Fire Heart (Broken Bottle Series Book 2)

by Taeuffer, Pamela

  I wondered if they were acknowledged or touched, would that bring them back to life?

  How anyone could stand this?

  I ran through the halls trying to find a familiar face.

  They all looked the same—the rooms, the doors, and the nurses’ station . . . but something . . . something wasn't right. I stopped. A fleeting thought crossed through my mind during my confusion—I realized it was the patients that made the place come alive. I was frightened beyond words, but my mind spun with curiosity.

  In some ways, they were just like the patients who were two floors down—lonely, confused, some sad and all of them counting down the days until they could go home—if they could go home.

  But two floors down, the patients didn’t try to touch me.

  Two floors down, they stared at the ground, looked away, or smiled gently; their eyes were focused, their words understandable.

  “Who are you looking for?” A male nurse grabbed me and turned me around.

  I gasped.

  He was the biggest man I’d ever seen.

  I thought he must be a giant.

  He wore green pants and a matching shirt and looked like a doctor. Bunched on a clip, keys jingled from his belt. His expression was stern. When he grabbed me, the moving skeletons backed off. I wondered if they feared this giant, too.

  “Grandma Young.” My lips quivered. The words came out broken and laced with hidden tears that were ready to flow.

  He held my hand and brought me behind the desk at the nurses’ station, so I would be out of the hallway and out of the nightmare.

  Was this scary-looking man actually a gentle giant?

  As he looked at the computer, the hollow eyes in the hallway continued to stare.

  “Maureen Young?” He lifted his head to look at me.

  “Yes.” I was shaken. “That’s my grandma.”

  “How did you get up here?” His voice was stern and his eyes were focused.

  “That elevator,” I pointed.

  “Daniel!” He shouted to a man who’d come from a door behind the desk. “The elevator isn’t stopping at four. Call it in, will you?”

  The other man grumbled and then picked up the phone.

  “Come on. I’ll take you back down to floor three.” The enormous man took my hand. I followed him into the elevator. We rode down silently. “Here we are.” The ding announced we had arrived and the doors opened again. He held them so I could step out, but remained inside; ready to return to his duties. “Flora, this girl is lost. She's looking for Maureen Young’s room and she's had quite a scare up on five. Can you escort her?”

  “Sure can," she nodded. "Just give me a minute.”

  “I know where to go now, sir.” I put on my best smile. Inside, I was anything but calm.

  “What’s your name?” He knelt down and spoke to me at eye level.

  “Nicky Young. What’s yours?”

  “Edward King. I’m a nurse here.” He smiled kindly and it seemed my body warmed with golden colors. “You know, the patients you saw didn’t run into you on purpose or grab at you to hurt you. Can you try and remember them as people just like you and me? They need a different kind of help, that's all. Can you?”

  “I’ll try,” I folded my hands. “That was scary.”

  “I know.” His voice softened. “They don’t understand how you see them. They only saw a sweet little girl and they wished she could be their granddaughter.”

  "Thank you." I smiled and waved goodbye as he disappeared in the elevator, ascending back into the madness of St. Agnes.

  Chapter 2

  On the Case

  Exiting the coffee shop, breathing deeply, I walked in a rhythmic pace and kept my eyes focused on Municipality’s corporate offices. Built in the early 1900s, the hub of my father's work was located in one of the oldest brick buildings in San Francisco. Almost condemned twelve years earlier, a decision was made by the city council to save its one-hundred-year-plus history.

  Its three-stories was graced with several dramatic archways and inside, large planks of hardwood creaked as I walked across the floor. It reminded me of a great old hardware store—the kind that sells old copper colanders for cooking and an assortment of nails in big, silver buckets.

  Antique clocks hung on the walls. Their chimes were slightly off in timing the hour. A symphony of bells rang in nine o' clock in the large reception area for several minutes. Massive oak desks with roll-up tops and heavy wooden chairs were placed intermittently throughout the office.

  Surrounding the entire room and lining the upper walls were historic photos of old streetcars and early Market Street when horses were used to pull the trollies.

  I could feel the many layers of its masculine history. It was as if I was surrounded by the whispers and stories from the era of my great grandparents and those photos and antiques had voices.

  The man at reception had just called for me to follow him.

  I was completely entranced as I walked down a hallway decorated with dark wood walls and doors that had smoky glass windows. Stenciled on them were the names of each occupant.

  Mr. Freeman’s office was one of the farthest from the reception area. The receptionist knocked on his door and then opened it.

  “Come in,” the man behind the smoky glass shouted. The door opened. "Thank you, Max. I'll take it from here."

  I entered the room of the person who apparently held my father’s job, and possibly my future, in his hands.

  The door closed behind me.

  “Ms. Young?” He stood up. “Sid Freeman. What can I do for you?” His face was youthful. I guessed he was somewhere in his early thirties. Possessing average height and a gorgeous head of black hair, his striking brown eyes warmed as I shook his hand.

  “Thank you for seeing me. I know you’re busy and I’m sorry about the short notice. I understand you’re Robert Young’s supervisor?”

  “Please, sit down.” He nodded and then gestured to the two chairs in front of his desk. “Technically, I’m in charge of his superior, but indirectly, the administrative personnel as well.”

  “And you’re a friend of Ryan Tilton’s?” I blurted.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m checking on something that might seem a little bizarre to you.” I pulled out my tablet of notes.

  “You want to know if Ryan can help your father,” he offered confidently.

  “Yes. I was told he's on ‘Probation Level 3.’ Could he lose his job if he gets another write-up? What exactly does that kind of probation mean?"

  “Because of privacy issues, I can’t reveal all that you probably want to know, but since you’re Robert’s daughter and a friend of Ryan’s, I’ll tell you as much as I can."

  I should hope so. After all, you must have told Ryan about it.

  "First, let me assure you, Ms. Young, no one, including me, wants to terminate your father or hurt your family. On the contrary, I’d like nothing better than to help him. However I can’t sit by while he endangers others.”

  “How is he a danger to others?”

  “Do you know anything about what he’s done?” Mr. Freeman reached for his coffee cup. "Would you like some?"

  "No thank you. No, to answer your other question." Here we go. What have you done now, Dad?

  “He’s come to work drunk, been caught drinking and sleeping on the job, wrote incorrect orders because of it and found non-responsive in his office.”

  “Non-responsive?” I momentarily held my breath.

  “Passed out.” His eyes were focused. “Incapacitated because he’s drunk—really drunk—and can’t move because he’s in an alcoholic’s blackout.”

  My father let himself sink to this level? He's given up?

  “Ms. Young, part of his job involves working with electricity, which is dangerous all by itself. He’s also responsible for making split-second decisions with the men and women who work with that danger. More than twenty mechanics, over one hundred streetcars and buses and so
me responsibility for the drivers who check into his barn—that's the kind of authority he's charged with.

  “If there’s an incident such as a fight, accident, or mechanical emergency, even the occasional court appearance, he has to be able to speak with police and fire personnel, the press, attorneys, and the public. You can see the difficulty facing us. What do I do when his coworkers come to me and lodge a complaint against him? How many times do I send the sub-foreman to the scene because your father is passed out and not reprimand him? Even worse, how do I explain we were aware of his problem?”

  I knew my father’s back was against the wall.

  He’d put himself there and had no one to blame but himself.

  How many times had I heard, I'm not hurting anyone but myself when I drink? Not one of us was untouched by his alcoholism. His addiction affected our entire family.

  “We’re incredibly liable if we do nothing,” he admitted.

  “You can’t ignore it, sir, I know that. But what about his record of service before, you know . . .” I cleared my throat. “I’m sure it’s in his file, but did you know he was threatened with a gun a few years ago? You must understand how that could shake anyone.”

  I’m using the same excuses my mother did. But this is different, isn’t it? Am I using them now because I'm directly involved?

  Haven't you always been affected, Nicky?

  “Yes, I know about his close call." Mr. Freeman leaned back in his chair. "I’ve offered him counseling and rehabilitation. His medical plan would cover it. Your father won't accept the help. I’m running out of options.”

  “Okay, well, can you tell me if Dad's situation has anything to do with Ryan?"

  "Ryan? How so?"

  "What I mean is, no one can help or hurt my father except you and your superiors, right? And himself, of course; I didn’t mean to suggest he’s not in control of his own destiny.”

  “Ryan already called me to better understand how he can help protect your dad.”

  “I didn’t know that." He already called? But he said I needed to date him exclusively before he’d call you.

  “You understand what we’re talking about here?” He leaned forward on his desk.

  “Being terminated.”

  “It’s much more than that.” He took in a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “Robert’s eligible for retirement now. In fact, I wish he’d just give up and file for it. What another write-up means? He'd lose everything. Thirty years of service and he'd have no retirement or benefits."

  "I see." I hung my head.

  "There is good news, Ms. Young. Ryan knows the head of your father’s union, Mr. Tremmel. It's how we were introduced, in fact. Tremmel has agreed to get involved and once the process starts, your dad will be protected. Subsequently, Robert can go out on sick leave so he doesn't get into any more trouble.”

  “How soon can that happen?" I noted his comment on my yellow tablet. Please tell me tomorrow.

  "Eight to twelve weeks."

  Crap.

  "And then what?” I pressed.

  “Typically what's next is mandatory rehabilitation. That will qualify him for long-term disability while everything is sorted out. What I’m saying, and doing a damn poor job of it," he laughed confidently, "Is that if Ryan hadn’t made a call to me, I’d go through the usual procedures. Now, I’m making it a priority.”

  “I really appreciate that, Mr. Freeman. May I ask who’s above you in the chain of command?”

  “My dad, Jack Freeman.” He smiled. “Would you like to speak with him about me?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant.” I looked away, embarrassed. “I just need to be clear about everything. Well, thank you.” I stood up to leave. “I’m supposed to go to Stanford next year and if anything happened to my father’s income, it affects me, too.” I stared at the floor a moment and then back to Dad's supervisor. “I sure appreciate your time today.”

  “My pleasure, Ms. Young. Stanford, huh? You’re lucky. In fact, you’re both lucky.”

  “How so? With my father’s situation, I don’t feel that way.”

  “You’re well-spoken, intelligent, driven, and so is your boyfriend. I suspect you’re a good woman or he wouldn’t be with you. Ryan’s funny with people. Once he becomes a good friend, he’s very dedicated.”

  He told you I was his girlfriend?

  Chapter 3

  My Family's Legacy

  Next on my list to interview was Niles Woodson at San Francisco State. He introduced himself as the head of the Architecture Department and couldn't have been more different than Sid Freeman. This professor and department head was tall and thin, with salt-and-pepper hair and wore wire-rimmed glasses.

  In contrast to my father's supervisor, Niles seemed at ease, talking freely about opportunities for Jenise, and how Ryan’s recommendation would make a big difference.

  “But I don't understand why that's true. Isn't the award something my sister can achieve through her own efforts? Why does she need someone's personal reference, especially a baseball player, of all people? I mean, no disrespect, but why does his input have to do with any student here?"

  “If your sister were going to another college, Mr. Tilton’s input probably wouldn't mean anything. Water?” He stood and held a paper cup under the cooler by his office window. I shook my head. He drank it down quickly, crumpled the cup, and tossed it in the trashcan.

  “Mr. Tilton started several networking groups at the college and one of them, the one for helping veterans go back to college, has received national recognition. Because of what he's done, we are one of the go-to schools in the entire country for helping veterans. In fact, Ryan helped us design some of the orientation classes and put together the mentor groups that have been invaluable.”

  “Oh, I . . . I didn't know that. Wow, I, um . . ." Can his generosity really be so big?

  “He continually markets for the group members and holds fundraisers to help support their projects. Beyond giving his money, he gives his time. I’ve been in some of his workshops." He showed me a brochure for one of the seminars. "When he shares his stories with the students, the room falls silent. He’s—”

  “Magical!” When I interrupted, I never thought about sounding ridiculous. I spoke with the honest spontaneity I felt from my heart, certain that Ryan had magical gold dust inside him. Somehow I knew Mr. Woodson had witnessed it.

  “Yes,” he smiled. “I believe he is magical, Ms. Young. I think he's someone who comes around once in a lifetime. So, now you know why a recommendation from him means so much.”

  “I’m beginning to understand the importance of networking in a whole new way,” I admitted.

  “Makes a difference in who your contacts are sometimes,” Mr. Woodson replied. “Jenise hopes to work for City Architecture. They have an amazing intern program that opens up every four years and the current offering happens to coincide with your sister's graduation. If her project were chosen, she’d have a five-figure starting salary. Have you heard of them?”

  “I know of them. In fact, my next appointment is with their president, Mr. Blockley.”

  “Careful," his said with a playful grin.

  "What do you mean?"

  "He'll have fun teasing you when you see him," he warned.

  "Great. That's just what I need."

  "Before you go there, you should know they’re one of the biggest architectural firms in the country and the largest by far in the Bay Area. If they hired your sister and she did well, she could relocate just about anywhere and on her own terms.”

  “I understand everything much better now, Mr. Woodson. You’re very kind to have met with me.” I grabbed my backpack, and then stood up, ready to leave.

  “My pleasure. And where are you going to college? Will we have the chance to see you follow in your sister’s footsteps?”

  “I’m going to Stanford in the spring to study business marketing.”

  “Good luck with that, Ms. Young. And don't worry too muc
h about your sister. She's a smart woman and she’ll do well whether or not she receives the internship.”

  "Thank you," I shook his hand. "I completely agree." I left the campus and drove to City Architecture.

  Thoughts about Ryan and his charity work seemed to swirl around me. Are we as good of a match as it seems we are? Doesn’t he need someone older and more experienced?

  Early for my appointment with Mr. Blockley, I went into a deli for a fruit smoothie. It gave me a chance to make notes about the conversations I’d just had. I didn’t want to forget the details.

  As I wrote, my right hand wandered again to my grandmother's amethyst pin. I didn't often wear jewelry, and when I did, I couldn't help fiddling with it.

  Before Grandma Young came to stay with us, after her nightmare at St. Agnes, she lived with her sister, Ruthanne. She had called my father to come over to discuss taking his mother to live with him. As I listened to my father's aunt, even as young as I was, I considered, how do children learn about love?

  Can anyone have real intimacy when living in a home that had lost those feelings?

  The examples I had of family relationships, was watching how addiction numbed our emotions. My parents gradually withdrew from activities with friends and relatives—and later from my sister and me—unless they were forced to interact with us in some way.

  Rather than gain control over the substance and familiarity of their roles, Jenise and I became Mom and Dad's sacrifice. We sunk deeply into our family dysfunction. It had been passed from generation to generation.

  Without fully understanding why, all my life I needed to manage even the smallest details. I wondered if I'd ever be able to calm the anxiety I felt; it was so extreme.

  In many ways, I mimicked my mother's behavior choices. Staying calm—at least on the outside—prevented me from being vulnerable. I made sure to detach from my relationships so the hurt—or love—wouldn't get too close. Over the years I'd seen my mother’s angry face—and also the sadness as it washed over her, countless times.

  I knew from the way my grandmother was discarded and tucked away in St. Agnes, my parents had shut down. In spite of my grandmother's plight, she made the best of it. I suppose because she was at the mercy of others, she didn't complain, but there was something humbling about her.