Life Support

by Candace Calvert

  “Wait, Emma . . . hey.” Eli slid from his chair to his knees in front of her, his heart stalling at her pain. He gently pulled her hands away so he could search her sweet face. “I don’t understand what you’re saying, honey. No one’s doing anything bad to Drew. Where did you get that idea?” He waited. Saw doubt in her eyes. “Emma, tell me.”

  “Yonner,” she whispered. “He said some people . . . might think it’s better for Uncle Drew to die than to be like he is.” Her chin quivered, causing her teeth to chatter together.

  Eli’s stomach lurched.

  “Yonner was so mad, Daddy. He didn’t know I was listening, but I heard him telling Grams that . . . someone . . . might think it was okay to put a pillow over Uncle Drew’s face and smother him.”

  No . . .

  “Emma.” Eli grasped her shoulders, blood pounding in his temples. “Who? Who was that ‘someone’ your grandfather said might want to hurt Drew?”

  “I didn’t believe it . . .” She choked on a sob. “I don’t, but—”

  “Who?”

  “Yonner said you, Daddy.”

  “SOMEONE STOLE MEDICATIONS from a patient?” Lauren kept her voice low as a registration clerk passed by the triage office.

  “Our patient—maybe one of our ER staff. Or so the nervous whispers go.” Vee grimaced. “Mrs. Humphries was here for hours. Apparently she arrived with a grocery bag filled to the top with old meds. Hers, her late husband’s, everything they could find. From laxatives to foot cream to hair ball tablets to—”

  “Hair ball?”

  “Her cat’s prescription.” Vee frowned. “And there were narcotics, too. Pain medication and some muscle relaxers, I guess. There’s the real problem. They were missing from the bag. The reason for Gayle’s current twitchiness.”

  “I’m not sure even something like this could explain our manager lately. I’m concerned frankly.”

  Vee pulled a braid between her fingers. “You mean how thin she looks? How kind of jumpy she’s been?”

  “Exactly. And short-tempered the last couple of weeks.” Lauren wondered if her last point reflected Jess’s complaints more than her own observations. No. It might have contributed, but Gayle was definitely not Gayle these days. “It’s not like her.”

  “Agreed.” There was empathy in Vee’s expression. “I can only imagine how hard it would be to have a husband injured and hurting. To have a two-paycheck family shrink to one. She has to be under a lot of pressure. Maybe we should try to find a day we can take her out to lunch or . . . treat her to a pedicure. I’ll bet she’d love that place in Montrose. Something to help her unwind.”

  “Good idea.” Lauren couldn’t help but think of Jess’s distress this morning, her remark about security being on a witch hunt. She’d said she wasn’t sure about the reason. “What day was that patient here in the ER?”

  “Sunday. The day of our Mardi Gras party. So you weren’t here. And neither was I.” Vee shook her head. “Once the word got around about those missing drugs, all the staff started doing head counts.”

  Lauren tensed. Jess had been here that evening. “But can security be certain the medicines went missing from the ER?”

  “A pharmacy tech came down to pick up the outdated medicines for disposal, and the narcotics weren’t there. Someone said the hair ball tablets were gone too.”

  Lauren tried to smile but found it impossible as she recalled her sister’s words: “And we all know who her favorite target is.” But Jess was wrong about Gayle. Stressed or not, the nurse manager didn’t have it in for her.

  “When you said that about ‘head counts’ . . . you haven’t heard anything official, have you?” Lauren ventured. “I mean, is management trying to trace all the staff who came into contact with Mrs. . . . uh . . . ?”

  “Humphries. I don’t know for sure about head counts, but Gayle and the director were looking over the staff schedules this morning. One of the other techs said he overheard some talk. He said he’d bet good money there’s going to be a random drug test tomorrow—maybe even today.”

  “Today? You mean our ER staff?”

  “I have no idea,” Vee assured her. “I only know my tech friend shouldn’t be so reckless with his money since there’s no way he could know for sure. They don’t exactly preannounce those things.” She tossed Lauren a teasing smile. “But I did tell him he should go easy on hair ball tablets just in case.”

  Lauren faked a smile—successfully this time. At this rate she could go pro soon. She told herself there was no reason to worry. Even though . . . Jess is working today. And tomorrow.

  - + -

  “Despite our differences . . . ,” Eli started, stealing a glance at his mother. He’d asked that she be spared this uncomfortable exchange. No surprise, His Honor ruled otherwise. “I’m hoping you’ll understand my concern . . . sir.”

  Julien Landry nodded very slightly—a move, he’d once explained to Eli, that was calculated to show he was listening yet didn’t necessarily agree. Important for a judge.

  Eli reminded himself to keep his temper in check. To be respectful. Regardless. He took a slow breath, inhaling the room’s familiar scents: leather, wood polish, tobacco . . . and gun oil. Reaching for his coffee cup, he noticed the small sugared cookie his mother had tucked on the saucer beside it. A Pepperidge Farm gingerbread man. Emma’s favorite. It seemed ridiculously innocent in this room. “It involves Emma,” he continued. “I know how much you love her. And how important she is to both of you.”

  “Of course she is. Your point, Elijah? Unless we’re to infer that you intend to hold our grandchild hostage. More than you already are.”

  “Julien, darling . . . don’t, please.”

  “It’s all right, Mom.”

  It wasn’t. But certainly something Eli expected. His father always went on the offense; even his image in this room conveyed that. The leather club chair, taller by far than the two Eli and his mother occupied. The way the illumination from the gun cases settled on his silver-streaked, inky head of hair and his still-muscular shoulders. But it was the wood-paneled wall behind him that spoke the loudest, said this was a man who commanded respect. Photo after photo, artfully framed and spotlighted, of Julien Landry with a staggering array of VIPs. In his life, Eli had seen countless jaws drop over the framed photographs of George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Justice Scalia, the Reverend Billy Graham, astronaut Neil Armstrong, Dallas Cowboys’ Jerry Jones and Troy Aikman . . . right on to Willie Nelson and George Strait.

  Connected was Julien Landry’s middle name. Except when it came to Eli.

  “I’ll rephrase my question.” His father reached for his coffee. There was no cookie on his saucer. A small crack in his Wall of Fame. “Why are you here?”

  “Emma overheard you talking with Mom,” Eli explained, his gaze still lingering on the massive painting in the center of all those vanity photos: a revered Texas artist’s rendering of his grinning father, Drew hoisted high on his shoulders. With Anita Landry half a pace behind, holding her younger son’s hand. A family portrait inspired by a photo taken on a South Padre Island beach. A warm, happy scene snapped by a senator’s wife . . . less than a mile from where the hull of that skiff caved Andrew Landry’s head in. And changed their lives forever.

  Eli reminded himself to stick to the facts. Emotion would be a failure here. It always was. “She’s upset, sir. Emma heard you say that I want to harm her uncle.”

  His mother paled.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” the judge countered, setting his cup down.

  “I mean . . .” Eli fought to stay calm despite a heartbreaking image of his daughter’s eyes. “She’s hiding pillows at the care home. Because she’s afraid I might hold one of them over my brother’s face. To smother him in some kind of delusional mercy killing.”

  “Oh no. Jesus, please . . . ,” Eli’s mother prayed, closing her eyes.

  His father shifted in his chair. “Emma must have misunder—”

  “Y
ou said that!” Eli spit out, despite all his good intentions. Protecting his child was the only thing that mattered now. “You were angry, and blasting away at me was all you cared about. Emma was simply . . . collateral damage.” He held his father’s gaze, sickened by a sudden memory of that shotgun racking in his parents’ driveway. The only thing worse was the anguished look on his mother’s face right now. Eli’s anger fizzled; her sadness was like spit-dampened fingers on a candle flame. “You’re hurting my daughter.”

  The grandfather clock ticked, underscoring a long silence. And then his father cleared his throat.

  “I’m sorry.” The judge’s posture slumped very slightly, and a look of genuine remorse came into his dark eyes. “And you’re right. Despite our differences, I do understand your concern. That shouldn’t have happened.”

  His father’s phrasing of the apology wasn’t lost on Eli: it “shouldn’t have happened.” Not that he was wrong to say it. Still, Anita Landry’s grateful expression said it was an answer to prayer. Eli would let it go.

  “I believe you mean that, sir. Thank you.”

  “Good. You bring Emma by, then.” His father’s shoulders squared again. “And I’ll explain—”

  “No,” Eli interrupted quickly. “I mean, that’s not necessary. I got her calmed down; she’s okay now.” He glanced at his watch. “I need to get to the hospital.”

  In minutes Eli was on his way back down the rain-drenched driveway. Carrying the Pepperidge Farm package his mother insisted he take for Emma. And still disturbed by his father’s addition to that apology—his instruction to bring Emma here so he could explain. Even now, Eli’s gut reacted to the idea in the same way it had to that shotgun blast in this very driveway. It made him physically sick.

  The sky rumbled and he glanced up at the dark, foreboding clouds. The air was warm and oppressively muggy, too many signs that a big storm was coming. He was glad Emma and Shrek had been invited to the Donnellys’ for another sleepover, that he’d checked on Drew before the rain caused road detours. And he was especially grateful no weather glitch had stopped him from handling this, here. With his father. Eli had done what he had to do. Now he could go on to work. Lauren would be there. A reason to start feeling good about today.

  The first big splashes of rain caught him before he could get the car door open. Then, when he reached to get the seat belt out of the way, the sack of cookies escaped his grip and dropped into a puddle. Lightning split the sky as he retrieved it. Thunder followed within a heartbeat.

  Just as Eli slipped the key into the ignition, it finally came to him—the reason his father’s apologetic offer to “explain” hit him on such a visceral level. It had nothing to do with his lifelong frustration over the judge’s need to control. Or his father’s probably alcohol-induced rant about Eli’s intentions toward his brother. Or even that Emma had been an innocent casualty in that shameful moment.

  The truth was much harder to deal with than his father’s venomous lie. Eli had never told Emma how he felt about Drew’s advance directive—how strongly opposed he was to seeing her uncle in the pain and helplessness they’d witnessed last Christmas. He’d never told her that the very thought of it hurt like a physical wound. How could he burden Emma with any of that? His sweet, faith-filled child, who was certain that rainbows were painted by angels, who sang about sunny tomorrows . . . and who couldn’t understand why her best friend’s dog had to be euthanized.

  How would Eli even begin to explain?

  - + -

  “The weather makes it worse.” The woman pressed her fingertips to her cheekbone, nearly endangering an eye with her jeweled acrylic nails. She nodded at Lauren. “I always tell my Herbie, ‘Who needs all those storm maps on TV? I’ve got a fail-safe barometer in my sinuses.’” Her fingers straddled her nose, tapping both cheeks as if she were testing a melon. “Glorietta’s headed to Houston. Says so right here in my face. Mark my words, darlin’. Better be prepared.”

  “‘Get a kit. Make a plan. Be informed,’” Lauren quoted. Then, for some reason, she thought of Jess’s rebuke this morning. “I’m not a roof leak.”

  “I’ll be examined when the clinic opens?” The woman pulled a handful of tissues from the box on the triage desk, reached for her purse. “By the urgent care doctor?”

  “You’ll be examined by a PA-C,” Lauren clarified. “A certified—”

  “Physician assistant. Oh, I know what that is, dear. Herbie and I prefer them to MDs, to tell you the truth. The PAs and nurse practitioners seem to take more time and explain things better. Anyway, that’s our opinion.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way.” Lauren glanced at the clock. “The urgent care will open in a few minutes. And the PA you’ll be seeing today is actually the man in charge of that department. His name is Eli Landry.” Her heartbeat kicked up a notch, as finely tuned as this woman’s sinuses. “He’s experienced, very skilled, and—”

  “Thank you.”

  Eli leaned in the doorway, his stethoscope settled over the shoulders of his white coat.

  “Oh, hello.” Lauren made a hasty introduction, hoping neither of them noticed the telltale color in her face. “Mrs. Barrow, PA Landry . . .”

  “Nice to meet you,” he offered, nodding politely at his patient. Then his gaze connected with Lauren’s, the dark eyes warm. “Thanks again; I’ll do my best to live up to your expectations.”

  “I’m sure of that.”

  Eli’s parting smile was professional and courteous. With the smallest hint of pirate.

  “DARCEE GRAFTON’S AWAKE.” Lauren hunched over the triage desk, keeping her voice low as she spoke into the phone. But this wasn’t a privacy violation; the media would be reporting it soon enough. “I knew you’d want to know.”

  “That depends on what ‘awake’ means.” Jess’s voice sounded far too sleepy for someone due at work in less than an hour. “If it means her brain’s mangled like Eli’s brother’s, then I don’t want to know.”

  Was Jess’s voice just sleepy . . . or slurred? “I haven’t been to the ICU. I ran into Darcee’s mother. In the chapel.” Lauren expected her sister’s immediate sigh. “She told me that her daughter regained consciousness sometime during the night. Recognized her and asked about the baby.” Her throat tightened, remembering. The mother had been on her knees in the chapel, grateful tears running down her cheeks. “It sounds very hopeful. Enough that they’re going ahead with plans to surgically repair her leg fractures.”

  “Right. Gotta be able to walk to the roof again.” Jess’s laugh was closer to a groan. “Kidding. But hey . . .” Her voice sounded more plaintive. “Did the mother say anything about that?”

  “About what?” Lauren wished she hadn’t bothered to call. This conversation was as unsettling as today’s weather.

  “I meant, did Darcee say if the wind knocked her off that roof or if—?”

  “No,” Lauren interrupted. “Look, I can’t really talk now. I thought you might want to know she’s conscious. Since you’d seemed concerned.” Enough to leave your desk and wander upstairs without telling anyone . . . to go back there on your day off . . .

  “Okay. No problem.” Jess yawned. “Go. Do what you gotta do.”

  “You’re still coming in to work, right?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Because there might be a drug test. Lauren was nearly overwhelmed by an urge to say it aloud.

  “I don’t know . . . You sound tired.”

  Another grim laugh. “I dare you to sleep with the Tupperware water torture in your room. But I’ll be there. Can’t give crazy Gayle another reason to draw a bull’s-eye on my behind or . . .” Jess hesitated. “Is something else going on I should know about? Besides our redheaded Lazarus?”

  “No . . . not really.”

  “Good. See you later.”

  Lauren said good-bye, disconnected. Then sat there, sickened by the implications of her urge to tell Jess about the rumored drug test. Hospital gossip, completely unfounded.
No good could come from helping to spread it. So why had she been tempted to do exactly that? Because she suddenly agreed with Jessica that Gayle Garner would unjustly accuse her? Or . . .

  Because I think it’s possible my sister stole those drugs?

  - + -

  “I’d heard she regained consciousness,” Eli told Marsha Grafton as they stepped aside to let the ICU nurse do her assessment. “And I wanted to come and see for myself.” He glanced back at the young woman. She was still bruised and swollen and encumbered by monitoring equipment, but her eyes were open and she was speaking. Haltingly, with a voice hoarse from the recently removed endotracheal tube, but intelligible and coherent. Maybe it wasn’t so much that Eli wanted to see it as he needed to. After Drew.

  “The neurosurgeon said it’s because the medications helped the swelling to go down.” Mrs. Grafton’s eyes shone over the top of her granddaughter’s hair—the same auburn shade as her own. “And because of the power of prayer. Did you know that she prayed with me? Darcee’s neurosurgeon—she prayed with me right there in the waiting room, minutes before they wheeled my daughter into surgery. I never expected that. I’m so grateful. For all of you. For everything.”

  Eli swallowed, turning his head to watch as the nurse inspected her patient’s surgical dressing, then moistened Darcee’s lips with a swab. How many prayers had his mother sent heavenward for Drew in these past decades? Didn’t that count? Or was it Eli’s doubts about God that caused things to go so sour for his brother—for their whole family—this past year? Maybe God simply picked and chose randomly, and the Landrys just plain lost out.

  “I know how hard it is,” Eli heard himself say. “My older brother suffered a traumatic brain injury.”

  “Oh, my.” Marsha’s brows pinched. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Recently?”