Deep Shadows (24 page)

But Max noticed the blush that reddened her cheeks and said, “Out with it.”

“Actually, I have a job—at Green Acres.”

“A job?” Patrick teased. “You've decided to join the working class?”

“When will you write?” Carter asked.

“I think that job is over, at least for now.”

“Your mom's right, Carter.” Max turned back toward Shelby. “Don't you need to be trained to work at the nursing home?”

“Normally, but I took CPR and basic first aid when I was researching that book about frontier nurses.”

“You might know some things they haven't thought of yet. It certainly feels like we're living in frontier times.” Bianca reached over and gave her a hug.

“Actually, Connie said she'd teach me what I need to know. I'm not getting paid, but they have a generator which keeps their medication refrigerated.”

“You'll have a place to store Carter's insulin.” Max wasn't even a little surprised that she'd come up with such a good plan.

“Exactly. And I'll be helping somewhere I'm needed.” She hitched up the backpack she'd taken to wearing everywhere. “I don't want to leave Carter's supplies there overnight, though. A nursing home would be a prime spot for thieves, but it will keep the insulin cold during the day, and I can make sure we have our freezer packs for the evenings.”

“It's a good plan.” Patrick stood with his posture ramrod straight and his hands clasped behind his back.

Max wondered if his friend knew he looked like someone who had left the military last week rather than five years ago.

“I can't believe you want a job at a nursing home,” Carter muttered.

“Well, I will see you at Green Acres.” Max pulled out his car keys. “I'm driving over to pick up Dr. Bhatti right now.”

“You drove?” Carter sounded amazed. “Already that seems like ancient artifacts—wheels and motors. Radical.”

Bianca looped her arm through Carter's. “Radical,” she agreed.

“Who is Dr. Bhatti?” Shelby asked.

Max told them about the mayor's request, Bhatti's response, and the agreement they'd made.

“So he's going to live with you?” Bianca shook her head. “I don't like it. Why is he here? What's he hiding from? And what type of doctor has to be bribed to help?”

“I don't have answers to any of those questions, but I can promise you that he's better than what we currently have.”

Max was headed toward downtown, and though he offered to go out of his way and give the others a ride, they all declined.

“Might as well get used to walking,” Carter declared, nudging his mother and daring her to keep up.

Max walked over to his truck, started it up, and backed out of the parking area. He glanced in his rearview mirror as he pulled up to the stop sign. When he saw the group moving down the sidewalk together, he realized they were his family. They'd become more important to him than any distant cousin. It reaffirmed that he needed to do everything he could for them before he left. And the first thing was to see that Green Acres had a doctor.

Bhatti was waiting for him, sitting in the same chair, smoking another cigarette.

“You seem to be enjoying your nicotine relapse.”

“Indeed. Though quitting again will be no fun at all.”

“Maybe you'll be so busy you won't notice the withdrawal.”

Bhatti carried his single suitcase, and raised an eyebrow when he saw the truck.

“It still runs,” said Max.

“I envision lawyers driving BMWs and Porsches.”

“Practicing law in a small town is somewhat different than in the city.”

“As will practicing medicine, I suspect.”

Max took him to the house first, showed him the room he'd be staying in, and offered to fix him an early lunch.

“I had breakfast at the hotel—granola bars and coffee.”

“Breakfast of champions.”

“Might as well take me to your nursing home,” said Dr. Bhatti.

“Actually, our first stop needs to be the morgue.”

T
HIRTY
-S
EVEN

S
helby spent the first two hours of her shift emptying bedpans, fetching cold lunches, and taking out the trash. Fortunately, two more aides had shown up, because she didn't know what she would have done if she'd had to handle that first shift alone. As Shelby threw yet another bag of refuse into the large metal receptacle, Connie walked outside, popped open a warm soda, and rested her back against the wall.

“What are we going to do with all of this?” Shelby nodded toward the nearly full Dumpster.

“The bigger question is, what are we going to do when we're out of supplies? We're already running low on diapers, clean towels, and washcloths, not to mention sheets.” She took a sip of the warm soda and grimaced. “Soap, Kleenex, oxygen—and then there's the medication that we need.”

“So trash is the least of our troubles.”

“Well, at some point soon it will have to be addressed. No one will be picking it up, that we know. The mayor sent word that someone would show up to oversee a burn pile.”

“That will take care of some of it, but we should probably be separating things into what can be burned and what needs to be buried.”

“I'll add it to our list of things to do.”

Shelby's feet hurt, and her mind frequently turned to worries about Carter. Was he remembering to check his blood sugar? Was he finding the right things to eat? How was his body responding to physical labor out in the June heat? Was he old enough and mature enough to cover a shift on neighborhood patrol?

She hadn't worried this much about him since the time he'd gone on a sixth grade field trip to Washington, DC. At that point, she'd decided to hand it over to the Lord rather than make herself crazy. As she leaned against the wall next to Connie, she realized that it was time to take her own advice again.

“How long has your son been a diabetic?”

“He was diagnosed when he was four. I knew that something wasn't right, but I'd never had a toddler. I thought perhaps his moods were normal. He couldn't get enough to drink and whined about being hungry when I knew he'd just eaten.” Shelby shook her head, the memories cascading over her like a tidal wave. “He started losing weight and sleeping more. One afternoon I went into his room where he was supposed to be playing with Legos, and he was seizing.”

“Diabetic shock?”

“Yeah. I didn't recognize it, though. I could tell he was still breathing, but I had no idea what was wrong with my son. I knew enough to turn him on his side and call 9-1-1. I thought my heart would stop beating in my chest. I was terrified of losing him. Sometimes I still am.”

“This thing we're going through… it's going to be hard on a lot of people with medical conditions.”

“I know it will.”

“Many of our patients won't make it.” Connie sighed and checked her watch. When Shelby had first arrived, Connie had admitted that she'd only had four hours sleep the night before. The long hours and lack of rest were taking a toll. Dark circles rimmed her eyes, and she blinked rapidly behind her large glasses.

“Why do you say that? Because they won't have their medicine?”

“Some, maybe. But mostly… mostly I think it will just be the conditions. How will they withstand the heat of July and August? And if we get them through the summer, what will we do when the weather turns cold?”

“Hey. One day at a time.”

“AA?”

“Church.”

Connie smiled, and then she reached over and hugged Shelby. She smelled of peppermint. Shelby inhaled deeply, thinking of her mother, remembering her smile and her commonsense ways. Even when it was
obvious that Shelby had made a major mistake marrying Alex, her mom had reminded her, “But God uses our mistakes to teach us and sometimes to bless us.” She'd been holding baby Carter when she'd said that.

As they walked back to the nurses' station, the outer door opened. She looked up to see Max walking toward them. Beside him was a small, slighter Asian man. Or maybe he was Middle Eastern. Whatever his ethnicity, there was no doubt that he was the infamous Dr. Bhatti.

Max made the introductions. “Any sign of Marshall Murphy?”

“None.”

“He's the director of this facility,” Max explained to Dr. Bhatti.

Connie closed the chart she was writing in and tapped her pen against the desk. “He was headed to a conference in Nashville. It was supposed to last over the weekend.”

“We can assume he won't be back anytime soon.”

“I need someone to sign this form.” Dr. Bhatti placed a sheet of paper in front of her. “If you're in charge—”

“I don't know if I'm in charge.” Connie picked up a pen. “But if you'll help us out, I'll sign your form.”

Shelby peeked over her shoulder as Connie quickly scanned the sheet of paper and signed her name at the bottom. The sheet gave the doctor full indemnity from any malpractice suits that might result from his working outside his field of specialty. Had Max drawn this up? Would a handwritten agreement stand up in court? And why was Bhatti so worried about being sued?

Bhatti pulled a stethoscope out of the messenger bag he was carrying and set the bag under the nurses' station. He walked over to the sinks, poured clean water into a basin, and thoroughly scrubbed his hands.

Shelby was curious as to what he'd do next.

But Dr. Bhatti seemed satisfied now that any legal quagmires were behind him. He turned, nodded toward Connie, and said, “If you'd be so kind as to assist me.”

Without another word they were gone, their shoes echoing down the hall. Shelby and Max were left to man the nurses' station, and she fervently hoped that no one would need them. After all, she'd only learned to empty bedpans and offer cups of water. Any other type of emergency would have to wait.

T
HIRTY
-E
IGHT

C
arter had worked hard before. Shifts at the Market were no piece of cake. Folks could be rude, and some things—like retrieving carts from the parking lot—were basically manual labor.

None of that compared to digging a latrine.

Though the group took turns, the soil soon revealed white rock, which had to be broken up with a metal pole before digging could resume. It was backbreaking labor. Everyone was careful to stay hydrated, and Carter made sure to go back to his house to check his sugar levels and grab a snack. Fortunately, they still had plenty of food in the house, especially after what Max had brought. But it also wasn't what he was used to—no snack packs, granola bars, or Gatorade. Carter understood the basics of nutrition, having received plenty of training in his last thirteen years. He knew the difference between a healthy complex carbohydrate and junk food—not that his mother kept anything of a “junk” nature in their house.

He ate and used the bathroom, which was more disgusting by the minute. The conditions only fueled his desire to make progress on the latrine. He went back to work, and within two hours they had managed to dig down approximately three feet.

“Look at it this way,” said a guy named Ed. “We're one-third finished.”

The guy was doing his fair share, so Carter attempted a smile and climbed back into the hole.

An hour later, Carter had to leave for his shift on the neighborhood patrol. He wasn't sure what he expected, but he was surprised when he
made it to the end of their two-block section and found two pickup trucks positioned across the middle of the road.

“We have a roadblock?”

“We do now!” An old man he didn't recognized unclipped a radio from his belt at the same time that an older woman showed up.

“My name is Wanda Plumley, but you may call me Mrs. P.”

Apparently, she was Carter's shift buddy. He might have doubted her clout as a patrolwoman, but she was carrying a shotgun and looked plenty comfortable with it. Not that he thought they would need a firearm.