by Jenni Ogden
“Yes, thanks, Georgia. Thank you for everything.” Brad couldn’t stop grinning.
“Hey, guys, enough of the thanks. I just did my job. You two did most of the hard work.”
There was a soft popping noise as baby Lara released Janet’s nipple and turned her head away from her mother’s breast. She opened her blue eyes wide and stared at me.
“And young Lara too of course.” I touched the baby’s soft cheek. “She did a good bit of the work as well.”
“She surely did,” agreed Brad. “Lara Katrina Maybelle McKenzie, welcome to the world.”
After I’d checked Janet over, I took the stairs to the operating suite. Karen wasn’t there, but I made myself at home in the small staff room, chatting to one of the nurses who had been in the theater last night, and had just come on duty again. It felt almost like being back in the neurosurgical tearoom in London. Before I’d finished my first cup of coffee, Karen appeared, her second procedure of the day finished.
“Georgia, great to see you. I hear that your op went swimmingly, and your patient is a box of birds.”
“It did, thanks. The theater staff were superb, and your theater was a dream to work in. That operating microscope is quite something. I’ll be putting in a request for the same model when I get home. Not that I’ll hold my breath; we’re not due for an upgrade for another two years.”
“It is good, isn’t it? And we’ve got a great team. P’raps you should think of coming here permanently,” Karen said, her eyebrows arching skywards.
“I’m not sure my family would thank me. It might be a bit hot here for us.”
“A tad warmer than England I guess. Perhaps I’ll go there. I could do with a change.”
“If you’re serious, I’d be happy to help. You can surely work hard, that I know.”
“Mmm. Katrina hasn’t given me much choice over my work hours. But you’re the famous one this morning. The whole place is talking about your amazing surgical skills. Maurice is thinking about changing his specialty from general surgery to neurosurgery after assisting you last night.”
“That’s praise indeed,” I said, wondering if the glow I was feeling showed on my face. “I hope he’s serious. We can do with all the neurosurgeons we can get.” I took a deep breath. “Karen, I’d be happy to help out for a few days until you get on top of things. When will your other neurosurgeons be back? You and Donald can’t go on by yourselves at this pace for much longer.”
“Could you really? That would be awesome.” Karen’s smile transformed her tired face. “We’re expecting the others back tonight or tomorrow, but even then we’re going to be pushed.”
“Phew, that’s a relief. I thought you might think I was being a bit presumptuous. Tell me what I can do to help.” I could feel the old excitement building inside me.
“You’re on. You can start with the two traumas that came in this morning from the New Orleans Convention Center. Did you hear that there are about 20,000 sheltering there, and apparently Michael Brown—he’s the FEMA head—and the Homeland Security Secretary weren’t aware of it until today? It’s a crazy thing to say, because broadcasters on CNN and FOX were pleading for help yesterday. But now it’s been declared unsafe and unsanitary, like the Superdome, and they’re going to try and evacuate it. There are dreadful reports of violence and shootings—rapes, too, apparently. The two traumas just admitted both have serious head injuries with bad depressed skull fractures. They were apparently in the same fight, on different sides. Are you up for that?”
“I am. Absolutely. Is it still OK for me to be operating on my Massachusetts license?
“You bet. These are still emergencies.” Karen shook her head. “Believe me, you’re not the only doctor working here on an out-of-state license. The sooner Blanco gets her act together and sorts it out so you can all work officially, the better.”
“Are the patients already in prep?”
“One is, one isn’t. Come with me and you can check the first guy in prep, and then scrub up.”
I phoned Adam every day. He’d discovered that booking flights was not easy, and that getting new passports would take at least a week, and then he had to post them to us. I told him I was thinking of driving back to New Orleans and getting our old ones. I was sure that if I explained the situation to whoever was in charge of the cleanup at the hotel, the passports would still be in our room. There was nothing essential in our suitcases other than my computer and Lara’s iPod, but if we could rescue those as well, that would be a bonus.
“Not Lara though,” Adam said. “I don’t want her going back there.”
That was fine by me, I didn’t want her seeing the horrors I knew would be everywhere. But I did want to catch up with Stork and Marcie and make sure they were OK.
“I bet your Mum and Dad were happy to hear your voice,” Adam said. “You should give a few more of your fans a call. Sarah has called here every day. And Sonja. Peter phoned yesterday and asked me to pass on to you that you’re needed back at work. You’ve been cleared for surgery again. He thinks you should be able to manage in a sterile London theater. He asked me to remind you that the Director applications are due at the end of the week, but he’s giving you a few extra days to get yours in.”
“Do you think he means it? Do Sarah and Simon think I’m OK to operate again?”
“I’m sure he means it. So I suppose it’s been discussed with all the appropriate people. They can hardly deny what’s in front of their noses; especially as it was on the BBC news that one of London’s own neurosurgeons had flown in on her unicorn to save New Orleans’ sorry butt.”
“Very funny. But I’ll take it.” I squeezed my eyes shut, and let it sink in. “It’s so bizarre. I came here with my career on hold and my daughter miserable because of me, and now…” I heard Lara’s laugh on the other side of the kitchen door. “My luck seems to have turned, all because of a disaster that’s destroyed thousands of lives and a beautiful city.”
Mulling over our conversation later, I told myself I should feel happier. No more feeling useless, no more therapy. The Directorship once again a possibility. Lara and I communicating better than we ever had. I think she was even proud of me. Adam and I still had a way to go, but he really did seem to want me home. Yet there was still something missing. I wanted to pretend it didn’t matter; shut it out of my thoughts as I had for so long. But it hung around, niggling and squirming. What had really happened that night? How had I known Danny’s body would be at the bottom of the Pa?
Chapter 22
As the days flashed past, my confidence grew, and not once did I feel a hint of anxiety or panic before or during surgery. We were worried about Savannah, but with Duncan’s help I discovered that she had indeed been taken to the Woman’s and Children’s Hospital in Lafayette. She’d been suffering from a bout of pneumonia but was slowly recovering, and her son Luke and his wife had been staying in Lafayette and visiting her daily. Janet continued to do well and was on track for discharge. She, Brad, and Lara's diminutive namesake planned to make a fresh start in Houston, Janet’s hometown. Their rented house in the Seventh Ward and all their worldly goods had been destroyed, first by the hurricane and then by the floods, and Brad said that if they never set foot in New Orleans again, it would be too soon. Katrina was being hailed as the worst natural disaster in US history. Even more disturbing was the US response to it—also the worst in the country’s history.
By Monday, September 5th, one week after Katrina hit New Orleans, I felt as if I’d been on staff at Thibodaux Regional Medical Center for months. The predicted suspension of State Licensure laws governing medical professionals had been issued by Governor Blanco the previous Friday, evaporating any misgivings I had about practicing without a Louisiana State license. All the missing neurosurgeons had returned now and most of the flooding had subsided in New Orleans, so I made plans to drive there and rescue our passports and suitcases. Adam had booked us back to London on a flight leaving from Baton Rouge on Friday, but
if I couldn’t get our passports we’d have to cancel until Adam had organized new ones and got them to us via the very uncertain post.
I’d been in contact with Stork and Marcie who now had mobile coverage; their house in Uptown New Orleans had suffered some storm damage, but it was not too bad, and they were determined to stay in the city to help with the massive cleanup. I empathized with their decision; I too felt the pull to return. The Big Easy had become more than simply a connection to my past—the Memorial ICU and its staff and patients were never far from my thoughts. I decided to rent a 4WD—in case of damaged or flooded roads—and drive to New Orleans, leaving Lara with Cheryl and Louie. She’d wanted to come of course, but even if Adam and I had been OK with that, the authorities wouldn’t be. Mayor Nagin had issued a complete evacuation of the city, with only people involved in the cleanup, health, or other essential services being permitted in. I was going to flash my medical credentials and say I was joining the medical teams. So by eight on Tuesday morning I was ready for the road, Cheryl not managing to hold back her tears as she hugged me tightly, and Lara giving me a High Five and a “You go show ‘em, Mamma.” She’d picked up a few Deep South expressions over the past few days.
The drive from Thibodaux to New Orleans, which in normal circumstances would have taken not much more than an hour, took me nearly three hours. From about thirty miles west of the city I was stopped three times at checkpoints where I had to show my physician ID. At the final checkpoint I only got through after the armed soldier phoned Stork, who assured her that I was a bona fide medic coming to work as an emergency doctor.
I felt shell-shocked as I drove the final stretch to Stork’s house in Carondelet Street—along Napoleon Avenue and St. Charles, through streets that looked as if a bomb had hit them. Cars abandoned by the curbside sported smashed windows and no wheels. Gas tanks had been forced open, and some still had hoses hanging out, abandoned after the gas was siphoned off. Trees were down everywhere and rubbish littered every street. Two bodies lay like bloated dolls in gardens no longer shrouded by fences.
After much hugging and tears, I presented Marcie and Stork with some cold ham, a selection of dairy products, and some battered vegetables I’d bought in Thibodaux. We were soon sitting down to what the children declared was the first proper feed they’d had since before Katrina. We adults sat up late into the night, exchanging stories of our experiences after Lara and I had flown away from Memorial. Stork’s recounting of the unbelievably putrid smells that now pervaded the city had us in fits of laughter. Not that stories of dead, bloated animals, overflowing trash cans and spoilt food rotting without refrigeration in the soaring temperatures were funny, but as Marcie remarked, wiping tears from her eyes, if you didn’t laugh you would never stop crying.
Best of all, Stork set me up on his computer. I could hardly believe that the Skype connection worked and I could not only talk to Adam and Finnie, but see their faces as well. The two weeks since we’d parted at Heathrow Airport, Adam and I still so unsure of each other, seemed like a lifetime. The horrors of evacuating Memorial, the excitement of operating again at Thibodaux, and the good friends Lara and I had made at both places, poured out of me. My two boys listened intently, asking only the occasional question as I unburdened myself. On my computer screen I could see the concern on Adam’s face as I talked.
“Be careful, won’t you,” he said, when Finbar had escaped, leaving his dad to his goodbyes. “The news is full of all the dreadful things happening there; murders and rapes and awful stuff. And you look terrible…”
“Thanks,” I said, trying to smile.
“You know what I mean. You’re on edge. You snap at me for the least little thing. And you’re still thinking of applying for that bloody directorship.”
“That’s unfair. I’m tired, obviously. But I’m not on edge, as you put it. Peter has given me until the Friday after I get back to get my application in, so he clearly believes I can do the job.” I swallowed, determined not to show how upset I was.
“You’ll no doubt do exactly what you want to do,” Adam said.
“Bully for me,” I answered. “I’ll phone you when I get back to Thibodaux.” And I clicked the Skype connection off and dissolved in tears.
Next morning, declining Stork’s offer to go with me, I found a tortuous route to Savannah’s house. I drove first along Magazine Street, the main road that ran parallel with St. Charles Avenue and formed the riverside boundary of the Garden District. The scene was much worse here. The fires that had raged uncontrolled through parts of the Garden District had left many of the beautiful old houses as charred ruins, surrounded by the blackened skeletons of their ornate iron fences. My horror escalated as I drove slowly towards Fourth Street and turned north along it, passing street after deserted street of despair. At last I drew up at the house Lara and I had been to twelve long days ago. Getting out and locking my vehicle in case there were looters still on the prowl, I looked around. There had been no fires here, but the garden was littered with branches and an enormous old magnolia tree lay across the path just inside the gate, now hanging open on its hinges. Looking up at the house I could see the top story sagging and shutters torn off one broken window. At least two windows on the lower level were smashed, one with a tree branch through it.
I climbed over the trunk of the magnolia, and stepping around glass and debris reached the front door. It stood ajar. Damn, it looked as if looters might already have been here. My heart thudding, I pushed the door open wider and went inside. The house had an unpleasant musty smell, but at least I couldn’t detect the putrid odor Stork had described so graphically. Perhaps no one had opened the fridge yet.
Memories flooded me as I gazed at the grand staircase rising from the dim entrance hall, shivering as the ghostly image of Savannah floated regally down it. Moving silently to the partially open door of the formal dining room, I pushed it inwards and peered into the gloom. I froze as I saw a man, his back to me, reaching up to a large picture above the fireplace—a portrait of Danny, his bright hair glowing in a ray of sunlight filtering through a broken window.
My whole body vibrating with rage, I sprang forward, grabbing the man by both arms. “Leave that alone,” I screeched, fury pounding through me. “How dare you steal these people’s belongings.”
The man swung around, arms flailing, the panic on his face rapidly replaced by anger. “Hang on, let me go,” he boomed. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“I’m a friend of the family,” I snapped, trying to regain my grip on the man. Shit, I’d seen this man before somewhere. I dropped my arms. “Who are you?”
“This is my house. What do you think you’re doing, walking in here?” The man glared at me.
“No,” I groaned. “You’re Leroy, aren’t you?”
The man’s eyes opened wide. “How did you know that?” Anger still distorted his face.
“I thought you were a looter, about to steal Danny's portrait.” I looked up at his image smiling down at me. “He looks so alive,” I said softly.
“And you are?” Leroy’s expression relaxed a little.
“I’m Georgia Grayson. I knew Danny. I was Georgia McKinlay then. I was with Danny just before he died. He showed me a photo of you and his mother.” I offered my hand. “I am so sorry, Leroy. I saw red when I saw you there. I had no idea you were in New Orleans.”
Leroy took my hand and gave it a squeeze. “Good grief. What on earth are you doing here?”
“How long have you got?” I said, suddenly feeling desperate to sit down. Relief, that’s what I was feeling.
“Come on through to the kitchen and I’ll see if I can find a wine or a beer. I’m not game to open the fridge, but there might be a bottle or two in the pantry. Thankfully I’ve managed to get some odd-job men to come in this afternoon to clean out the fridge and block up the broken windows and a hole in the roof.”
“Have you had any looters?” I asked, following him to the kitchen.
“I’
m afraid so. I only arrived from New Zealand yesterday. My mother’s in hospital and until she gets home I won’t know for sure what they’ve taken. They’ve made a pigsty of her bedroom, so they might have got some jewelry. And some silverware has gone from the dining room, but not Danny, thank goodness. That portrait is precious to Mom.”
Leroy fumbled around in the dark pantry and after a few moments hauled out two bottles of Budweiser’s. “Aha, the bastards didn’t find these at least. Probably too dark in there to see. We haven’t got any power yet. Hope you like beer. Do you want a glass?”
“No, I’ll do the Kiwi thing and drink from the bottle,” I said, grinning at him. We sat at the big table, and again the memories flooded back.
“So, spill.” Leroy leaned back, his expression curious.
I looked at him, remembering Danny's treasured photo of his parents. Leroy was still a fine looking man, his skin the color of Savannah’s—or the color I remembered it being seventeen years ago—his tightly curled black hair snowy white now, and his brown eyes still kind in his craggy face.
“The short version is that I was here in New Orleans for a work meeting and got caught up in Katrina,” I began. “Believe it or not, your mother was amongst the patients I looked after when I was helping out at Memorial—I’m a surgeon—and I organized her evacuation to Lafayette. Then I got evacuated and I’ve spent the last few days assisting at the hospital in Thibodaux. I managed to contact the Lafayette hospital and ask about your mother. She’s had a rough time with the pneumonia on top of her hip replacement, but the doctors are pleased with her progress; you probably know that? I was concerned about her house, so now that I’m back in New Orleans for a few days I thought I’d check on it. I’ve been here before; back when I first met Danny. That’s when I first met Savannah. ”
“I’ve heard a few strange tales since I arrived but that takes the cake. It’s a small world, eh!”
