Miss Julia to the Rescue (18 page)

A fairly young woman, looking distressed and half angry, lay
on the bed. “About time,” she snapped. “I’ve had my light on for ten whole minutes and nobody’s come.”

“Well, I’m here for …”

“I don’t care what you’re here for. I need this bedpan emptied.” She lifted her hips and slid a bedpan out from under the sheet. “Take it. You’ve left me on it for thirty minutes. I don’t know what you people are doing, but this is no way to treat a patient on bed rest.” She shoved it away. I had to catch it before it and its contents hit the floor.

I stood there holding the thing. “What do I do with it?”

“Empty it!” she said, ill-tempered as a hornet. “The bathroom’s right in there. Don’t they teach you anything around here?”

Finally finding my voice, I said, “I’m kitchen help. I don’t think I’m supposed to be doing this, but,” I went on as her angry eyes flashed, “I will.”

And I did for the first and, believe me, last time in my life, then washed my hands until they were waterlogged. Going back into the room, I said, “How do you like the food here?”

“I don’t. Now don’t bother me anymore. I’m tired.”

Giving her an F, I left the room, deciding that I’d only go into rooms that had open doors. No way would I risk another bathroom run behind a closed one—except for the two rooms at the end of the hall, which I was nearing with every step. But nurses were still going and coming across the hall and in and out of the rooms, preparing patients for the night, and at no time had I been out of sight of at least one of them.

With that in mind, I figured I’d better slow down my patient canvass or I’d run out of rooms before the nurses ran out of errands. If they didn’t soon take a coffee break or something, I’d have to think up another question or two and start over from scratch. How long I could get away with doing that, I didn’t know, because sooner or later someone would notice that I was going around and around the hall and in and out the same rooms over and over.

I didn’t know what else to do. I hated to give up on finding Mr.
Pickens when he might be only a few steps away. Yet I was also getting concerned about Etta Mae. She wasn’t the most patient soul in the world, and she might get tired of wondering what I was doing and come sailing in to look for me. That would really stir the pot, because once you’d seen Etta Mae in action, you wouldn’t forget her, and I knew that sharp-eyed nurse would be onto both of us in a minute.

I thought of using my cell phone and telling her that everything was all right, that I was still making my rounds and that taking a random survey involved more than I’d thought—like emptying bedpans, for instance. But I didn’t call for fear that any action out of the character I’d already established would draw attention I didn’t want.

So I went on about my business, passed the nurses’ station with averted eyes, and walked on into the back half of the hall. The farther I went, the dimmer and more shadowy the back hall became. Only a few recessed lights in the ceiling were on, and only a few room doors were open—most patients, I guessed, were already down for the night. Or maybe they were the sickest.

Across the hall from where I was standing while writing on my pad in an attempt to look busy, I saw a closed door with a light burning above it—a summons to the nurses, I assumed, and walked right on past it. I’d learned my lesson behind another closed door.

The room next to it was open, so I walked in to see a fairly young woman, all skin and bones, with big dark eyes sunk into her face. She didn’t look healthy, and that was a fact, but she put a hand to her mouth and smiled behind it.

“Good evening,” I said, holding up my pad in a professional manner. “I’m from the kitchen, and the dietician would like to know if you have any complaints about the food.”

“Oh, no, ma’am. It’s the best I ever eat. They’s just not enough of it.”

“Maybe we can fix that,” I said, my heart going out to the lank-haired girl. Her color wasn’t good, either. “Why don’t I tell them that you’d like bigger servings?”

“Well, I wish that’d do it, but my stomach can’t hold but a little at a time. That’s why they feed me six times a day. See, my stomach’s all shrunk up.”

“My goodness, how did that happen?”

She shrugged her shoulders and looked away. “Jus’ happened. Been coming on for years they said, and I got the low blood and not enough iron in it, either. Makes me real tired.”

“Bless your heart, honey, I guess it does. Well, I’ll tell you what. If I see any extra food around, I’ll bring it to you.”

“I wish you would,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about getting up and seeing if any of the other patients left anything on their trays.” To let me know she was kidding—I think—she smiled broadly before remembering to cover her mouth. And no wonder. She had the worst teeth I’d ever seen—they were decayed, broken and discolored. I didn’t know how she could eat anything with them.

Just as I was moved to offer her the services of a dentist—my treat—we heard a commotion in the room next door that startled us both. Something metallic clanged to the floor and something heavy thumped along with it. Then a white-headed man in a short hospital gown ran past the door and down the hall toward freedom.

I hurried to look out and saw the nurses scrambling to stop him. Two of them, their arms spread wide, stood in the middle of the hall in an attempt to net him. He nimbly evaded them, his long thin legs high stepping toward the lobby. A clear tube bounced between his knobby knees, an unnamed yellow liquid spraying in his wake.

The nurses were in turmoil, all yelling at once. “Mr. Purvis! Stop, come back here! Head him off, Glenda. Grab him, somebody!” Charts clattered as they were thrown down, chairs pushed aside, and they were all in such a disordered flurry that a Pepsi bottle was knocked over and the brown liquid spread across the floor. One nurse shrieked when she slid in it, ending up entangling two others before all three fell together.

And through the chaotic scene on the floor by the nurses’ station, I could see the old man elude arms reaching for him as he gained the lobby, yelling for a taxicab. I was mesmerized by the chase, fascinated especially by Mr. Purvis’s flabby backside winkling in and out of the gap in his back-tied hospital gown.

Tearing my eyes away from that gruesome sight, I realized that for the first time the nurses were fully occupied and that this might be the last best chance I’d have.

Quickly excusing myself and telling the girl with the bad teeth that I’d try to see her later, I checked the hall again. Seeing a pile of nurses and maybe an orderly or a security man all wrestling with Mr. Purvis in the lobby, I scooted across the hall and slipped into the last room on the right, closing the door behind me.

I was in, at last.

The room was as black as pitch. I stood against the door for a minute, my eyes squinched up, until forms gradually emerged and I began to get my bearings. I was able to make out a television set bolted high on one wall, the closed blinds with a little diffused light seeping through, and the bed with a long lump on it. But not the chair that I ran into as I crept toward the bed nor the nightstand that rattled as I bumped into it.

Fearing to turn on a light, I reached out to touch and arouse the unmoving lump on the bed. Then I hesitated. What if it wasn’t Mr. Pickens? What would I say? How would I explain my creeping into a dark room and feeling up a strange patient?

So I stood there, trying to slow my rapid breathing and hoping for a clue as to the lump’s identity before committing myself. I wondered how fast I could get out of the room if the patient screamed for help. I wondered how long I had before the nurses subdued Mr. Purvis and, concerned about their other patients, began to do bed checks.

Not long, I decided, and put my hand lightly on what I now could see was the patient’s back—sleeping on his or her stomach, I concluded, pleased with my increasing ability to see in the dark.

Leaning over a mass of hair, I whispered, “Mr. Pickens? Is that you? It’s me, Julia Murdoch.”

He, she, it—I still didn’t know what I was dealing with—
stirred, a dark head lifted from the pillow and turned toward me and mumbled, “What the hell… ?”

“Oh, Mr. Pickens, it
is
you! I can’t believe it. I mean I can, because I thought all along it had to be you, but, well, I still wasn’t sure.”

“What? Who? Miss Julia? What’s going on?” Mr. Pickens, still spraddled out on his stomach, had risen to his elbows to stare at me.

“Sh-h-h,” I cautioned. “Not so loud. They’ll throw me out if they find me here.” Then hurriedly speaking to give him as much information as I could, I went on. “Now listen, we want to know what’s wrong with you. Coleman heard you got shot, so are you all right? What can we do? I’ve got Etta Mae Wiggins with me—she’s out in the car—and we’ll do whatever we can to get you some help. That sheriff here is bound and determined to keep you isolated, but you’re not under arrest, except you soon might be if he decides you have anything to do with whatever they’re raiding. Which they’re doing as we speak, so he’s out of commission for the moment as far as you’re concerned. So if you want out of here, now’s the time.”

“Huh? Hold on …” Mr. Pickens rested his face in his hands, like he needed a minute to think, which I completely understood because who would expect to be awakened by someone you thought was almost four hundred miles away?

He rubbed his face in his hands—I could see the movement, but little else except the uncombed mess his hair was in.

“Etta Mae’s here?” he asked.

“She’s waiting in the parking lot. But listen, Mr. Pickens, are you still wounded? Can you get up? We’ll take you home if you want to go.”

“Okay, let’s go.” His head dropped back down on the pillow. “Real sleepy,” he mumbled. “Gimme a minute. Kinda messed up here.”

“Oh, I understand. I’ve had dealings with Sheriff McAfee myself. But he’s out of reach—Etta Mae saw them going on a raid, so
they’re all out in the hills somewhere. Now’s your chance, if you want it.”

“Oh, yeah. Jus’ maybe… . Too tired.”

“We’ll help. Can you walk? Where were you shot? The sheriff said it wasn’t life threatening and that you were getting better. We’ll do whatever we can, but I don’t want to cause any more damage. The first thing we have to decide is how to get you out of this room. Those nurses watch you like a hawk, but they have their hands full with Mr. Purvis. So if we hurry, we might be able to slip out the fire door, which is right next to yours. As quick as you are, Mr. Pickens, we could be outside in two seconds and nobody the wiser.”

He gave a half laugh. “Not so quick. Can’t get off the bed.”

“How bad is it? Your wound, I mean. Is it in your leg? You can lean on me and hop. We don’t have far to go. Or I can call Etta Mae and between us we’ll get you out.”

“Oh, Lord,” he said in a despairing way as he rubbed his face again. “Head’s buzzin’. Can’t think. Had something for pain.”

“Yes, I figured that,” I said, getting a little exasperated with his slowness to be up and running. “We need to get a move on.”

“Etta Mae’s here? With a car?”

“Yes, and she’s waiting for us. Now listen, it’s good that you’ve had something for pain. Don’t worry about thinking—just do what I tell you and jump out of this bed. We need to go.”

“Miss Julia,” he said, his words coming out muffled as if his tongue were thick. “I got shot in a place that connects to every muscle I have. Can’t jump. Can’t hop. Uh-uh, jus’ can’t.”

“Well, my goodness, what place is that?”

He lifted his head and turned toward me. I could almost feel those black eyes boring into mine as his words came out clear as a bell. “My rear end—both sides, through and through.”

“Oh,” I said as an image of Mr. Purvis’s shriveled backside flashed in my mind. A bullet fired at him would hit bone or nothing, but there was a good deal more to Mr. Pickens, which I’m ashamed to admit I had occasionally admired, and I assumed he
had two entrance wounds and two exit wounds on a bullet’s way in and out. “My goodness. That would be painful.”

“Yeah,” he said, dropping his forehead to the pillow, “I can’t sit and can’t turn over. Can’t lie on my back and can’t walk. Can’t make it to the car.”

“I’ve always said that where there’s a will, there’s a way. So you just put your mind to it, Mr. Pickens, and endure about five minutes of discomfort, which that pain pill should take care of, and we’ll have you out of here. I’m calling Etta Mae.”

So I did, whispering so that she could barely hear me. “He was shot in the rear, Etta Mae, and with all those big muscles running down his legs, he’s not walking too well. He wouldn’t be fast enough to get out of the fire door. So it’s the window or nothing.”

“Oh, wow,” she said, “bottom shot, huh? Well, you’re right, it’ll have to be the window. I’ll come around and meet you outside if you can get him to it. If you need help, open the window and I’ll crawl in. Just watch for the security guy.”

We clicked off, and I felt my way around the bed to the window to unlock it, hoping that it wasn’t hermetically sealed. It wasn’t, but it wouldn’t slide up, either. I finally found a crank near the sill, turned it while fighting the blinds and was relieved to see that the entire lower pane opened out for about a foot or so. Enough, I hoped, to slip Mr. Pickens and then myself out onto the ground.