Miss Julia to the Rescue (17 page)

“Where will you be?”

“Waiting in the car, I guess. I don’t want that old biddy to see me again. She might suspect something’s going on.” Etta Mae looked me over carefully. “But you’ll be all right. Hospitals are full of all kinds of people—volunteers, Pink Ladies, orderlies, chaplains, visiting preachers, florists delivering flowers, doctors, X-ray techs, lab techs, OR techs, you name it, they’re all running around the halls. You’ll be just another one that the nurses pay no attention to.”

“Well, my goodness,” I said, “if I’d known I had all those types to choose from, I would’ve picked something other than kitchen help. I mean I could be doing a visitation from a church and handing out tracts. I think I’d be more suited to that.”

“No, because some nurse would send you packing, especially after visiting hours. You need to be somebody who belongs at the hospital, and you’re as close as we can get you just the way you are.”

Etta Mae looked me up and down, checking to see if I passed muster. “Uh-oh,” she said. “Let’s swap watches. Yours is too fancy for a kitchen worker.” She unbuckled her large round watch with a sweeping second hand and exchanged it for my small jeweled one. “I’ll take good care of it. Okay, let’s take our luggage with us—we don’t want to have to come back here. Oh, one more thing. Keep your cell phone with you, and I’ll have mine so you can call me if you need me.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “You think I will?”

“No, I really don’t. If you get caught, all they’ll do is kick you
out and that’s no big deal. But wait, let me see your phone.” She took it, punched a few buttons and handed it back. “I’ve fixed it so my number is the first one on your contact list. You won’t have to scroll for it because I’ve spelled it
Aetta Mae
. Just hit Contacts, then OK, and it’ll ring me.”

“Oh, me,” I moaned, “this is getting complicated.”

“It’s gonna work great. Just think, in less than an hour, we could be headed for home. Come on, let’s get our bags in the car.”

“Wait a minute, Etta Mae. What if I find Mr. Pickens, and he’s too sick or too maimed or whatever to be moved?”

That stopped her, but only for a second. “Well, then, at least we’ll know where he is. I mean for sure. And you can demand that he be moved to a city hospital where he’d get better care and we’d have easier access. You’d be well within your rights to do that, especially because Sheriff McAfee made such a big deal about taking care of his witness.”

“You’re worth your weight in gold, Etta Mae, and then some,” I said, marveling at her perfect argument if I got called on the carpet by the sheriff. “All right,” I said, putting my mind into acting mode, “let’s go do this before I lose my nerve.”

“I’m still wondering about something,” Etta Mae said as she drove along the highway toward town, our xenon headlights cutting a tunnel through the dark night. “Why would the ATF be raiding a meth lab? I still think the sheriff would call out the DEA for that.”

“Etta Mae,” I said, my mind on something other than alphabetized government agencies, “I don’t know the difference between the DEA and the PTA.”

She giggled. “Drug Enforcement Agency, which is not real close to the PTA. Anyway, what I’m thinking is that, with the ATF, it’s more likely that they’re after a liquor still, bootleg cigarettes or stolen guns and explosives. Any of those would make more sense than a meth lab, wouldn’t it?”

“I declare, I don’t know and don’t much care. All I can think
of is making this little charade work. I’m a nervous wreck just thinking about it.”

She reached over and patted my arm. “Remember, I’ve seen you in action. Just act like you belong in there, and you’ll do fine.”

Etta Mae pulled into the visitors’ lot at the hospital just as a few cars were leaving. She parked farther from the lights of the lobby than she had the night before, and we sat for a few minutes in the dark. I scanned the long facade of the hospital that extended on both sides of the central lobby. According to the signs we’d seen, the emergency room and X-ray department were to the right of the lobby, while our focus was on the left side, where there were two floors of patient rooms and wards. Most of the rooms were still lit with half of them open to public view through open blinds. I wondered if those patients knew that we could sit in the parking lot and watch as they lay in bed receiving visitors, taking medications, and watching television. A few, of course, just lay there, too sick, apparently, to care who was watching.

“Etta Mae,” I said, “what if Mr. Pickens is on the second floor? Have you thought of that?”

“Yeah, I have. I just haven’t mentioned it. But here’s what you do: if you don’t find him on the first floor and nobody’s stopped you, go on up and try there. But I’m convinced he’s in that last room on the right on the first floor because of the way that nurse was on me so quick and so hard. I mean if he’s not there, I’d be really surprised.” She craned her head, looking at the rows of lighted rooms. “I wish that room wasn’t on the back side. We could at least see if a light’s on.” She turned to look at me. “Want me to make another run around the back and see?”

“I guess not.” I shook my head. “Too dangerous with that security man wandering around.”

Reaching for the door handle, I sighed and then said, “Well, this isn’t getting it done.”

“Wait, Miss Julia, there’re people coming out. Let’s wait till
they’re gone. Oh, you better leave your pocketbook here. Hanging it on your arm won’t look too professional.”

She was right, but I felt undressed without it. However, with what I was already wearing, why worry about accessories?

I waited until an old car with a broken muffler had left. Then without another word, I got out of the car, tightened the drawstring on the scrub suit pants and headed for the hospital to put on my act.

The lobby was almost empty, visiting hours being over, so I juggled my notepad and cell phone in one hand and held my pen at the ready with the other. Looking neither to the left nor the right and bending over a little so the operator behind the counter wouldn’t see me, I scuttled across the lobby and went through the wide-open double doors that led to the hall. Patient rooms lined both sides, and nurses and other white-clad personnel went in and out of the rooms.

Deciding that the best method would be to avoid meeting the eye of anyone in authority, I put on a look of intense concentration, telling myself that I was there to carry out the head dietician’s orders and nothing else.

The first room on the right had a nurse in it, so I quickly moved to the one across the hall. The patient was a husky man with a red face who had his bed cranked so high that he was practically sitting upright.

He glanced at me as I came in, then fastened his eyes on the television set high on the wall at the foot of his bed. “What now?” he demanded, and flapped the sheet indignantly. He was wearing only a little short hospital gown, so I almost got an eyeful.

Drawing on my long experience of pretending that a social blunder had not occurred, I acted as if I’d seen nothing. “Uh, I’m, ah, taking a survey for the kitchen. I mean for the dietician,” I said, my pen poised over the pad. “How do you like the food here?”

“What kind of question is that? You know what they serve me? Jell-O, mashed potatoes and oatmeal. Supposed to help my ulcer, and I’m sick of it. I need real food, like a pizza or something.”

“Yessir, I’ll put that down.” And I did, feeling very competent as I did so. It’s quite rewarding to feel that you’re of help to someone.

That wasn’t so hard
, I thought as I graded the man’s response as an F. I headed for the next room, all the while watching for the nurses. They were swarming around the middle of the hall, where several were busy at the nurses’ station. I ducked into a room where an elderly woman with white hair that had turned yellow lay huddled under a sheet.

“Ma’am?” I said, approaching the bed. “I hope I’m not disturbing you, but I’d like to ask you a few questions about the meals you’re getting.”

Her hand suddenly snaked out from the sheet and grasped my arm. “Will you take me?”

“What? Take you where?”

“To Walmart. I want to go to Walmart. Real bad.”

“Well,” I said, removing her hand and stepping away from the bed, “maybe tomorrow. How do you like the food here?”

“Okay,” she said and closed her eyes.

Not knowing exactly what she was responding to, I gave her a C. Then, getting into the swing of it, I swished out into the hall, Etta Mae’s thick-soled shoes squeaking on the waxed floor and my toes crimped up so bad that my swing had a list to it. And ran right into a nurse.

“Oops,” she said, sidestepping away. “Sorry, didn’t mean to run into you. You checking temps?”

Not sure how to answer, I ignored the question. “Dietician’s orders. You know, special diets.”

“Better you than me,” she said breezily. She was a stout, dark-haired woman with a pleasant expression who seemed to accept my presence without a qualm. “The food is awful around here.” Then she looked more closely at me. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“No,” I said, thinking quickly, “I’m usually in the kitchen.” Then to distract her, I said, “That lady in there wants to go to Walmart.”

She laughed. “Yeah, the sweet ole thing loves Walmart, but she’s not too with it. Last week when I asked if she’d voided, she told me she hadn’t voted in twenty years.”

I smiled as the nurse went on about her business, leaving me to go on about mine with a little more confidence. I’d survived a close examination without arousing any questions as to my standing. To be on the safe side, though, I bypassed several rooms in case she decided to double back and check on me. Besides, I was anxious to find Mr. Pickens and get myself out of there.

As I neared the nurses’ station, which I had to pass in order to get to the end of the hall and the last room on the right or on the left, whichever it turned out to be, I kept my eyes on the pad in my hand, lifting them only now and then to check room numbers—acting for all the world like I knew what I was doing and beginning to do it with a little more assurance.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

A hard-faced nurse who fit Etta Mae’s description of an old biddy accosted me as I started into a room about midway down the hall.

She startled me so bad that I could only stand there and gape at her.

“Can’t you read?” she demanded. “The sign says isolation. That means no one goes in without suiting up.”

I started backing away. “Oh, sorry. I just …”

“If you have to go in, put on a gown and mask. Gloves, too.”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am, I don’t have to go in. I’m just following orders. The dietician’s, that is. Special orders. I mean, diets.”

Her black eyes bored into me, her mouth a thin line, as I expected to be thrown out or arrested or otherwise publicly castigated. Instead, after giving me a swift up-and-down look, shaking her head with disdain, she said, “You can skip that one. She’s on IVs, NPO.”

“Right,” I said, jotting a few scribbles on my pad, not knowing what NPO stood for and not daring to ask.

She turned away and went back to her station, leaving me trembling from the close call. I quickly tapped on the closed door of the next room, slipping in when I heard a response.