“Yes, thank the Lord,” Cindy replied. “We have an old root cellar from back in the day. I managed to talk to my husband for a minute before cell service went out. He said there’s a lot of damage up there.”
Cindy lived on the northern edge of Monroe. “They’re not letting you go home?”
She smiled. “Somebody’s got to stay down here, and besides, I was already here. None of the others were coming in until later for some kind of committee meeting. I would assume that most of them are still home, unable to get to the hospital until the roads are cleared. To tell you the truth, I feel safer down here in the basement than anywhere else. Have you seen it out there?”
Rachel nodded. “I was just getting ready to go a fundraiser for the firefighter that died, but the tornado hit before I left my complex. We—I ran down to the laundry room in the basement of one of the neighboring buildings. I’ve never been through anything like this . . .” The roar of the land, the terror once again swept over her, and she shuddered. “I live on the south side of town, though. We had a lot of downed trees and power lines, lots of roofing shingles ripped off, broken windows, flying debris . . .”
Cindy nodded. “I remember the last big one that came through here. Nearly flattened entire parts of the town.”
“Your house is okay?”
She offered a shrug. “Stanley didn’t say, which means we probably sustained some serious damage.”
Rachel said nothing but shook her head in commiseration. How many people had lost their homes? How many more were uninhabitable? The thought brought her mind back to Jeremy, venturing into homes where gas lines were broken, traveling where power lines were down, fire dangers and possible explosions no matter which way he went.
Cindy’s voice broke through her thoughts before Rachel could let her anxiety run away. “What can I do for you, Rachel?”
“Oh, I have some records Radiology asked if I could bring down. They’re swamped up there.” Cindy reached for the records. Rachel handed them over and then gestured to another computer, ready to spout another lie. “I was also wondering if I could access a couple of my patient’s records and print out some information down here. The computers up in physio aren’t working.”
Cindy nodded. “Sure. You can log in with your name and password down here.”
“Okay, thanks,” Rachel said, then moved to an empty desk, sat down and tapped the keyboard, and found herself staring at the log-in page. She typed in her username and password and then found herself staring at a page listing the specific reports available for access on the hospital’s medical records’ outdated software. She swallowed, hands hovering over the keyboard. What she was doing was wrong, and she knew it. But now it wasn’t mere curiosity. Brain swelling. She swore that wasn’t what the doctor had told Louise, but why wasn’t it mentioned in any of the reports?
Taking a deep breath, she tapped rapidly on the keys. She passed the point of no return. If someone questioned her, if someone bothered to check and learned that she had accessed a medical record that she had no right to access, she could lose her job and be barred from practicing forever.
Rachel sent the pages she needed to print, then quickly logged off, thanked Cindy, and left the Medical Records Department. She moved toward the elevator but slowed her steps before turning in the other direction. She didn’t want to run the risk of bumping into Dr. Moeller again, and the stairs would be a safer option.
She quickly walked down the short hallway to the heavy double doors, then took the stairs up to the main floor. To the left was the Emergency Room and its trauma bays, a mass of patients, nursing staff, and white-coated doctors bustling, trying to get some sort of triage going. Rachel folded the pages she’d printed out and stuffed them into the left leg pocket of her scrub pants. In the right-side pocket, she carried a plastic pouch that contained bandage scissors, two pens, a Sharpie, a notepad, a small roll of medical tape, a handful of packaged alcohol wipes, and a penlight. She didn’t like to wear her stethoscope draped over her neck, but instead threaded it through one of the loops of her scrub pants. She waded into the chaos and found the doctor in charge of the ER.
“Where do you want me?” she asked. While she didn’t specialize in emergency medicine, she could fill a number of positions and would go where they needed her. She could do nothing for Brian or Louise right now, and needed to keep herself busy, hoping and praying that the cop and David Kincaid would be all right.
She was directed into the mass of people in the Emergency Department’s waiting room, where she was kept busy for the next hour, calming patients and family members, helping staff assess injuries, taking pulses, assessing severity of injuries, and taking blood pressures, whatever she needed to do. She was called into one of the trauma bays, where staff tried to resuscitate an elderly man who’d been brought in moments ago by his elderly wife and son. Both of them stood just outside the curtained area, eyes wide with fear and panic before a pink-shirted volunteer whisked them away toward the waiting room.
Rachel busily snipped the man’s shirt away from his chest and then took a step back, prepared to do the same with his trousers when she bumped into Dr. Moeller, who scowled down at her. So, it was going to be like that, was it?
“What are you doing in the ER, Ms. Sorensen?” he asked. “You have no business in the ER.”
Was that disdain she heard in his tone? His voice was cool, detached, and was that disdain she heard in his tone? Her hackles rose, though she responded politely. “Per the hospital’s disaster policy, it’s all hands-on deck, and we’re stretched thin. I’ve been asked to fill in where needed.”
“Well, you’re not needed here anymore.” He gestured over her shoulder with his thumb. “Go bother someone else.”
The nurse standing next to her glanced at her, raised an eyebrow, and then rolled her eyes. Apparently, Dr. Moeller was an ass. He might be a brilliant neurosurgeon, but he definitely lacked social skills. No wonder there. She had met more doctors than she cared to admit that acted just like him, as if each one of them was a god, like they were better than everyone else and they were the axis around which a hospital rotated. Not all of them, but plenty.
With a heavy sigh, she left the trauma bay and made her way through the Emergency Room department and toward the elevators. She would go up to the ICU, find out about the cop and about David. Surely, they would have an update by now.
10
Rachel
Two hours later, Rachel finally managed to find a moment to herself. Her feet ached like a son of a bitch. Her mind spun. Her back burned with strain after helping in Radiology, lifting patients into the MRI, onto the X-ray table or into scanners from wheelchairs, gurneys, or whatever. She headed into the stairwell and sighed with relief at the peace and quiet in the chamber.
Would this day never end? The past few hours had been busy, her ears ringing, and not just with the comments of patients and families. Everyone had their own horror story of the tornado ripping through their home, across their fields, over their barns . . . then crying, demanding answers about the status of loved ones, begging for help. Over it all, the banging of hammers nailing huge pieces of plywood over broken windows was nearly deafening. Add in electricians with their battery-operated power tools working on damaged electrical lines and plumbers working on a water pipe that had burst in the ceiling behind the nurse’s station, and Rachel’s eardrums felt ready to burst.
She pulled her cell phone from her pocket, pleasantly surprised to find that she had a signal. She immediately called Jeremy, equally surprised when he answered.
“Rachel, how are you doing?” he asked before she could say a word.
She smiled. “A whole lot better now, how are you?”
“Tired. It’s crazy out here.”
“I only have a short break, but wanted to let you know that I’ve checked in on the injured cop. His name’s Michael, Michael Bascom. You know him?”
“No,” Jeremy said. “How’s he doing?”
�
��He’s in the burn unit with second and third-degree burns over forty percent of his body. Doctor Poel is overseeing his case. He’s hanging on, but we’ll know more later.”
“What about David?”
The EMT. “Femur and shoulder fractures, but he’ll make it. At first, they were worried because he didn’t wake up, but he’s stable now. He’s in a semi-private room, but they’re keeping him under close observation. Looks like I’ll have a pretty full schedule for awhile, with all the fractures I’ve seen today.”
“I can imagine.” Jeremy paused. “Your side of town didn’t get hit too bad, but the northern edge is heavily damaged. It would probably be best if you could spend the night at the hospital, unless you want to hang out there until I can come get you in the truck. The DOT is doing their best to clean crap off the streets, but there’s still a lot of power lines down, small gas fires burning, and debris all over the place. It’s a bitch getting through all this mess to a scene.”
“Yeah, I can imagine.” She wanted to see him. Now. Rachel sighed. “Well, I better get back. We’re shorthanded, a lot of staff unable to get here, which I understand. You stay safe out there, Jeremy.”
“You too.”
The call disconnected.
She sighed again, trying to ignore her tired, scratchy eyes, aching back, and throbbing feet. There was no rest for the wicked, as they said. She’d go check in on David again, then the cop, and then head back down to the Emergency Department, or maybe she’d avoid it completely and head up to Radiology or ICU to see if she could help there. She was starting to seriously dislike Dr. Moeller and wanted to avoid him as much as possible. Out of sight, out of mind. Maybe he would forget what he’d seen her doing. Then again, maybe not.
She quickly made her way up the staircase and emerged on the second floor, where patients with moderate to severe injuries that didn’t require ICU or critical care had been sent. Rachel made her way to the nurse’s station, asked for David’s room, and was directed wordlessly with a pointed finger to the last door at the end of the hallway. She walked quickly and silently down the hall, the soles of her tennis shoes barely squeaking on the linoleum floor.
She knocked softly and then pushed open the door, poking her head inside, ready with a cheery smile in the event David was awake. If he was sleeping, she would go. No need to wake him. She frowned with surprise when she saw David sleeping in his bed, a white-coated doctor hovering over him. The doctor turned, and Rachel gasped in surprise.
“Dr. Moeller, what are you doing here?”
The bland expression he wore now bothered her more than his frown. “I’m his admitting physician,” he said calmly. “What are you doing here?” Before she could answer, he pointed upstairs. “Third floor needs a nurse to pass meds. Can you do that?”
“Of course,” she said, nodding. She was surprised, but wasn’t concerned to find Dr. Moeller in David’s room. He was his primary physician, at least until things settled down, his condition was fully stabilized, and he was passed off to orthopedics. “How’s he doing?”
David was a good guy, tall and lanky, always smiling, no matter how bad things got, no matter how frantic. He had a calming influence on his patients, a good thing to have in emergencies.
“Holding his own,” Doctor Moeller said, then returned his attention to his patient, ignoring Rachel.
She nodded even though he couldn’t see her, then softly closed the door, heading back toward the stairwell at the far end of the hall. She wrapped her mind around her next task and ignored her weariness. She needed to stay sharp and focused. Med pass. Ugh. Not her favorite thing to do, especially with patients she was unfamiliar with, but even though she knew she’d be slower at it than the regular med nurse, she was confident she could get the job done, and done right. It was something to help, and it would pass the time until she could finally see Jeremy again. No matter what he said about being careful, Rachel was going to worry about him until she saw with her own eyes that he was okay.
11
Jeremy
It was close to dusk when Jeremy stepped inside the Emergency Department of Monroe Hospital, carrying a whimpering seven-year-old boy. The boy had various cuts and bruises and tearstained cheeks, his little hands grasping at Jeremy’s collar. He murmured soothing sounds to the boy as he called out for help, followed by the boy’s parents, surprisingly calm, a few steps behind.
He looked around for some place where he could lay the boy, but the ER department still looked crazy busy. Patients lay on gurneys waiting in the hallways, most of the seats in the waiting room filled, some with patients already bandaged though not severely injured, perhaps waiting for X-rays, stitches, or further workup. But then his gaze latched onto Rachel at the far side of the room, helping an elderly man fill out what was likely an admission form on a clipboard. She looked pale and exhausted, several strands of hair escaping from the braid she usually wore at work. She seemed to sense his presence as she looked up and saw him. Her face lit up with a beautiful smile.
Jeremy couldn’t help but grin back, gesturing with his chin toward his young patient. Rachel handed the clipboard to the old man, placed a hand on his shoulder and said something to him, then quickly stood and headed for Jeremy. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, drinking him in, checking him from top to toe and back again, likely making sure he was all right. He couldn’t blame her. He did the same with her.
“Rachel, this is Devon. Devon, this is Nurse Rachel, one of the best nurses in the whole wide world,” Jeremy said to his young patient.
The boy looked up at him, wide-eyed.“Really?”
Jeremy’s smile widened. “Really. She’ll take good care of you. I promise.”
“Okay, let’s put him over here,” Rachel said, moving toward a makeshift curtained area to the left of the waiting room, an extension of the trauma bays to deal with the overflow of patients. The curtain was a collapsible, accordion-file type piece of stiff fabric on rollers and shielded a gurney upon which Jeremy laid his young patient, his parents close behind.
“Cuts and bruises, cognition’s good, speech is clear, but he does have a nasty bump on the side of his head. Figured it be safer if he could get it looked at by the doctor,” Jeremy said.
“How old is he?”
“He’s seven,” his mother said, holding her little boy’s hand in one hand, brushing hair back from her dirt-smudged face with the other. “We were down in the basement, but . . .” Her voice trembled. “The house just collapsed around us. Part of the flooring fell down into the basement. We were all hit by debris, but nothing terribly heavy. Devon was knocked down and hit his head on the cement floor.”
“Okay, we’ll get him into X-ray and I’ll order an MRI, just to be on the safe side.” Rachel looked down at Devon. “Devon, do you know where you are?”
“At the hospital,” he said, as if she were silly for not knowing herself.
She smiled. “Do you know what day it is?”
“It’s Friday! No school tomorrow!”
Rachel smiled, catching Jeremy’s eye before turning back to the parents. “I’ll bump him to the head of the line. Barring non-serious and emergent situations, we’ve been taking the youngest and oldest up to Radiology first.”
Jeremy wanted to talk to her, wanted to wrap her in his arms, hold her, especially after the horrible day they’d just experienced. His shoulder ached, but not any worse than his heart after seeing so much destruction. Half the northern edge of Monroe was demolished. Houses splintered into toothpicks, trees down, cars flung into the air only to crash down fifty or a hundred yards further, parts or even sometimes entire houses collapsed, people trapped . . . his ears echoed with the sounds of screams, the dull cries for help, and more than once, a last dying gasp for breath.
More than anything, he wanted to lie down next to Rachel, to feel her warm, soft body against his, reaffirming that all was not lost, and that more people than not had survived the tornado . . . but now was not the time. He had to—
/> “Nancy,” Rachel gestured to a nurse rushing by. “Can we get an orderly to take Devon here up to Radiology? Possible concussion, and a looksee to verify no subdural hematomas forming?”
“Sure thing,” Nancy replied, raising her hand and gesturing toward an orderly, who held up a finger. The nurse turned back to Rachel.
“We’ll need some paperwork on him,” she said.
Rachel nodded and quickly stepped to the Emergency Room reception desk, grabbed yet another clipboard, and handed it to Devon’s mother. “I’m sorry, but we’ll need basic information. You can fill it out as you ride up to Radiology and then give it to one of the nurses up there. We’ll deal with the admission and insurance paperwork later.”
As soon as Devon was wheeled off, Rachel grabbed Jeremy’s hand and tugged him toward the doors hiding the stairwell. She pushed the door open and as it closed on its own, she threw her arms around him, burying her head in his chest before she lifted her face to his. He knew what she wanted and needed. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, lowered his head, and touched his lips to hers. So soft and warm, she opened her mouth to his and they played tag with their tongues for several seconds. He wanted more, so much more, but this would have to do for now. She pressed her body close to his, so close you couldn’t slide a hand between them, hugging him tight. Almost in desperation. He understood. Tragedy, adrenaline, fear, often prompted people to seek human contact and comfort.
“It’s going to be all right,” he murmured.
She suddenly broke off the kiss and leaned back with a frown. “You’re favoring your shoulder. Let me take a look.”
Before he could protest, she stepped out of his embrace, gently grasped his elbow and wrist, and put him through a set of range of motions. “If you push it, you’re going to undo all that hard work,” she warned.
He nodded, keeping us features bland, forcing himself to prevent a wince of pain. It wasn’t as bad as when he first injured it by a long shot, but he knew he was pushing it. She glanced up at him, frowning. “If you don’t watch it, I’m going to rescind your clearance.”
Fuel the Fire (Southern Heat Book 8) Page 8