by Lou Cadle
“I don’t want him to be a brat.”
“He couldn’t ever be. Your son is a doll. But that he’s fighting and mad, that tells me he’s still strong. We like to see a little fight in him. If there’s none at all, that’s bad news. Of course you should discipline him normally, over tantrums or harsh words or whatever, but know that I see it as a good sign.”
She took the information in. She really was a good mother, and she would see the boy through this, Bash felt sure, if the chemo worked. Nodding, she returned to the room.
Bash caught up on charting from the last hour, sitting next to Jo at her receptionist’s station, typing as fast as he could. He was standing up to get the next patient from the waiting room when the earthquake struck.
For the first three seconds of the earthquake, Bash did what any normal California-raised person did: he stood still and observed, poised to move into action. Most of the time, three seconds was all it took, and the earthquake subsided, and you unfroze and went on with life, forgetting it by the next day. If it lasted for longer than a few seconds, that’s when you dove for cover.
This one lasted for more than three seconds. Bash dropped down and crawled under the counter. Jo still sat in her chair, so he grabbed her leg and yanked. “Get down here!” he yelled.
She slid off her chair to sit next to him, white faced.
“Only an earthquake,” he said. “Not a terrible one, I don’t think.” He glanced at his watch — it was 11:38:15 — and figured four seconds had gone by. He kept staring at the sweep second hand — a holdover habit from taking pulses without electronic doodads — and watched seven more seconds pass. The quake eased off and stopped. “Twelve, fifteen seconds at most. Probably less than a 6.0, if it was centered nearby,” he said, patting Jo on the knee. He crawled out from under the desk and looked out at the reception area. A huge panes of glass had popped out of the exterior window. At least it hadn’t fallen inside, but he wondered if anyone outside had been under it.
He was curious to see, but first things first. “Come on,” he said. “Take care of the people out in reception. Point them to the exits. No elevators. Stairs only. Tell them to get well away from the building and to watch for broken glass.”
“What? Why?”
“There could be an aftershock. Pull yourself together. We have patients to help.” He hurried down the hallway to the treatment rooms. Boy, good thing he had just charted. What if they lost electricity? He hoped the system had saved his morning’s notes. He turned around to Jo, just now getting to her feet. “Where’s paper, pencils?” She pointed mutely to a drawer and he yanked it open to find blank paper headed with a pharmaceutical firm’s name. He’d double chart everything, do it on paper, too, and keep it the paper copy with the patient, just in case.
Back to the treatment rooms. He did a quick triage of everyone. Mr. Witherspoon had vomited, mostly into his emesis basin, but Bash left the cleanup until he made sure no one else was in worse shape. Trevor was the last he checked, now on his last med, five minutes from done. Good. That’d be his next job, discharging Trevor. He’d let the bag empty, and he’d hustle Mom and Trevor out, leaving four patients.
What to do after that depended on two questions. Was this the only earthquake they’d have? And was the building seriously damaged? They still had electricity, good news there. He tried to think. Okay, if the electricity went out, he’d have to not only chart by hand but switch a couple procedures over. Best to prep for that at the first opportunity. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.
Back to Mr. Witherspoon, then, who was apologizing for vomiting as Bash opened the door.
“No, no, that’s fine,” said Bash. “I’ll get it cleaned up in no time.”
“I’ll help.” The man tried to lever himself out of his recliner.
“You’ll sit.” Bash glanced up at the television. A DVD was playing. “I tell you what you could do for me that would be a big help. Grab the remote, stop your movie, and turn it to a local station, see if we can get some news.”
“Good idea.”
Bash yanked on one new glove, took the basin and dumped it, rinsed it, and got some paper towels damp to help clean up the man’s shirt. He was turning to do it as the pregnant Mrs. W stormed in. Damn.
“Are you okay?” she asked her husband.
“I’m fine. Are you?”
“I’m good.” Mr. Witherspoon took a tissue and dabbed at his shirt.
“Let me do that,” she said.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” Bash said, but gently. He’d want to rush in, too, under the circumstances. He was a bit worried about Gale, who was healthy and earthquake savvy, but he’d check on him, too, if he didn’t have responsibilities here. “Everything is okay.”
“I’m fine, honey,” said Mr. Witherspoon.
“You’ve sicked up,” she said.
“Just a little,” he said. “I feel better now.”
Bash butted in again. “I know how worried you are, ma’am, but the best thing you can do is to leave the building, just in case.”
“In case what? If I should leave, he should leave.”
“As a precaution,” said Bash. “If there’s another quake, it’d be better to be outside, and far enough from buildings that you don’t get hit by falling glass or bricks. Don’t stand under a power line, either.”
“I want you to come, too,” she said to her husband.
“I’m hooked up,” he pointed out.
She turned on Bash. “Unhook him.”
“It’s better for him to finish the protocol. Just twenty minutes, he’ll be done.”
“Go on, honey,” said Mr. Witherspoon.
Bash left them to fight it out. He had other patients to deal with first. He hoped she would get out, but he wasn’t going to wrestle her out the door.
Outside. Damn, he’d forgotten. He hurried over to the windows where the glass plane had popped out and looked down, half afraid he’d see a decapitated person lying there. But no one was under the fallen glass, and there were no pools of blood. Another two panels had popped elsewhere, one lying on the bushes and one on the walkway, split into two neat pieces. Whoever built the place had chosen the glass wisely. He drew his head back inside and made a plan.
First, he’d finish up with Trevor. Then if he hadn’t heard from Meggy or someone else in administration, he’d try and figure out what they were supposed to do next — continue the treatments to the end, or stop after the current meds?
Trevor had gotten over the initial shock at the earthquake and now thought it was cool. “It was awesome!” he said, as Bash took out his lines. “A real earthquake and everything!”
“Say ah,” Bash said, unable to keep himself from smiling.
“Ahh,” Trevor said, a real pro by now at obeying medical instructions.
His mouth didn’t look dangerously dry any more. Bash said, “Hand, please,” and Trevor offered him his small hand. Bash pressed on a nail, watched capillary refill. He got a BP and pulse and jotted them down, put cartoon bandages on his arms, and said, “Ready to go. You were a good boy, Trevor.”
“I’m always a good boy.” He glanced at his mother and flushed and said, “Almost always.”
Bash laughed. He said to Trevor’s mother, “Someone picking you up?”
She shook her head. “Bus.”
“In case there’s another quake, don’t stand next to a phone pole or under electric wires while you’re waiting for it, okay?”
“Will do,” she said. “Thank Mr. Hill, honey.”
“Thank you,” Trevor said.
Bash thought, gee, thank me for hurting you. He loved kids, and he hated seeing them sick and hurting.
“Get yourself a nice cold drink real soon now,” he said.
“Thank you,” the mother said, and then they were gone. Bash did a whirlwind clean of the treatment room, not to his usual standards, but then, he wasn’t sure what was going to be happening in here the rest of the day. Why hadn’t he gotten a
call or directions? It had been ten or fifteen minutes since the quake.
As if someone had been reading his mind, Jo stuck her head into the room. “Got your boss for you on line two.”
He hurried up front, gratified to see an empty waiting room. Before he picked up the phone he said to Jo, “Sorry if I snapped at you earlier. Good job clearing them out.”
“No, no, it’s okay. I was shocked. It took me a second to get in gear.”
“While I’m on the phone can you poke your head in all of the rooms for me, make sure no one is in trouble? Tell me if there’s any emergency.”
“They have call buttons.”
He lowered his voice, despite there being no one in sight. “Make sure no one is passed out on the floor or seizing, okay?”
“Oh, right,” she said, and hurried off to check.
He picked up the received and poked at the blinking button. “Meggy?” He heard her talking to someone else. He waited for a pause, then said her name again, louder.
“Yeah. You okay down there?”
“Shaken up, but no one got hurt. What’s the plan?”
“We’re going to evacuate the building, until we get someone here to check on the structure. We don’t like that we lost windows, and everyone up here is feeling nervous.”
“Oh. Okay, what do I do with my patients?”
“Try and call their docs first, get updated orders. Electricity is working, so we lucked out there. Document everything. But without other problems get them out of here as soon as you reasonably can.”
“They’ll be happy about that.”
“And call me if you have questions.”
“Will do.”
“We have some minor ceiling damage up here on four. Three injured people. When you get yours out the door, come up and lend a hand, would you? Don’t worry about setting up rooms again, not right now. Just dispose of medical waste and leave the rest.”
“Done,” he said. He made calls to three doctors, got through to none of them — no surprise — and went back to shut off the infusions of the newest patient. Working backward, he got to Mr. Witherspoon last, and the last of his drug was dripping.
The pregnant woman was still there, though.
Bash didn’t yell at her for staying in the room. What was done was done. He said, “We’ll have you both out of here in a minute, two at the most.” He charted on paper while the last few drops of drug dripped. Out with the lines, bandage, check vitals, jot those down, and he was done.
He repeated his warning to the Witherspoons about power lines, telephone poles, elevators, and so on, but he didn’t think either of them were listening. The man was too sick, the woman too focused on her husband.
He followed them out into the reception area, where Jo was gathering her things. “I’m out of here,” she said. “I canceled afternoon appointments, and they told support staff to go home.”
“Keep safe,” he said.
“You too. See you tomorrow.” She hurried to the stairwell and was gone. The Witherspoons followed more slowly.
“Do you — “ Bash began. He was going to say, “need a wheelchair,” but no, if they were going down steps, that made no sense. “Need help? I’m not sure which of you is helping the other, here.”
Mr. Witherspoon managed a chuckle. “We’re a pair, all right.”
The woman looked grim-faced and said nothing.
A little alarm went off in Bash’s head. He went over to them and reached out toward the woman’s arm, not quite touching her. She didn’t seem the type who wanted a pat on the arm. “Are you all right?” he said.
“I think maybe not,” she said, her voice tight.
“What’s wrong?”
“I think I’m in labor.”
Chapter 2: Gale
Gale’s assistant, Angela, stuck her head in the door. “Woodham is here,” she said, and raised her eyebrows in a question.
Gale shut his laptop, picked up his landline, punched the five to keep it from ringing and motioned for her to send him in.
When Woodham strode in, Gale raised a finger and looked serious as he said into the dead phone, “Yes. Will do.” Ridiculous, the act of the fake phone call, but Woodham was the sort who was influenced by appearances, so Gale appeared to be in demand, a man who was doing a favor, not asking for one. He hung up the phone and rose, walked to the front of the desk, and shook hands with the developer.
“Ten-thirty, Swanton,” said Woodham, checking his watch. “We should get going.”
More games, thought Gale, each of them trying to establish dominance. Sometimes, he thought, they should all just whip ‘em out and take a piss on the wall. As with dogs, whoever could hit the highest spot would win and get his way. He nodded, grabbed the accordion folder with the printouts he had prepared, and gestured for Woodham to go first.
He flashed a smile at Angela as he passed. “Hold the fort,” he said. She gave him a two-fingered salute.
Woodham had a brand new metallic Lexus, shining in the morning sun. The locks clicked open and Gale sunk into a cloud of new-car smell. Sitting on the soft copper-toned leather seat, he thought this was probably the most expensive car in the whole county. He imagined the lease — surely it was leased — would run about the same as the average mortgage payment in town.
He’d have to remind Bash that was another positive part of living in Missouri, affordable housing. He thought back to their tense words this morning and winced with guilt. He knew Bash was unhappy here, and he really should be trying to avoid making him even more miserable. Damn. He’d call him later and apologize. Maybe they’d go out tonight, drive up toward St. Louis, get a nice meal, maybe Italian, and find something to laugh about.
Woodham took some time to get the seat and climate controls set up to his satisfaction, but soon they were driving west on Brown Street, talking about the weather.
“Injun summer,” Woodham said.
Gale made what he hoped was an agreeable noise though he winced inwardly at the racism. “Must be good for construction.”
“Damn spring was so wet, we need it to catch up on building before the sleet comes.”
They were at the development site within ten minutes — another vast improvement over LA was that everything in town was at most ten minutes’ drive away — and Woodham pulled into a packed-dirt parking area. He popped the trunk and handed Gale a yellow hard hat. “Leave your jacket,” he said, and Gale stripped it off and lay it on the pristine carpet of the trunk.
They walked toward a street with active construction, Woodham reciting specs and jabbing a finger here and there. “Durable poured-concrete foundation walls, structurally engineered joist floor and roof trusses, foundation drainage system with sump pump, spray foam rim insulation.”
Probably word for word from the sales brochure, Gale thought.
Woodham added, “And no brick.”
Well, at least he’d taught the guy enough about the dangers of unreinforced brick construction in earthquake country that Woodham had remembered to make the point. “There’s brick on that one,” said Gale, pointing to the nearest house, the most finished.
“First story features and porches on the top models, sure. But nothing structural. Let’s go down to the far end.”
They walked toward the houses that were still empty frames. As they walked, they passed teams of men working — bricklayers, roofers, carpenters. A flatbed loaded with Sheetrock sat in the middle of the unfinished street. Inside the nearly-finished houses, there must be plumbers, electricians, drywallers, too.
Woodham said, “Thirty men employed fulltime. Others part-time.”
Gale nodded. “Sold many units yet?”
The hitch in Woodham’s step suggested not. “Enough,” is what he said.
“Important to the city’s economy,” Gale said.
“I’m glad you recognize that.”
“Oh I do. I’m not your enemy, you know.”
“You merely want me to spend more money than I can a
fford.”
“I want people safe. I know you do, too.” Because it would save you lawsuits, he thought, if not for any compelling moral reason.
“I think you worry about earthquakes so much because you’re from L.A.”
“That’s the truth,” Gale said. “Live through two good-sized ones, and it changes your perspective.”
“You won’t live through two here. I’ve been here fifty years and only felt one, and it was a dinky thing.”
“It only takes one, one bad one.”
“There’s a scientist says the earth is done moving here. That the 1820 one was the end of it.”
1811 — but he didn’t correct Woodham. And yeah, an irresponsible fool was saying that about the location of the nation’s worst earthquake swarm ever, and Gale wanted to kick that man. As if you can hope plate tectonics will shut itself off and that wish will keep you safe. As if there weren’t small quakes every year here, below the threshold of human feeling, perhaps, but not below the ability of instruments to detect. Where’s there’s smoke, there’s fire, and where there are several 3.5 earthquakes, that’s an active fault. Hoping it all had gone away was another version of sticking your fingers in your ears and LALALAing away the truth. What he said To Woodham was, “We certainly can hope so. And prepare well in case he’s wrong and all the other experts are right.”
They had reached the end of the street, a cul de sac where the houses were still skeletal.
“Basements would have been nice, too,” said Gale. They were in the middle of Tornado Alley as well as on a fault zone, but at least everyone was conscious of that threat.
“The ones who want can build storm cellars — it’s allowed in the CCRs.”
Gale could predict many would actually do that — only one or two in the whole subdivision. But he’d save tornado issues for another day. He wanted to present earthquake-proofing ideas today.