hiding before wrapping her sticky-warm baby in brown paper towels . . . to abandon him. Kate knew the pain of that final act was like ripping out your own beating heart. She knew it. But she hadn’t told the police. Because . . .

  No. Kate wrapped her arms around her stomach, struggling against the sob that had threatened to rise for a decade. Along with a collage of memories too painful to bear: overwhelming grief at her mother’s death, angry confusion in running away, rape by someone she’d trusted . . . crippling panic and then desperate denial after the positive pregnancy test barely three months after her seventeenth birthday. Running, hiding—wishing she could die. Failing at it once. And then the night she wrapped her son in a ratty sweatshirt and left him crying in the darkened doorway of a Las Vegas fire station. She’d walked away with an empty womb and a hole in her soul.

  Kate hadn’t been able to tell the police about that girl today any more than she could tell anyone about the guilt she’d carried all these years. But maybe . . . maybe now it was finally time to . . .

  Daddy. Somehow the phone was in her hands, the speed-dial number pressed. She glanced at the time on its display, her tears blurring the numbers. Almost 8:30 in California.

  If she finally did it, told him . . .

  “Matthew Callison. I’m not home. Please leave a message.”

  “Daddy . . .” The merciless sob threatened to strangle her. I threw your grandson away. “I . . . Everything’s okay. I’m fine. Work . . . is great.”

  Kate disconnected, willed herself to stop trembling. This wasn’t going
to happen. Not now, not ever. She’d meant what she said to Wes Tanner that morning. It didn’t help to dwell on tragedy. Especially her own.

  “SO THIS NEW ER DIRECTOR . . .” Miranda Tanner peered at Wes over a mug of morning coffee, the rising steam making her face look a little hazy. With the faded bandanna, deep-auburn hair, and silver hoop earrings, she could have been a gypsy who’d wandered onto the porch of this limestone ranch house. A world-weary vagabond stopping long enough to tell a colorful fortune and collect a fast fee. Except that she was wearing a Got Water? polo shirt, and everyone knew Wes’s stepmother was as enduring as the decades-old pecan trees shading this home. Fiercely loyal, firmly rooted in her devotion to her children and husband, this community—and her faith. Her Bible lay on the table beside her, next to her laptop and a tidy stack of well-drilling invoices.

  She chuckled as a fat-cheeked squirrel chattered from a tree branch above, then fixed her gaze on Wes again. “Kate Callison. What’s she like?”

  “She’s . . .” Wes frowned, at a loss for how to explain his encounter with Kate, even to the woman who’d become Mom. And unsure why he was suddenly battling the memory of how Kate’s hand had felt in his. Small, soft, warm . . . “She’s about as friendly as brushing up against a cactus.”

  “Prickly?”

  “You could say that. After she found out that I’m part of the critical stress team, she pretty much dismissed me.” Wes shook his head, remembering Kate’s crossed arms and the stubborn lift of her chin. “I quote: ‘No one here needs to be rescued.’”

  “Ouch.” Her expression was both wise and gentle. It was the same way she’d looked at him when he was a motherless ten-year-old, still furious at the world. “It can’t be easy stepping into Sunni’s shoes. Or coping with this sort of thing.” She tapped the screen of her laptop. “In the online edition of the newspaper.”

  “Something about the baby?”

  “Yes, there’s a short article. With an anonymous comment by ‘Waiting for Compassion,’ the person who’s been writing those letters to the editor.”

  Wes nodded. The letters had appeared sporadically in the Austin American-Statesman over the last year. Written by someone who claimed to be reporting from the waiting rooms at several city hospitals and was obviously on a personal mission to depict local medical systems as disorganized, dispassionate, and sometimes dangerous. Recently Jenna had seen copycat posts on the social networks, one with an obviously fabricated photo of a waiting patient with an ax blade buried in his skull. No medical, rescue, or law enforcement personnel should be the target of that kind of harassment. Prickly attitude or not.

  His mom traced her finger down the screen, reading aloud. “‘One has to wonder if this precious life could have been saved if the (reportedly) skilled staff of a hospital system that claims, “providing safe, quality health care is our number one priority” actually practiced what they preached. Then, perhaps, a woman in labor wouldn’t be waiting for compassion . . . on the floor of a hospital lavatory.’”

  Wes grimaced, recalling the terror on the janitor’s face and the too-still, too-cold feel of the baby’s body through the paper towels. And the grief in Kate’s eyes.

  “I’m glad you’ll be taking part in the hospital debriefing,” Miranda continued, her expression showing concern for Wes as much as the others. “It had to be awful finding a child who’s been abandoned like that.”

  “You’re Lee Ann Tanner’s boy.” Wes quickly dismissed the idea of telling her what Amelia Braxton had said yesterday morning. There was no point in bringing that up. Just like there was no way to understand why a mother would pull her sleeping son from bed at 3 a.m. and load him into the car only to abandon him in the woods. The incident with Baby Doe only added to the bad memories Mrs. Braxton’s confused comments had stirred. He had to let all of that go.

  Wes glanced toward his parents’ shop and barn, buildings that had stood there for three generations. He drew in a breath rich with familiar scents: oak, earth, and hay mixed with a faint trace of motor oil and morning coffee. Though he rented a town house with closer access to the freeways, he would always feel that this ranch was home. As deeply as his initials carved in the weathered barn siding.

  Wes downed the last of his coffee, then nodded at his mom. “I’m going to check the equipment for the Masons’ pump install and make sure our men have everything they need; Dad has it on the schedule for this afternoon. Then maybe I’ll take Duster out for a while. Let him eat grass down by the creek.” He smiled, remembering the big sorrel’s groan as he’d lumbered from his stall to the waiting horse trailer before dawn yesterday. “He’s gonna go sour if all he gets to do is the occasional early morning search-and-rescue call.”

  “Oh, I forgot.” His mom handed him a sticky note. “Lily Braxton called last night. She wanted to thank you again for finding Amelia. And she wondered—” it looked like she was trying not to smile—“if you might have a few minutes to help her with another search.”

  “Someone’s missing?”

  “I’m afraid so.” His mom shook her head, yielding to the smile. “Nancy Rae. The doll Amelia carries with her everywhere—that poor plastic creature with the matted hair and the polka-dot apron. You’ve seen her.”

  “Nancy—” Wes groaned, set the note down. “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m afraid not. Miss Lily’s frantic.”

  Wes sighed. “Does she think the doll’s in the gully?”

  “She’s looked everywhere else. Of course she can’t climb down that hill. She tried to phone her renter—that hermit who has the trailer down in the grove—but he didn’t answer. Amelia will be home from the hospital today, and she’s been asking and asking.”

  “Okay.” Wes raised his palm. “If you promise that word doesn’t leak out about this.”

  “About helping your neighbors? Now that’s compassion worthy of a letter to the editor.” She laughed at his expression. “I won’t. I prom—” She stopped short as Wes’s cell phone rang.

  “Hey,” Wes said after seeing Gabe’s ID. He walked down the stone steps of the porch. “What’s up?”

  “Maybe some news on Sunni Sprague’s case.”

  Wes’s breath caught. He’d spent so many hours over the past months reviewing the reports and phone tips. “What did you hear?”

  “Unofficial. I was talking with one of the deputies. An inmate may be trying to make a deal, trade some information about the location of . . . evidence.”

  The tone in Gabe’s voice sounded too much like he was talking about human remains. But even then, it would be better than never finding anything. “When do they expect to know something more concrete?”

  “Not sure. But I’m thinking it’s possible that teams will be called out to do a grid search.” A muffled whine told Wes that Hershey was sitting beside Gabe. “Hey, do you have time to grab some coffee?”

  “Sure.” Wes smiled at his mom, raising a thumbs-up signal. “After you help me with a search.”

  - + -

  “It’s okay; you can pick Harley up. It won’t hurt anything.” Kate smiled to reassure the observably anxious young mother. And because the infant girl, two months old and wearing a pink headband, shared the name of a motorcycle.

  “I . . .” The mother’s eyes, magnified by dark-framed glasses, traveled from the sensor taped to her daughter’s heel up the cord to the pulse oximeter unit’s blinking digital display. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” Kate pointed to the current oxygen saturation reading. “Your baby’s oxygen level is 99 percent on room air. That’s perfect. It’s been normal ever since you brought her in. Even though,” she added, careful not to dismiss the mother’s concerns, “you noticed that difference in her breathing at home.”

  “She looked sort of blue when I leaned over her crib.”

  Kate stroked the baby’s cheek, pinker than her headband. She was glad she’d offered to roll up her sleeves and help with patient care this morning. Not only because they were sho
rt staffed—Dana, the triage nurse Kate questioned yesterday, had called in sick—but because this new mother needed some TLC. And maybe because today . . . I need to touch a living, breathing baby.

  “Harley’s getting a thorough exam,” Kate continued. “Labs, X-ray, monitoring. The ER physician will discuss everything with your pediatrician. Right now, though—” she glanced down as Harley began to fuss in her infant seat—“I think Mommy’s the best medicine. Go ahead; pick her up. If the monitor comes loose, I’ll fix it. No problem.”

  “That’s okay.” The mother jiggled the seat. “I can wait. She likes her pacifier.” She pushed her glasses up her nose, then reached for the diaper bag. “I brought two, and—” She stopped, stared into Kate’s eyes. “You don’t think they’ll keep her tonight? Maybe that would be better.” Her fingers moved to the strings at the neck of her hoodie. “Safer, you know?”

  Kate saw the anxiety on her face. “I don’t know yet what the doctor will recommend, but he’ll discuss everything with you. And answer all your questions. Harley won’t be released unless your pediatrician agrees that it’s completely safe.”

  “I’m back,” the staff nurse announced, arriving at the exam room door. Behind her, sounds of voices, beeping equipment, and a short volley of indignant grumbles indicated the emergency department patient census was rising. “Thanks for giving me a break,” she added, connecting briefly with Kate’s gaze. Then she smiled warmly at Harley. “Looks like you’re still behaving yourself, angel girl.”

  Kate left the exam room after one more glance at the worried mother. And at her staff nurse, too. The nurse had been there yesterday when Baby Doe was rushed to the code room.

  “Your team is shell-shocked.” Wasn’t that what Lauren had said after doing some peer counseling? Kate frowned, scanning the rooms as she made her way through the department. Physicians, nurses, technicians, clerks. All busy, a little understaffed and maybe grumpy about it—Kate understood that. Sure, there had been TV news about Baby Doe, and a few reporters had bothered some folks in the employee parking lot. There was another of those miserable Waiting for Compassion diatribes in the online edition of the paper. But no one looked shell-shocked.