5
Jack crouched beside the hospital wheelchair, grimacing as his bandaged knee connected with the worn carpet. He glanced to where Riley Hale stood, telling himself that just because he was currently in a chapel—down on his knees—it didn’t mean the chaplain had won this round.
Won?
When had he started competing with this woman?
“Looks like you’re feeling better now.” Jack slid two fingers along Vesta Calder’s wrist, noting that her skin was warm and dry and pulse rate was mid-80 range and regular. Her respiratory rate had normalized as well. Good. Though she seemed far from serene, at least the panic had receded from her eyes.
Except for when she looks at me? Am I imagining that?
“Tingling all gone?” he asked gently.
Vesta nodded, avoiding his eyes—he wasn’t imagining it. “I’m sorry to have caused all these problems. I’m fine now. And once I’m home . . .” She turned to Riley. “My neighbor’s here?”
“Waiting at the curb with her car. The aide’s in the hallway ready to wheel you out. We’re all set, and—” Riley’s eyes met Jack’s—“as soon as Dr. Travis gives us the official go-ahead, you’ll be back in The Bluffs in ten minutes flat.”
The Bluffs.
Jack stood, felt his stitches protest. “Your doctor will be calling you this evening. And you have the dietician’s recommendations. No skipping meals. Rest tonight. Check your blood sugar before bedtime.” He glanced at Riley. “What was that reading you got just now?”
“It was 128.”
“Right. Good.”
Vesta glanced at the tidy pile of monitoring equipment sitting on one of the chapel chairs. “I never knew that a hospital chaplain did those things: blood pressure readings and checking sugar levels.”
“I’m a nurse, too.” Riley’s chin lifted a fraction of an inch. “I was a nurse . . .
first
.” Her left hand moved to cradle her right arm, her expression almost wistful. Then she turned to Jack. “Vesta’s good to go?”
“Absolutely.” He extended his hand to his patient. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Calder.”
“I . . .” Vesta hesitated, then took his hand. There was no mistaking the discomfort in her age-lined eyes. “Thank you for your kindness, Dr. Travis.” Her voice dropped to a halting whisper. “And . . . I’m . . . so sorry. Please forgive me. For . . . everything.”
Forgive you?
Jack watched as the nurse’s aide wheeled Vesta from the chapel. Riley followed, resting a hand on the woman’s shoulder and dipping her head to talk as they moved along. Trying to ease her anxiety, Jack supposed. It was what Riley had been doing since Jack arrived to find her beside Vesta Calder, the patient huddled against the chapel wall in a panicked state. She’d probably have done the same things in the ER if she’d had the opportunity to speak with Vesta earlier. Jack had told Riley in no uncertain terms that he had no need for a chaplain because his patient wasn’t dead or dying.
He frowned. Though he’d probably sounded dismissive, he’d been telling the truth. It was only when the life-saving frenzy ebbed into silence and Jack found himself armed with nothing but an industrial-size box of Kleenex that he ever thought of summoning chaplaincy services. Or acquiesced to what they might offer to a patient or family member—“spiritual support.” Prayer. He wouldn’t argue that it had its place in hospitals . . . and on the battlefield too. But only when there were no viable options left, nothing for a doctor to
do
. No action, no answer, and no life-stealing enemy to grab by the throat and wrestle to the ground. Whether that enemy came in the guise of disease, injury, a roadside desert bomb . . . or as a consequence of inexcusable cowardice.
Action was what Jack understood. Prayer was passive at best. At worst it was surrender, an admission of defeat. If Jack could help it, he would never go down that road. And he certainly wouldn’t be
here
, in a chapel.
Except that, in a complete turnabout, he’d been summoned here by a hospital chaplain. To care for a patient who wasn’t dead or dying but had fled his care in a panic.
Why?
He thought of Vesta Calder’s increasing agitation after regaining consciousness in the ER. And the look in her eyes when she’d accepted his handshake a few minutes ago. A combination of fear and pain.
“Please forgive me. For . . . everything.”
Strange comment. Had she been apologizing for leaving the department against medical advice?
Jack pulled out his hospital phone and informed the ER clerk he was on his way back to the department. He headed out of the chapel, determined to stop imagining that the neighbor who’d come for Vesta Calder was driving a white Lexus, that his patient had hyperventilated because she’d recognized him as the “maverick” whose negligence nearly set her neighborhood on fire. And that she was a card-carrying member of The Bluffs’ action committee.
He shook his head at conjecture that amounted to no more than fatigue-induced paranoia. Vesta Calder was a woman who was uncomfortable in the hospital setting, a diabetic who’d had an insulin-induced seizure. She had no personal connection to Jack or his clinic; she was simply one in a long line of patients he would treat today. Once he got back on track.
His Vibram boot soles squeaked against the vinyl flooring as he marched down the corridor, mentally assigning priorities to the tasks ahead. Coffee, black. Reevaluate the psych patient and the asthmatic. Stitch the lawn mower injury. Call the clinic. Check on Gilbert. Snag himself a tetanus booster. And then figure out a way to smooth things over with the gutsy and beautiful nurse-chaplain that wouldn’t look too much like surrender. She’d helped him by finding his patient despite their personal conflict. And Jack had far bigger battles to fight.
* * *
“You managed it okay, then?” Kate Callison handed Riley half of her organic oatmeal cookie. “Mrs. Calder’s vital signs and the finger stick for her blood sugar?”
“Well . . .” Riley leaned back against the gazebo bench, noticing the raisin-brown freckles dotting her friend’s nose and feeling thankful to have someone she could confide in. “No problem with the Velcro on the blood pressure cuff. The unit’s automatic, so—” Riley poked her finger against the cookie half—“just a punch of a button.”
“And the finger stick?”
“More than awkward. It took me three pokes because this maddening numbness makes it hard to tell how much pressure I’m using.” Riley held the cookie in her left hand and attempted to break off a piece with her right index finger and thumb. “See?” She tensed her lips, tried again. “Too little and nothing happens at all. Too much and—” Pulverized oatmeal speckled her shirt, then settled into her lap.
Kate nodded. “And the cookie crumbles.”
“Or the cookie bruises. Horribly.” Riley glanced at Kate’s battered arm and winced. “I’m—”
“Making progress,” Kate insisted, dodging Riley’s apology. “You’re making steady progress.” Her lips curved toward a smile. “And you kept Jack Travis from having to fill out a patient elopement form. The man’s already struggling with community PR; now on his second shift at Alamo Grace, he tackles one patient, has another go AWOL . . .” Kate’s dark brows nudged together. “Seriously, thank you for finding Vesta. I was worried even before she ran off. That’s why I called you. Do you think she has an anxiety disorder of some kind? And maybe the incident with our psych patient made her panic and run?”
“Maybe.” Riley swiped at the crumbs on her jacket, then glanced toward a pair of long-tailed black grackles. They strutted along the edge of the ER parking lot, beaks raised straight up and piercing yellow eyes staring at the sky. Common for them, but a quirky behavior that made it look as if they, like Chicken Little, expected the sky to fall at any moment.
For as long as Riley could remember, she’d hated those birds.
“Vesta had a full-blown panic attack,” Riley explained, turning her attention back to Kate. “She’s had them before. My concern would be how much this is affecting her life overall. Especially her ability to access medical care. I plan to talk with her about it when I make my home visit.”
“Visit?”
Riley read the surprise on Kate’s face. “Not to poke her fingers; don’t worry. I’m going to Vesta’s home as a chaplain.” Riley sighed and her hand rose instinctively to support her weakened arm. “There’s a whole different set of expectations when you’re not responding to the wail of sirens. But I’m not complaining. I love having the luxury of time to listen—really listen—to my patients. You know?”
Kate shrugged. “Maybe I’m more like Jack. Get the job done and be prepared to tackle when necessary. Don’t get bogged down with the emotional . . . side dishes.”
Side dishes?
Riley trusted that Kate wasn’t really equating her job as chaplain with coleslaw, Texas ranch beans, sweet corn, guacamole—or whatever healthful and organic accompaniments they served in northern California. Besides, if everything worked out the way she hoped, it was only a matter of time before Riley was hired as an Alamo Grace emergency department triage nurse. Time and an all-important medical clearance. It was in the works.
“Oh, I forgot,” Kate said, after checking her watch. “Your mother called.” She rolled her eyes. “Of course, it took me a minute to figure out that she wasn’t identifying the capital of North Carolina.”
Riley raised her brows.
“She asked for ‘Rah-lee,’ as in
Raleigh
.” Kate grinned widely, an event worth any teasing. “With an accent that still escapes me after nearly a year of living in this state. Anyway, she said she’d try your cell phone.”
“I’m sure she will.” Riley sighed. “To tell me one more time that I should move back to Houston.”
“And work at a hospital there?”
“Nope.” Riley grimaced. “To take a position on the board of my family’s charitable organization. Some of that involves grants for hospitals and clinics and scholarships for medical education.” She shook her head. “That’s the carrot, anyway—that I’d still be involved with medicine. But it would be a more ‘civilized environment.’ Which in Hale parentspeak translates into ‘safe.’”
“Maybe they have a point. Jack did dodge a flying oxygen tank today. And I’ve only been a nurse for five years, but I’ve been bitten and swung at, knocked over by gurneys, spit on, pushed—” Kate bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I don’t have to tell you that our work can be dangerous. You almost died on hospital grounds.” Her dark eyes were gentle. “But would it be so bad?”
“Going back to Houston?” Riley’s stomach tensed. “You mean giving up?”
“I mean not having to worry.” Kate glanced down at the trio of purple bruises on her arm. “About crumbling cookies. Or passing your next CPR recertification.” She met Riley’s gaze. “Being a chaplain’s one thing, but . . .”
“As triage nurse, I wouldn’t have to do those things.” Riley noted Kate’s sudden change of expression. “What?”
Kate was silent for a few seconds. “It’s just that no one can predict what will happen, Riley. You know that better than anyone. And so does nursing administration. A triage nurse is a staff nurse too, so—” Kate’s cell buzzed. She slid the phone from her pocket, scanned the text, and sighed.
“The ER?”
Kate stood. “Paula needs help holding a kid for treatment. Confetti under his upper eyelid. Or a piece of broken eggshell.” She wrinkled her nose. “Fiesta eggs. What do they call those things?”
“Cascarones.”
“Right. Supposed to bring luck if you get hit over the head with one. I think I’ll take my chances with a fortune cookie—never caught one in the eye.” Kate tossed her apple core into the pebbled trash can. “You’re off shift now?”
“Yes.” Riley stood and brushed the last lingering crumbs from her jacket. “But I need to pack up those training manikins in the conference room.”
“Have a housekeeping tech do that for you.”
“No need.” Riley hoped she was imagining the look on Kate’s face.
Like someone with a gimpy arm can’t manage that task.
“I got the equipment out, and I’ll put it back.”
“Sure.” Kate’s forehead wrinkled. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Of course not,” Riley said quickly, hating that she’d sounded defensive enough for her friend to pick up on it. “Thanks for the cookie.”
“Anytime . . . Rah-lee.”
Riley watched as Kate jogged the pavement toward the ambulance doors, stethoscope bouncing against her blue scrubs. A nurse going back to her team, fully capable of handling whatever came through those doors, knowing that her strength, intelligence, and skills could very well mean the difference between life and death for someone today. A woman confident in the face of that daunting challenge.
That used to be me.
Riley hugged her arms around herself, numb fingers gripping at the fabric of her jacket. Could Kate have any idea how much Riley wanted what she had? To feel whole, not broken . . . She thought of what Kate had said earlier this morning when Riley had failed to perform adequately on the CPR manikin. That as chaplain Riley
was
part of the emergency team, that she was great at what she did. What if she’d said that because she thought Riley would never be able to return to emergency department nursing?
“Being a chaplain’s one thing, but . . . A triage nurse is a staff nurse too . . .”
What had Kate meant by that? Was she still willing to talk with the other charge nurses about Riley’s job proposal?