Riley nodded, deciding not to reveal that she knew all that because she’d dropped by his room after leaving the Collins family last night. She sensed Kate had more to say.
Kate tugged at a lock of her hair. “You did good at the clinic. You handled it well.”
“I . . . appreciate your giving me a hand,” Riley said despite her bruised pride. Their friendship was far too important.
Even if I needed that chance.
She summoned a smile. “In the drama of the moment, I didn’t get a chance to say that you looked great—clothes, hair. Date?”
“Uh . . . sort of.” Kate shrugged, the flush on her cheeks far less noncommittal. “But nothing newsworthy.” She glanced at her watch. “Gotta go. I lost the coin toss on washing wax out of a trucker’s ears.” Her nose wrinkled. “You should rethink coming back to—” Kate stopped, the look in her eyes saying she wanted to swallow those last few words.
Coming back to the ER.
“I’ll stop by later,” Riley offered in the awkward silence, “and bring you a mocha.”
“Great. I’d love that.”
Riley watched as Kate hustled down the hallway toward the ER, regretting this new mix of feelings. She wasn’t proud of the fact that a huge part of it had to do with ego—she’d so wanted to prove herself with the IV. If she’d threaded that needle into the vein on a second try, it would have meant everything to her confidence. And it would have shown Jack that he wasn’t simply doing her a favor by writing a recommendation. But in the end, it had been about saving Hector’s life. As it should be. She knew that.
Still, Riley wished Kate had been less abrupt. Her mistrust less obvious.
“Save a vein for the lab.”
Translation:
You’re going to blow another one.
What real hope was there if her best friend didn’t think she was competent?
Riley’s phone made a plinking noise in the pocket of her blazer—a text message. She slid the phone out, dreading bad news about Stacy Paulson. Then pressed the View button. It was from Jack.
I sent that recommendation.
* * *
Jack glanced into the wheelbarrow and then headed toward the back steps of the clinic just as their nurse practitioner, Gretchen, stepped out the door. A smile lit her round, freckled face. “Hey, Jack.”
“Morning.” He grinned back, squinting against the sun. “Bandy con you into gardening?”
“He hinted,” she said, clumping down the steps. She wore cutoff jeans with tall, stitched Justin boots. The stacked heels added little to her half-pint height. “But I’ve got patients to see at the office. I came in to add a few more shifts to my availability. I’ll be taking some vacation from the other job in May, so I could be here.” Her brows scrunched. “If the clinic’s still here, that is.”
Jack frowned. “Count on it.”
“Heard something yesterday . . .” Gretchen pulled her sunglasses out of her purse. “My aunt does catering out of her house and told me she got a call about providing appetizers on short notice for an ‘emergency’ meeting of The Bluffs’ action committee. They copied her on the Evite. You can probably guess what’s on the agenda.”
A report from a private investigator?
“No clue.”
Gretchen rolled her eyes. “I think the wording went something like ‘Free clinic: We pay with our safety. Make your voice heard.’”
“Around a mouthful of appetizers in The Bluffs’ fancy clubhouse—I’m shaking in my boots.”
“In the library, actually. Scheduling conflict with an oil exec’s business party. Now
that’s
the gig my aunt really wanted to cater. I thought I’d never hear the end of it.” Gretchen tossed him a wry smile as she slid her glasses on. “Well, I’m off to rid the world of pinkeye, croup, and—oh yeah. Talk Bandy into taking those pain pills you prescribed, would you? I threatened to put a cast on his green thumb; he’s torturing his back, diggin’ out there. Never met anyone more stubborn. Except maybe you, Travis.”
“Guilty as charged.” Jack smiled. “But thanks. I’ll talk to him.”
Jack said good-bye, climbed the steps, and found Bandy in the kitchen making sandwiches.
“Loaves and fishes,” Bandy said, tossing a crust to Hobo. “Tuna fish today. Found an anonymous cash donation poked under the door this morning, with a nice note saying that not all of our neighbors hold the same low opinion of our work here.”
“Guilty conscience,” Jack grumbled, deciding not to say anything about the action committee’s emergency meeting. “Any roof tar smudges on that note?”
“‘If you have faith as small as a mustard seed’ . . . you wouldn’t doubt our good neighbor’s motive.”
Jack rolled his eyes, smiling regardless. “You can save the mustard for your tuna. And you’ll probably be relieved to know my covert drive around the neighborhood revealed
three
houses with roofing construction going on. No single person I can point my finger at.” He raised his palms at the look on Bandy’s face. “Not that I was going to. Rob told me the police are looking into it, and I’m sure the hospital billing office will be, too, so—” He stopped, seeing Bandy grimace. “Your back?”
Bandy took a slow breath. “Back, shoulder . . . hair.” He managed a smile. “Getting old isn’t for sissies.” He pointed his mayonnaise-smeared knife at Jack. “And don’t you start with the pill pushing. If I wanted to stumble around half-doped, I’d go back to having beer for breakfast—I’m done with those days. I’m fine, Doc. Just don’t like when it gets bad enough that I can’t sleep.”
“Take a pain pill at night,” Jack suggested. “Who cares if you’re groggy then?” He tossed Bandy a teasing smile. “And it could only improve things when you croon along with that CD player.”
Bandy chuckled. “You’re talkin’ me into it.”
“Good. And my shift in Kerrville doesn’t start until three, so if you need something done in that garden, I’m your man.”
“Thanks, but I’m taking off in a few minutes.” His eyes lit, all outward traces of pain gone. “Meeting the family at SeaWorld. My son’s taking a day off from his job hunting. I can’t wait to watch that grandbaby’s face when she sees Shamu, tastes some cotton candy . . .” He clucked his tongue. “Just a sticky pinch. I promise.” Bandy’s eyes shone with sudden tears. “Yessir, bonus day in a bonus year. I never would have expected these blessings. I . . .” He reached for a paper towel, swiped at his eyes.
“Here.” Jack reached for his wallet. “Let me contribute a little—”
“No thanks, Doc,” Bandy said, clearing his throat. “Appreciate the thought, but got it covered. And I’ll be back in plenty of time to open the clinic. The kids have a long drive home, so they can’t stay late.” He was quiet for a moment, then grabbed two coffee cups and filled them. “Biggest mistake I ever made was making no time for family. Making everything else more important. Daredevil ambition, personal glory, booze . . . all that worthless stuff that a man thinks it takes to prove himself. I lived my life like it was all about
me
.” Bandy shook his head. “Best thing I ever did was find out it isn’t—not even close. And it took God pointing me to the porch of this clinic to make that happen. That’s the truth.”
Jack had no clue what to say. He’d never seen Bandy cry.
“So . . .” Bandy took a sip of his coffee, peered at Jack over the brim. “Riley Hale. Now there’s a fine young woman.”
“And that’s . . . right out of left field.”
“Just thinkin’ out loud.” Bandy raised his brows. “It makes sense . . .”
Jack crossed his arms and had no problem imagining this man in the blue wig, teasing a bull.
Bandy glanced up at the ceiling. “Yessir. Could be the good Lord had a plan pointing her to the porch of this clinic too.”
And could be the devil chucked a CPR manikin at her because he had a plan to use her.
Bandy waited. Hobo squeaked his cart in a circle, then trod in place, staring up at Jack.
Jack threw his hands up. “Okay, I give in. What are you saying?”
“That maybe you could make time in your life for someone like her.”
Jack shook his head, trying to dispel the memory of Riley in his arms, the sweet scent of peaches. “What is this? A supersize deal? Get the girl who comes with a generous side order of redemption?”
“Works for me.”
Jack scraped his fingers across his jaw. “Well, not for her, apparently. I invited Riley to come along to a sports thing I’m doing. She turned me down. Twice.”
“What kind of ‘thing’?”
“Skydiving.”
Bandy snorted. “Fine young lady—and smart, too.”
* * *
Kate slipped into the Alamo Grace chapel but stayed discreetly toward the back, telling herself it was because she didn’t have time to stay, didn’t want to disturb what had already started. She was curious more than anything else. As she’d said earlier at the NICU, Kate found it hard to understand how Riley could do all these things, open herself to such painful turmoil. Like right now, offering support for staff affected by what had turned out to be a miserable—and high-profile—week.
A surprising number of people had taken her up on the idea, gathering in a small circle of chairs near the altar: nurses Kate recognized from SICU and NICU, an ER ward clerk, the caseworker assisting with the toddler who’d ingested amphetamines, a teenager in a striped volunteer’s smock, and two student nurses.
“I want to thank you all for being here to support one another,” Riley said, her profile backlit by sunshine spilling through the stained-glass window. “It’s been a tough few weeks. Many of you have put in long hours and worked extra shifts to make certain very sick patients get the best of care. Doing that day in and day out can take a toll.” She smiled gently at the student nurses. “Some of you may just be learning that.” Riley glanced around the circle. “Unfortunately, we caregivers often hold ourselves to impossibly high standards.”
Kate nodded, remembering the frustration on Riley’s face the day she’d tried so hard with the CPR manikin. And the look in her eyes last night when Kate told her not to try that IV.
“We tell ourselves to buck up, be strong, because we’re afraid that feeling overwhelmed, sad, or angry as a response to emotional stress is a sign of weakness.” Riley shook her head. “Nothing could be further from the truth. Which is that sometimes we need to give ourselves permission to feel rotten.”
Kate thought of Stacy Paulson’s arrival in the ER and the painful memories it stirred.
Rotten
didn’t begin to describe it.
“Those are the times that we have to be especially kind to ourselves,” Riley continued. “Do things that make you feel good. Take that run, listen to favorite music, rent a funny movie . . .”
Accept a date and not tell you about it, Rah-lee.
Kate drew a deep breath, hoping to settle the confusing mix of feelings. Then listened as a SICU nurse spoke up.
“I was doing fine,” she said, hugging her arms around her purple scrubs, “until this morning, when Stacy’s mother brought out this old hairbrush. A kid’s brush.” The nurse lifted her chin. “She was nervous because of the bandage. But I helped her with the hair we could reach below it. We got the tangles out and she braided it. All the while she kept telling me things about Stacy—that she loved to draw and her bedroom wall had been covered with crayon pictures, finger paintings, and glitter art. She wondered if the baby would have that gift too. Then . . .” The nurse’s voice broke, and the ward clerk slipped an arm around her shoulders. “She said she had to believe that, somehow, even this tragedy was part of God’s plan for their lives.”
Kate moved toward the door. She’d heard way more than enough. The only plan she knew of required her to spend the next four hours in the ER. Whether it made her feel rotten or not.
Her cell phone buzzed with a text message an hour later—the ER director asking Kate to come to her office. Scheduling issues, she assumed. One of the nurses had unexpected problems with her pregnancy that required her to go out on disability, and vacations for other staff might need to be adjusted. And there was still that issue of the male nurse on leave for counseling. She checked in with the triage nurse and the doctor—who’d plugged his ears with his stethoscope while suturing the chin of a shrieking toddler—and told them where she’d be.
Kate started off toward the director’s office but ran into Riley as she rounded a corner.
“Your mocha,” Riley said, holding out the green-logo paper cup. “A promise is a promise. I meant to bring it earlier, but I needed to talk with one of the nurses after the gathering in the chapel.”
“Thanks.” Kate took the cup, telling herself that Riley probably hadn’t seen her there. And if she had, what did it matter? That Riley was chaplain and Kate had issues with God had nothing to do with their friendship.
“How’s the packing going?”
“Good—slow, but . . .”
Am I stalling?
“I’ve been busy with some other things.”
“Well—” Riley smiled—“remember, if you need help, I’m there for you.”
“I know,” Kate managed. All at once she wanted more than anything to tell Riley she was sorry about the IV, admit she’d had coffee with Griff Payton.
And finally let you know how “rotten” I feel most of the time.
She had no doubt that Riley would listen, be there for her. But . . . “Thanks again.” Kate lifted the coffee. “Gotta run. Meeting.”