Darkness Before Dawn

by Ace Collins

  “What’s the story?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” Heather replied, a huge smile belying her off-handed explanation. Pulling off her coat, checking her hair in her compact, and then storing her purse behind the counter, she finally offered, “Well, if you must know. Paul just asked me to go skiing with him this weekend.”

  “Hot mama,” Jan exclaimed as she left. Looking back over her shoulder she added, “You’ll be the talk of the hospital for the next week. Way to go, Honey.”

  An enormous grin covering her face, Heather turned toward her work. “Meg, you look really nice tonight. Are you feeling better?”

  “I tell you what,” Meg replied, sarcasm filling her tone. “I must have really looked bad before. You’re the second person to say that to me tonight. But to answer the question for hopefully the last time, yes. Except for a brief spell this morning, I’ve felt good all day.”

  Finishing their check-in count, the two prepared for the light routine promised them. As they looked over charts and readied medication, Meg told Heather of her conversation with the district attorney’s office. When she finished filling in the details, her friend offered an observation. “It sounds like they’re really going to try to get him.”

  “I think they’ll do their best,” Meg agreed. “But it’s not enough. Steve’s life is worth more than a bit of jail time and probation. You know, I hope that when I talk with the assistant district attorney on Thursday, I can convince her of that too. Maybe they can bring stiffer charges or something. I’ve been studying some cases online today and there are people who serve as much as twenty years or more for things like this. We need to go for the max!”

  “I don’t know anything about law,” Heather answered. “But I think you’re right. I agree that probation isn’t enough. But if that’s all you can get, then it’s better than nothing.”

  Turning so that her eyes met Heather’s, Meg, her tone suddenly bitter, shot back, “Just barely better than nothing. But don’t worry, Heather. I’ll let the law get its piece of Jim Thomas, and then I’ll take mine! One way or the other he will pay dearly.”

  A muffled voice, a patient calling in over the room-to-nurse’s station intercom, ended the conversation at that awkward point. “Excuse me, but could I have some ice?”

  Checking the name on the Kardex that corresponded to the caller’s room number, Heather made sure it had been approved, and then answered, “Sure, Nancy. I’ll get it in a moment.” At that instant, another page came over the main intercom system. “Heather Rodgers, you have a call on line three.”

  “Meg, would you?” Heather looked at the ice bucket.

  “I’ll take care of the ice,” Meg agreed. “You get your call. Ice is all right for her, isn’t it?”

  Nodding her head as she picked up the phone, Heather punched line three and added, “She’s in room 211.”

  Meg, now halfway down the hall, ice bucket in her hand, waved, “Got it.” She could hear Heather’s voice in the background but she didn’t note what her friend was saying. She was far too busy daydreaming about a car careening out of control over a stone wall.

  24

  HI, I HOPE IT WASN’T TOO MUCH BOTHER?”

  The cheery voice that issued that equally cheery greeting in room 211 came from a small, attractive, impish woman, who looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties. She was sitting up in her bed, an open book in her lap. An iPod Touch in a speaker box on a table next to the window played music by a female vocalist. Meg knew she’d heard the singer before but at the moment she just couldn’t place the name.

  “I’m Nancy.” A smile came with the introduction. “I don’t think I’ve met you, have I?”

  “No.” Meg’s reply, while not unfriendly, lacked the soothing warmth it would have displayed a few weeks ago. “Where do you want the ice?”

  “On the table will be fine. Let me see, your name tag says Meg, so unless you’re working incognito, I assume that’s who you are.”

  Nodding while not acknowledging the patient’s attempt at humor, Meg answered, “It is actually Megan, but no one has ever called me that, except my mother when she’s trying to make a point—which she does all too often.” After placing the ice on the table next to a water pitcher, she asked, “Would you like some ice water?”

  “That’d be nice,” Nancy replied. “Is the music too loud? I’ll turn it down if it is. I love Sandi Patti so much that there are times when I get carried away with the volume.”

  Of course! That’s the singer’s name. She and Steve caught her last summer at a concert with the youth group from church. She was a gospel singer and a good one with almost unlimited range. The kids had been impressed. Meg had even been moved enough to buy one of her CDs. Where had she put it? Oh yeah, it had been in Steve’s car. That sobering thought plunged Meg into a semitrance. There was another thing among hundreds now missing from her life. Something else she wouldn’t get back along with goodnight kisses, evenings out sitting across from each other at Dino’s, visiting antique shops, or arguing about baby names. Just like the CD, all of that was gone.

  Shaking herself back into the moment, she spun toward the patient only to realize she was being studied. Nancy’s eyes were following every move she made. And that gaze made her feel a bit uncomfortable. This woman seemed to be reading her, and at this point, Meg didn’t want her life to be an open book.

  Meg ambled toward the window and still the patient’s eyes followed. Trying to focus on anything but the small woman in the bed, she tidied up a table, restacking a few magazines then turned her attention to straightening a jacket that had been casually tossed across a chair. From behind her, Nancy cleared her voice and repeated her question.

  “The music? Is it too loud?”

  Meg turned. “No, the music’s fine. Oh, I forgot to give you your water.” She hurried to the table and retrieved the glass then moved quickly to the woman’s side. As the patient took the water, the nurse studied her carefully for the first time.

  With her perfectly applied makeup, immaculate nails, and stylish hair, Nancy really looked more like a visitor than a patient. Her attitude and the strength in her voice certainly didn’t indicate much illness either. So what was the problem? Meg made quick survey in an attempt to ascertain the nature of the patient’s illness. Nothing jumped out even to her trained eye. Outwardly, Nancy appeared very healthy. When she smiled, she glowed and her skin color looked good. There were no tubes or IVs, and there was no sign of any recent injuries. She wasn’t hooked up to any monitors either. As no obvious symptoms came into view, Meg scolded herself for not taking a look at the Kardex. That would have given her the answers she now wanted. Of course she could look at the patient’s chart; it was right in front of her, but as all she did was come in here to deliver ice that seemed unnecessary and rude.

  “Are you new to this wing?” Nancy asked after she set the glass on the night table.

  “It has been a while since I have worked over here,” Meg explained. “But I’m going to be here for the rest of the week.” She wanted to ask Nancy, “Why do you care, anyway?” but she bit her tongue.

  “Where do you normally work?” This woman seemed more than a little too nosy. But she also could be lonely, and in the past Meg had sought those patients out and tried to bring some comfort to their world. This was just a lonely person desperate to make conversation. Nancy was likely trying to hold Meg here so she wouldn’t be alone.

  “Recently on the pediatric wing,” Meg informed her questioner, a bit of the old Meg bubbling to the top. Pulling up a chair and taking a seat, she asked, “How are you doing?”

  “Feeling fine today. Thanks.” Nancy’s enthusiasm for conversation was obvious. There was warmth in her eyes and her smile came effortlessly. Her manner was not that dissimilar from what Meg’s had been up until two weeks before.

  “Wish all my patient’s felt great,” Meg replied.

  “Pediatrics must be a bright place to work,” Nancy chimed in. “All those
happy little faces. I’m a teacher, or at least I used to be one. And I miss the kids. You know, all their strange questions and unique observations. There’s nothing like a child to remind you how wonderful life is.”

  Meg marveled at the woman’s delivery. She could fire off a long string of words faster than most people could utter a single sentence. And after just a tiny breath she continued. “I would have loved to have children, but . . .” for the first time, a slight note of sadness crept into the woman’s tone. Turning her eyes away from Meg and toward the window, Nancy took a breath and continued, “But it just didn’t work out. Some things don’t. And there are always reasons.”

  As Meg studied Nancy, the patient once again turned her gaze back to the nurse, and noting the wedding ring on Meg’s left hand inquired, “Do you and your husband have any children? Maybe you have some pictures?”

  A chill ran down Meg’s back. She’d never expected anyone to ask that question. Looking away from Nancy, she got up, moved across the room, picked up a stack of old newspapers, and placed them in the trash can. Without glancing back toward her patient, she turned to the far wall and asked, “Would you like the shades raised?”

  “No, they’re fine,” came the quick response. “I’m sorry if I said something wrong. I didn’t mean to. I guess I ask too many questions.”

  Spinning toward the patient, Meg’s eyes met Nancy’s. Biting her lip, fighting back tears, she almost walked past the woman and out of the room, but something kept her there. It was like her feet were glued to the floor. For thirty seconds, the room filled with an awkward silence then, not really understanding why, Meg lashed out.

  “I don’t know why every patient thinks a nurse’s private life is her business. It’s not. I’m tired of having people prying into my life. And I’m tired of people asking me personal questions. I got your ice and unless you need something else there are a lot of other patients on this wing who are obviously a lot sicker than you are. So just let me do my job without the third degree. I’m here to be your nurse, not your friend. If you want to talk to someone, pick up the phone and use it. But bother someone else. Okay?”

  As she finished, Meg rushed out of the room, not giving Nancy an opportunity to respond.

  “Did you get the ice?” Heather asked when Meg returned to the station.

  “Yeah.”

  “Nancy is something else isn’t she?” Heather continued.

  “Yeah,” came the almost sarcastic reply.

  “It’s absolutely amazing to me”—Heather paused for a moment as she looked in the mirror and checked her hair—“that anyone who is dying of cancer can be that up—you know—that happy. But she always is. And no matter how down I am, she makes me feel better.”

  As Heather continued to rattle on about the woman, Meg turned her face toward the wall as a wave of embarrassment and guilt washed over her. How could she have been so rude to a patient, any patient, but especially one who was dying? Why didn’t she check her file? All Nancy did was ask a question. A few weeks ago that question would have been welcomed, too.

  For the rest of the evening, a war raged inside Meg. Every time she walked by room 211, she wanted to stop, go in, apologize, and explain. But another force, a more powerful, bitter one, kept her from carrying through on what she knew would have been the right thing to do. When her shift ended, she still hadn’t gone back to room 211.

  “Night,” Heather said, yawning as the two walked out into the cold night air. Then, as almost an afterthought, she said, “Oh, yeah. I don’t know why, but you know Nancy in 211?”

  Meg looked back, not speaking. She awkwardly stood, the wind blowing her hair and biting at her cheeks, as if waiting for a shoe to drop. And one did!

  “She told me to tell you she was sorry. She didn’t tell me for what, just said she needed to apologize. You know why?”

  Nodding, Meg walked away leaving Heather to wonder about the reasons behind the apology. A few moments later Meg eased herself into the Mustang, started the car, snapped the seat belt, and drove off.

  25

  CHERYL BEDNARZ WAS VASTLY DIFFERENT FROM WHAT MEG HAD EXPECTED. This third-generation Texan, who had moved to the Midwest to attend law school and stayed to ply her trade in public service, was bubbly and energetic and had all appearances of being a determined winner! Maybe having a young woman working on the case was a good thing. Perhaps Webb Jones needed a partner like this to take on the powerful Thomas family.

  Though petite, Cheryl possessed an athletic build and strength that made her seem much larger. She also possessed the brightest blue eyes Meg had ever seen. The assistant district attorney’s thick black hair swirled around her head in a style that seemed more appropriate to a beauty queen than an attorney, and her skin still hung onto a tan that should have faded months before. Beneath her long, black coat, she was dressed in a gray wool suit that fit as if it had been tailored especially for her and a silk blouse that exactly matched her eyes. Her square jaw presented a determined look, her smile came easily, her teeth were perfect, her handshake firm, her nails long, and her voice still resonated with a twang that gave away her roots.

  During the meal both women ate salads while occasionally throwing out small talk. Finally, when the waiter brought coffee for Ms. Bednarz and a Coke refill for Meg, the attorney began to advise Meg about the upcoming trial. Her words were direct, honest, to the point, and disturbing.

  “Usually, the defense will attempt to do one of two things in situations like this. One of the tactics would be to attempt to find some way to prove that one of the two vehicles involved might have been faulty. If this fails, they’ll often resort to a tactic that represents the dirtier side of my profession.” Pausing to take a short sip of coffee, Cheryl continued. “It’s too bad that you don’t like coffee, this stuff is great! Now, where was I? Oh, yes!”

  That sparkling life leaping from Cheryl’s eyes almost mesmerized Meg. The woman had the enthusiasm of a new puppy, but it also appeared, that unlike a puppy, the attorney’s energy was organized and directed.

  “Jasper Tidwell is representing the Thomas kid,” Cheryl continued. “Jasper has a great record for putting the victim on trial. One way or another he will attempt to convince the judge and the jury that your husband was at fault and that his client is not only innocent but is a full-blown saint. I’ve seen him do it before. He actually got one jury to buy that a prostitute with a ten-year string of convictions worked the streets only to support her family, not her cocaine habit. He paraded a host of witnesses through the courtroom that practically canonized the woman. You would have thought that we were trying Mother Teresa. I’m betting he’ll do the same thing here.”

  “But, Cheryl,” Meg interjected, “Steve was so perfect, you know the all-American guy. How can a lawyer possibly do anything that would imply that he was at fault and that little, rich, spoiled heathen who killed him is anything but guilty?”

  “I don’t know, and I won’t know until we get to court what he will do. But he will try something like that. He always does. But I’ll be ready.”

  “You’re trying the case?” Meg’s voice showed her surprise, almost shock. She immediately liked her, but Cheryl was just the assistant district attorney and she looked so young! Surely it would be Webb Jones who would be in charge when the trial got under way.

  “Yes, Mr. Jones gave it to me,” Cheryl explained confidently. “I hope you don’t have a problem with that.”

  “But, I mean . . .” Meg found that words were failing her.

  “You thought,” Cheryl began, “that Webb would do it himself. Well, off the record, he’s scared of the judge’s family. He’s afraid that he might lose this one, or more important, lose a political connection. So, I got it. More than that, I wanted it! I’m glad that Webb’s acting like a coward.” Letting her words sink in for a minute, Cheryl continued. “In all honesty, in certain ways I’m better than he is. Yes, he has the soap actor’s looks, perfect hair, and that deep voice, but he’s not as sma
rt as folks think. It is his administrative assistant who often thinks for him. Besides, I know how you feel. He can’t and he never will. He just doesn’t grasp how important this case is. You see, my daddy was killed by a drunk driver, and that son of a dog, as my grandmother used to say, didn’t serve a day. So, for a lot of reasons, I want this kid in the worst way.”

  Those last words, said with a piercing anger, quickly convinced Meg she had the right woman in her corner. The two were united by a common goal of revenge. Now, as she looked across the table, it was like a bright light had been turned on. United by a loved one’s deaths gave them a very special bond. Not one built on friendship or common ground, but one constructed on a need to see vengeance carried all the way through. With that thought, a warm surge filled Meg’s heart.

  After finishing the last of her coffee, Cheryl set her cup down and, while staring intently into it, spoke. “Meg, do you know how many people are killed by drunks each and every year?”

  Watching as the attorney picked up a package of crackers from the center of the table with her left hand and then placed it deep in the palm of her right hand, Meg just shook her head.

  “Last year,” Cheryl began,” alcohol mixed with driving killed over 12,000 men, women, and children.”

  Meg watched as Cheryl’s fist closed, crushing the crackers into tiny little crumbs. Dropping the now-wasted package into her empty salad bowl, she continued. “You’d think that we’d do something wouldn’t you? I mean, can you imagine what the government and the FAA would do if 12,000 people were killed in plane crashes each year? The whole air industry would be shut down. But you see, plane crashes are spectacular events that kill a hundred or more at a time. The news media flocks to the scene with cameras and reporters, and so we see these images of dolls without little girls and luggage without anyone to claim played out on every station on our sets. And we are horrified. We are so shaken we demand better inspections for planes and pilots.