Rescue Team

by Candace Calvert

  Fire department . . . Oh, please. Stop.

  “So,” Lauren sighed, “leaving a baby unattended on a bathroom floor, even in a designated hospital—”

  The wail of sirens squelched her words.

  Kate glanced toward the approaching ambulance, grateful for the first time in her career for incoming trauma. “Is that the shooting victim?”

  “Thirty-four-year-old male. Shotgun blast to the hip and thigh. Relatively stable vitals after IV fluids. We’ve got everything ready to go. Surgery’s standing by.” Lauren stood and began stuffing papers into her bag. “Go ahead and keep that brochure,” she said as Kate tried to hand it over. “I’m going to run back to triage so my lunch relief can help in the trauma room.”

  “Good.” Kate crumpled her paper plate, resettled her stethoscope around her neck. “Tell them I’ll be right there too.”

  As Lauren jogged away, Kate tossed her garbage—and the Safe Haven brochure—into the trash can, then watched as the rig with lights still flashing backed into the ambulance bay. Followed by two sheriff cars. And a van with a TV news logo printed on the side. She grimaced. At least Barrett Lyon was gone, Lauren was here, and miraculously, Kate had a moment to sit down and eat something. A slice of peace slathered with peanut butter. Right this minute she’d even go so far as to hope that despite these lights and sirens, her day could actually be turning around.

  Then the doors of the ambulance opened. And Wes Tanner climbed out.

  - + -

  “Tanner, hold on.”

  Wes turned and saw the medic gesturing from the ambulance. “Yeah?”

  “You can follow us to the doors, but then you’ll have to go to the waiting room.” The young man attached Gabe’s oxygen tubing to a portable tank. “Security’s really strict. Nobody but staff goes in there, unless you’ve got some serious pull with someone. The doc or . . . ?”

  Department director? Wes almost laughed. “No. No pull.”

  “I’ll let the ER staff know you’re waiting,” the medic offered, guiding the stretcher from the rig. The wheels dropped and locked into place. In seconds they were hustling toward the hospital doors with Wes alongside.

  Gabe’s eyes were half-lidded above the oxygen mask. A portable monitor registered his vital signs in digital red. Blood pressure 106 over 48. After nearly a liter of normal saline. How much damage did the gun blast do? Heart rate 102. Respirations 20, oxygen saturation 100 percent. A telltale spot of blood, dark as a moonless search, seeped through the white sheet in the vicinity of his right hip.

  IV tubing dangling, Gabe raised a hand toward Wes.

  Wes clasped it. “Hang in there. I’ll be in to see you as soon as they let me,” he promised, hating the clammy feel of his friend’s fingers. “And I’ll keep an eye out for your family.”

  “Thanks.” A faint but familiar smile appeared on Gabe’s pale face. “Though the last thing a man in my condition should want is a visit from a mortician.”

  “Right,” Wes managed, his voice trying to crack. “And don’t start dictating some cheesy eulogy. You’re going to be fine.”

  “I know . . .’s a long way from my heart.” Gabe’s eyes closed for long enough to make Wes’s breathing stall. But then he opened them again. “You promised. Nancy Rae—don’t forget.”

  “I won’t.”

  They stopped the stretcher at the ambulance bay doors; a security guard hit the button from inside and they all disappeared down the corridor toward the ER. Out of sight.

  Wes leaned against the cool stucco of the hospital wall and hunched over, his legs suddenly weak. He thought of his best friend wanting to search a little longer at the Braxton ranch. “One last shot at putting a smile on our piano teacher’s face.” So typical. No man had a bigger heart. And Gabe wouldn’t have been there—wouldn’t be here right now—if Wes hadn’t asked for a favor. Please, Lord. Don’t let him die.

  “Mr. Tanner?”

  “Yes.” Wes looked up to see a woman in pink, the volunteer he’d met in the waiting room. The woman with the kind eyes. Judith.

  She smiled. “You’re here with Gabriel Buckner.”

  Wes nodded. “I was just going to the waiting room. The paramedics said they’d tell the staff I was here. And maybe I should—” he glanced down at his arms and shirtfront—“wash this off.”

  “This way.” Judith pointed toward the doors Gabe had just entered. “I’ll show you where you can wash up. After I get you a scrub top.” She gave him an assessing glance. “Large, I’d say.”

  “Uh . . . yes.” He followed her, not about to argue, thinking of what the medic had said about not getting past the ambulance doors unless he had “pull.” Who’d have thought this volunteer was his ticket in?

  “After you change,” Judith continued, keying in the door code, “I’ll check and see if the team will allow you to visit with your friend for a few minutes. Not more than a peek because they’re getting him ready for surgery. But I know you want a chance to wish him well. It’s important for a patient, too. Even with so many people bustling around, without a family member or a friend, a person can feel almost abandoned. That shouldn’t ever happen.” For a mere instant there was a look of sadness in her eyes. Then the doors opened and she led the way in. “Of course, I’ll need to check the timing with our department director.”

  Wes’s hope vanished. He might as well go back to the waiting room. “Kate Callison.”

  “Yes. She sent me out here to get you.”

  - + -

  “Where do things stand?” Kate asked, catching the clinical coordinator outside the trauma room doors. She glanced inside and saw Wes Tanner crouching low to speak to his friend amid an organized tangle of IV lines. The concern on his face was obvious. “Ready for the OR?”

  “Anesthesia’s already been here,” the nurse told her. “Lungs and belly looked clear on the portable films, but there’s a lot of swelling in that thigh. Blood bank is sending the first unit straight to the OR. Catheter’s in, antibiotics infusing. When surgery gives the green light, we’ll roll.”

  “Good.” Kate had almost said, “Good job,” but she wondered how the nurse would take it. Good job as in better than you usually do or . . . Ugh, she hated second-guessing what she said to her staff. Everything Kate did was measured against Sunni’s perfect leadership. “I’ll be out in triage if you need me,” she added, certain she saw a look in the nurse’s eyes that said, “Dana called in sick because you harassed her.”

  Kate’s current prescription for peace and comfort was beyond a peanut butter muffin, even with the last packet of marmalade. Far beyond. What she needed was a kind word, a human connection devoid of political ramifications.

  On second thought, scratch the human connection altogether. Maybe the wayward Roady cat would be home again tonight. Maybe—

  “Let’s go!” the technician directed from inside the trauma room. Gurney brakes released and wheels rolled. IV bags swayed. There was a communal swish-swish of hustling scrubs. And in seconds, the space was empty. Not a person in sight—nurse, physician, lab or X-ray tech, or visitor. All gone. Only the inevitable clutter remained, those empty husks of lifesaving effort: depleted bags of IV fluids, discarded medicine vials and tourniquets, a lead apron from radiology . . . and a drying puddle of blood on the floor.

  - + -

  Wes was grateful for the quiet of the hospital chapel. And that he’d heard from both Gabe’s parents and his own. They were all on the way, even Wes’s seventeen-year-old brother, Dylan, who’d called Gabe “my good pal” for most of his life. It was a rare and important connection for someone with Dylan’s special needs and limited social skills.

  Wes smiled. Wait until Dylan found out that his good pal’s dog, Hershey, would be staying with the Tanners for a few days. Only a few days. Gabe’s going to be all right.

  He glanced from the simple cross above the chapel’s altar to the clock on the wall. The surgical technician had said Gabe would be in the OR at least an hour. Now would be a
good time to get that other thing done. He’d promised.

  With reluctance, Wes rose from the chair and walked back toward the door, where he’d stowed the hospital-issue bag holding Gabe’s belongings. And the item that wouldn’t fit in it. He shook his head, bent down to grab the bag, and—

  “Hi.”

  Wes stood, surprised to see Kate Callison outside the door.

  - + -

  “There’s a decent surgical waiting room with coffee and crackers and a TV,” Kate told Wes, feeling immediately foolish. He could have gone to the chapel to pray. Not everyone wraps a cross in newspaper and hides it in the closet. “It’s there if you want it.”

  “Thanks.” Wes glanced back into the chapel. “What I really could use is a sort of . . . big . . . garbage bag.” His blue eyes, Kate noticed, were the exact shade of his scrub top. “For some of Gabe’s belongings.”

  “A trash bag?” she asked, needing to break the gaze because of the ridiculous way her pulse was suddenly behaving. No more Starbucks Doubleshots. “Oh, you mean a patient belongings bag. I’ll grab—”

  “No, a trash bag. Garbage-can size. It’s for . . .” He turned and reached down behind the door. “This.”

  Kate’s eyes widened at the toddler-size doll with tangled hair, fading rouge, and a frilly dotted apron. But mostly at the ludicrous image of this ruggedly handsome man struggling to grapple with such a completely girlie thing. “That’s—”

  “Nancy Rae,” he said, balancing the toy awkwardly in the crook of his arm. “But you can call her Nancy.” He looked from the doll’s well-worn face to Kate’s, amusement erasing his earlier discomfort. “It’s my turn to be surprised: you do smile, Kate Callison.”

  “It’s just . . .” A laugh rose, more wonderful than any marmalade. Kate pressed her fingers to her mouth, unable to stop it. “You look so . . .”

  “Idiotic, I know,” he agreed. “But I’ve got to get this to someone upstairs.”

  “The Alzheimer’s patient you rescued in the woods yesterday,” Kate guessed. The same day you carried that dying baby. The merciful laughter disappeared as quickly as it had come.

  “The doll’s important to her. She’s had it for years—‘rescued’ from a church garage sale. Gabe wanted to make sure she got it.” His eyes met hers again. “Judith said you gave the okay for me to be in the trauma room. I want you to know I appreciate that. Thank you.”

  “No problem.” Kate willed her heartbeat to slow. “I should thank you—and Nancy—for the laugh just now. I needed it. It’s been . . .” She let the words trail off, wary of being too honest. “If you’ll wait a minute, I’ll get that trash bag.”

  “Thanks.” Wes’s smile returned, making the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Nancy Rae likes to travel incognito—paparazzi.”

  Kate chuckled, unexpected warmth spreading again. “Be right back.”

  By the time she managed to locate a janitor’s cart and snag a trash bag, Kate had convinced herself that it would be a sincere gesture of Austin Grace hospitality to show Wes to the surgery waiting room. Or maybe the cafeteria. Join him there for a few minutes.

  She hurried back. Then heard the voices, even before she reached the chapel. A discreet peek from the doorway confirmed that other people had arrived. A man nearly as tall as Wes, with silver-shot black hair and similar good looks. A woman wearing faded Levi’s and an expression of motherly concern. And under Wes’s protective arm, a gangly young man shifting his weight from foot to foot. He wore an oversize blue football jersey stenciled with the number 1 and white block letters that spelled out Team Tanner.

  Wes’s family. Kate would have known it without the personalized jersey. She could tell by the way they looked at each other and moved together in a palpable attitude of loving support. She felt it even from where she stood. On the outside looking in. Always.

  Kate tucked the trash bag inside the chapel door and headed back to the ER. She took a deep breath, let it go. It had been crazy and pathetic to let fatigue, frustration, and a much-needed laugh—and that incredible smile—fool her into hoping things could change. It was a dangerous combination that could make her lose sight of the truth. She had a long history of bad choices. Getting personal with Wes Tanner would have been more of the same. They couldn’t have less in common. She had no team. No real family. And tomorrow they’d face each other at the critical stress debriefing. Something he believed in and she most certainly didn’t. Analyzing the emotional impact of Baby Doe’s death was the last thing Kate needed.

  Her heart cramped as she remembered her conversation with Lauren. And the brochure she’d tossed in the trash. Abandoned babies, terrified mothers. A Safe Haven?

  Kate shook her head, sensing another soul-deep truth. There is no safe place.

  JUDITH DOYLE MOVED DOWN the emergency department corridor, each brisk stride marked with a swish of her pink uniform and a squeak-scrunch from her SAS sneakers. And the occasional twinge of her arthritic knee. She’d probably already trekked a dozen miles through the vinyl-paved, fluorescent-lit, bustling maze that was Austin Grace Hospital.

  After nearly two years, she knew every square foot like it was home. The humid, grease-scented engineering department on the basement level. The laughter and food-tray clatter of the cafeteria. The cool, blue-green, capped and masked inner sanctum that was the OR. She knew the route from the bright finger paint– and balloon-festooned halls of pediatrics to the blanket-soft, milk-and-miracle atmosphere of the newborn nursery. Judith had covered it all in the last four hours. Delivering interdepartmental mail, pushing wheelchairs, guiding visitors, making coffee, and . . . making a difference. Yes. She believed that with every fiber of her being. But of course, it was much more than that.

  “Judith!” The ER registration clerk, Beverly, poked her head through the office doorway. There was an orange speckle of cheese puffs on her chin, and her eyes were etched with fatigue—single mother, working two jobs. No sleep, again. “Can you restock the information pamphlets in the waiting room? I think the last cold-and-flu sheet just sailed by my window. As a paper airplane.”

  “Happy to.” Judith made a mental note to double-check the patient sign-in list against her most recent head count in the waiting room. Beverly was a department veteran and a hard worker, but fatigue took its toll and that’s when mistakes happened. “And how ’bout I bring you some coffee?”

  “Thanks, Judith. You’re a real lifesaver.”

  “I . . .” Judith hesitated, a lump rising in her throat. A lifesaver?

  Her fingers played with her angel earring as she glanced through the registration window at the patients in the waiting room. The woman with swollen ankles, a college student with a scratch from his contact lens, a carpet layer with lower back pain, and several more. Judith knew their names, their faces, how long they’d been waiting. She’d offered magazines, cups of water, Kleenex, a listening ear. And her own private, ongoing assessments. Because even if right now everything was “same old, same old,” as Beverly liked to say, things could change at any moment. The woman with swollen ankles might develop breathing trouble. The carpet layer’s chronic back pain could be the symptom of an undiagnosed aneurysm—a bulging vessel shredding itself, ready to explode in a massive hemorrhage. The possibilities were always there, endless and frightening and so easily found on the Internet. Insomnia was providing Judith with an unexpected medical education.

  “Wes Tanner, please call 7674. Wes Tanner, 7674.” The overhead PA system crackled, went silent again.

  Judith suspected the young man was being paged by the family of the gunshot victim. She’d seen them gathered in the chapel, a room used by visitors for respite and prayer, and by staff during Lauren Barclay’s fellowship gatherings. It was the one room in the hospital that Judith never visited. Never would. She had no use for chapels, church, or God himself. Not since he’d allowed a medical mistake to steal her husband’s life. A good, loving man who would never know grandchildren or toast a golden anniversary. Judith battled th
e familiar snarl of anger and pain, tamped it down. Then she grabbed a fresh stack of brochures and strode toward the waiting room, the angels beating silvery wings against her neck.

  God had allowed human error to make Judith a widow. She couldn’t change that, but it also left her determined that the senseless tragedy would never happen to anyone else. Not on my watch.

  Her throat squeezed at the thought of the tiny baby left to die in the bathroom. It shouldn’t have happened.

  She’d check the census statistics and the staffing schedule. All she had left was time waiting to be filled. There was no reason she couldn’t volunteer on the night shift too.

  - + -

  “I heard your friend’s doing better.” Lauren joined Wes Tanner at the cafeteria table. Though he’d managed to get hold of some clean clothes, he still looked emotionally rumpled. “So now how are you doing? Peer counselors—we have to ask, right?” Lauren tried not to imagine what Kate would think of that. But then, this might be a good time to feel Wes out about the debriefing. If he was still planning to be there.

  “If I say, ‘I wish it was me full of shotgun pellets,’ will you rat me out to the social worker?” He dragged his hand along his jaw. “I feel bad. But a whole lot better now that Gabe’s out of surgery and there were no complications. No damage to the major vessels or the hip joint. They’ll be watching for infection, of course.”