by Patti Berg
“What you can do,” Penny stated, “is pretend you didn’t hear a thing, that you didn’t see a thing. And I strongly suggest that you keep this incident to yourself.”
With that, the rather tall, gangly woman with a tight curl in her short hair, stepped back into her office and slammed the door behind her.
Mind my own business? That’s impossible.
Hope Haven was Elena’s home away from home. She was like a mother hen when it came to protecting those she loved.
She was going to peck away at this situation until she got to the bottom of it.
Chapter Two
ELENA TOOK A BITE OUT OF A CRISP FUJI APPLE, savoring its sweetness as she sat at the desk in the ICU nurses’ station, enjoying the first few moments of peace and quiet she’d had all day. She’d discharged two patients, admitted one and put up with a thirty-nine-year-old, tall and somewhat obese real estate investor—Harrison Fogarty. He’d been a hairsbreadth from dying when he was admitted two days ago; now he was quarrelsome and obnoxious.
“Hey, you. Cinderella.” Mr. Fogarty’s shout echoed through the Intensive Care Unit hallway. “Where’s that extra pillow you promised me a good hour or two ago?”
As if his voice wasn’t loud enough to catch Elena’s attention, Harrison Fogarty continued to hit the “I need you now!” buzzer mounted much too close to his trigger finger.
How many pillows could one man possibly need? Elena thought, taking one last bite out of her apple. Already today she’d fluffed his pillows three times and along with taking his vitals, changing his IV bag and spoon-feeding him strawberry gelatin—the first solid food the doctor had allowed him to have—she’d changed his sheets because he thought they were lumpy.
“Did you flunk bed-making in nursing school?” he’d asked, aiming his implacable blue eyes at his nurse. “I’m paying good money to stay in your hospital. The least you could do is provide me with a comfortable bed.”
Fogarty’s grumpiness had not been the best followup to Frederick Innisk’s blunt behavior this morning.
Why me, Lord?
Never had a patient—especially a man knocking on death’s door—been such a pain.
Well, maybe he wasn’t the worst she’d experienced in her sixteen years at Hope Haven, but he was close.
Elena spun away from her desk. Her few minutes of peace and quiet were over, but at least she’d been able to eat half of her chicken salad sandwich and most of her apple while reviewing patient charts and ordering medications from the pharmacy.
Standing, she scooped her hair up into a ponytail and smoothed a crinkle or two out of the pink and blue Cinderella scrubs she’d chosen to wear today, the ones that had given Harrison Fogarty reason to call her Cinderella all day long.
Most patients liked hearing Elena’s story about her five-year-old granddaughter Isabel’s having picked out the fabric for a lot of Elena’s scrubs. “This one’s pretty, Buela,” Izzy would say, using a shortened form of the Spanish word for grandmother—Abuela—she’d started using as a toddler. “Your patients will like this.”
Harrison Fogarty couldn’t care less about Elena’s stories, her granddaughter or what her scrubs looked like. He was ornery that way.
Irritable sourpusses seemed to be her lot in life today.
Elena washed her hands, grabbed an extra pillow from a storage closet, slipped it into a crisp, clean and perfectly ironed pillowcase, and stepped into Mr. Fogarty’s room not a moment too soon. His trigger finger was just about to hit the button again.
“It’s about time you showed up. My back’s killing me and you’ve got so many contraptions shoved into my arms and up my nose and every other orifice you could find, that I can barely move.”
Elena’s gaze shot toward heaven. Oh, dear Lord, she prayed silently, grant me patience.
“Let’s see if we can make you a little more comfortable, Mr. Fogarty,” Elena said, untangling the jumble of tubes and catheters trailing from his body.
“You said that earlier this morning, and you didn’t have much success, did you?”
If he was trying to get her dander up, he was doing a good job. But quarrelling with patients wasn’t in her job description. Better to win him over with kindness—if at all possible.
“I know it’s not easy lying in bed for days on end. Maybe—”
“I told the doctor I wanted to go home,” he interrupted, drawing his shoulders back, perhaps hoping that might ease some of his pain. “Told my wife to get me out of here. But no one’s listening.”
Elena pressed a button on his bed rail, and as the head of the bed rose, she said, “You lost a lot of blood, you’ve just had surgery and you’re weak. I know how much you want to go home, but your wife and your doctors want you healthy, which means staying in bed for another day or two and letting me and the other doctors and nurses take care of you.”
“I don’t have the time to lie around—sick or not. I’ve got work to do. Money to make. A family to provide for.”
Elena wanted to tell him he might drop dead if he left the hospital—and who’d provide for his family then?—but she bit her tongue. She grabbed the pillow from the foot of his bed and wedged it under the small of his back. “How does that feel?”
“Lumpy.”
Elena stood back, hands on hips and gritted her teeth. She would not yell. She would not get angry. “You know…,” she declared, forcing herself to smile at the man who had too many chins, was sprouting a thick white beard and was beginning to look a lot like Tim Allen getting hefty in The Santa Clause. Unfortunately, he wasn’t as jolly. “It’s possible that that bed could be part of your trouble. I’ll see what I can do about getting you a different one, but for now, let me get a foam-rubber waffle pad that’ll make it a little softer. Do you think that might help?”
“Maybe.”
At least he didn’t bark “I doubt it.” She was making some headway.
“I can adjust that pillow again and bring you a warm blanket.”
Harrison Fogarty glared at Elena.
Elena smiled back.
Slowly, ever so slowly, as if he were contemplating his options—continue to complain or be nice for a change—he pushed himself up in the bed.
“Okay, you win. Readjust my pillows…please.”
Elena fluffed and then stuffed two of the hospital’s less-than-plump pillows behind his back. At the rate he was going, every hospital pillow would be in this room in another day or two. “How’s that?” she asked.
Mr. Fogarty wiggled around. “Much better.”
Elena walked to the sink just a few feet away from his bed, soaked a washcloth in cold water and wrung it out before going back to Mr. Fogarty and gently wiping his brow.
“How’s everything else feeling—on a scale of one to ten, with one being not so bad and ten being horrid?”
“Somewhere between a four and five, I suppose, except for my big toe, which is a twelve.” He attempted to smile. In spite of being a grump, he had been a very sick grump who’d needed eight units of blood. If he’d been older, he’d probably be standing at the Pearly Gates right about now.
Elena walked to the end of the bed and lifted the covers, caring for him as gently as she would any other patient. “What’s wrong with your toe?”
“Don’t laugh. I think I might have gangrene.”
“I think you’re in luck,” Elena said, inspecting the inflamed tip of his big toe. “It looks like the blankets have rubbed it raw while you’ve been lying here. I’ll get some antibiotic ointment and a bandage and fix it right up. And if you’d like, we can put a little something at the end of the bed to make a tent for your feet, so the blankets don’t rub on your toes any longer.”
“Thank you. I’d like that.”
Elena smiled. “Why don’t you close your eyes and try to rest. I’ll be back in just a bit. And if you think I’m taking too long or you think I’ve forgotten you, just trust me. I’ve never forgotten a patient yet.”
The hospital’s f
irst-floor conference room was strewn with colorful pillows and mats as pregnant women practiced their breathing techniques with their labor coaches—husbands, sisters, or friends. Candace Crenshaw breathed with them as she strolled around the room, the gold and copper highlights in her short, wavy brown hair shining under the conference room’s strong lights. She watched each team and offered individual advice if anyone needed help.
A registered nurse in the Birthing Unit at Hope Haven and a certified childbirth instructor, Candace taught an evening class four times a month. The hospital administrators had recently asked her if she could add an afternoon class, and she’d loved the idea.
Candace was tranquil and reserved, and through years of teaching, she’d fallen into a relaxed routine that put everyone at ease—not always the easiest accomplishment when working with pregnant women and their almost-always nervous husbands.
“When most of you were born, and long before that,” Candace said, her voice warm and comforting, “most childbirth classes focused simply on breathing techniques to cope with the pain of labor. But we’ve learned so much more in the last twenty years. Nowadays, we teach—”
The conference room’s door burst open. Frederick Innisk—short, hawk-nosed and the only frightening member of Hope Haven’s board of directors—made a grand entrance.
What’s he doing here? “Mr. Innisk, I have a childbirth class going on,” Candace said, walking toward him, her five pregnant students and their labor coaches forgetting all about their breathing exercises as they watched her approach the intruder. “I hope there wasn’t some kind of mix-up on the conference room schedule. I’ve had this room reserved for over a month now.”
Even though he was short, he towered over Candace’s five foot one frame. “No mix-up,” he said, his voice reeking of condescension. “I’m here to watch your class.”
Oh, great! Candace wanted to put her hand on his arm and persuasively lead him out of the room. His presence could make her students uncomfortable, not to mention making her totally ill at ease. She’d heard him arguing with her friend Elena Rodriguez months ago about the Wall of Hope, and she didn’t want to suffer through a similar experience. Unfortunately, he was a board member, and she couldn’t tell him to leave.
“I have some videotapes of actual birthing classes, if you’d like to see what I teach and how the students respond. I have some books too,” Candace offered. “I’d be happy—”
“It’s not my intention to get in your way.” His beady eyes canvassed the room, his glare resting on one pregnant woman after another. Was there something more he wanted to say? “I’ve heard talk about these classes you teach.” He cleared his throat. “Now I want to see you in action.”
Oh dear.
Frederick Innisk headed straight to the back corner of the room, turned and folded his arms over his chest. He stood motionless, watching Candace, ready to listen to her every word.
Her initial reaction was to run; but if Dean—her late husband—had been here, he would have told her to fight on. “Quitters never prosper,” Dean had said more than once. She wished he were standing by her side now, supporting her. But he’d been gone for three years, a sudden brain aneurism leaving her a widow with two young children.
Dean’s death and the fact that she hadn’t been able to say good-bye, hadn’t been able to tell him she loved him, still tormented her; but she refused to let Mr. Innisk’s pugnacious glare torment her as well.
She drew in a breath and turned away from Mr. Innisk, as if she’d been able to blink him out of her life and out of the conference room. Smiling at her class, pretending nothing was wrong, that Innisk’s presence was normal, she said, “Let’s breathe together one more time. Inhale deeply and slowly through your nose.”
Candace watched her students as they inhaled. “Great. Now, let it out through your mouth. Slowly. Slowly.”
All eyes turned to Candace at the end of that exercise. She’d done these classes so many times that she knew her script by heart, but Mr. Innisk was making her nervous, making it impossible for her to concentrate. Why was he watching her? Bothering her? Had she done something wrong? Had one of her students complained about her?
She refused to sigh and let Frederick Innisk know that he was driving her crazy. The thank-you notes in her personnel file proved she was a good instructor. Everyone knew that she loved teaching. She could not and would not let Frederick Innisk dampen her enthusiasm.
Leaning against the edge of a table, she picked up one of the pamphlets she’d planned to hand out to her students at the end of the class, hoping it would help her focus again. Fortunately, one of her students raised her hand, giving her a reprieve.
“You said the breathing will help us relax,” the student at the back of the room said. “Will it take away the pain too?”
“Actually,” Candace said, smiling at the flame-haired woman, “breathing the right way will help you cope with the pain. It’ll help to calm and relax you during labor.”
“Will it help calm my husband?”
Candace laughed, looking from the Hi, my name is GINGER sticker on the redhead’s turquoise sweater, to her labor coach. Wearing a Hi, my name is STEVE tag, her husband looked to be in his midthirties, like his wife, an age that was becoming more and more common for first-time parents. “If you’re nervous, Steve—”
“It’s not that I’m nervous, ma’am,” he said, his deep, Southern accent edged with concern. “It’s just that I might be on duty. And if I get called out on a fire, Ginger will be on her own.”
“You’re a fireman?” Candace asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve been with the Deerford Fire Department since February. We lived in Orlando before that.”
“We’ll take good care of Ginger, whether you’re able to be here or not,” Candace said, smiling at the nervous father-to-be. “Since you’re new in town, there’s something you should know about Deerford—we’re a close community. We like to take care of our own. And if Ginger goes into labor while you’re out fighting a fire, we’ll take every step imaginable to get you here so you can be at her side.”
“But she’ll be alone if—”
“She won’t be alone,” Candace said. “Don’t you worry about that.”
“I’ve been telling him that,” Ginger added, squeezing her husband’s hand, “but he worries about me.”
“When are you due?” Candace asked, although she could pretty much tell from the size of her belly that Ginger was somewhere in her third trimester. She liked getting to know a little bit about each of her students; and, if she was on duty when they gave birth, she enjoyed helping them through the process.
“Right around Thanksgiving,” Ginger said, without any trace of her husband’s Southern accent. “We’ve got the nursery ready and my suitcase is packed and—oh dear, I’m talking too much. I have a tendency to do that on occasion.”
“If talking gives you comfort,” Candace said, moving about the room, looking at her other students, making sure they were taking in her words, “remember…you can talk all you want in Labor and Delivery. You can talk to your baby, to your husband, to the doctors. You can even sing if you’d like. Giving birth is as normal as breathing. Your body will know what needs to be done. You just need to relax and let it happen.”
A phone rang, startling Candace out of teaching mode. She’d gotten so wrapped up in her talk that she’d forgotten Frederick Innisk was standing at the back of her class, leaning against the wall, watching her, even as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and said hello.
“Uh-huh.” He paused, turning toward the windows that looked out on the tall, leafless trees surrounding Hope Haven. “I see.” Another pause, this one even longer. “No!” His voice rose to shouting level. “Absolutely not.”
Shutting his cell phone and gripping it in his fist, Frederick Innisk stalked out of the conference room as loudly as he’d stormed in, making an impression on her students—and not a good impression, at that.
Thank g
oodness he’s gone!
“Now,” Candace said, drawing everyone’s attention back to her, once again pretending nothing at all had happened, “why don’t we practice some massage techniques.”
Nearly every woman in the room sighed. This was the part of class her students, especially the mothers-to-be, always liked best.
A nice massage was something Candace had always loved. She missed them. She missed Dean. And not for the first time, she wondered if she’d ever get used to his being gone.
With her reading glasses perched on her nose, Anabelle Scott stared at the computer monitor, proofreading one of the myriad administrative documents she had to submit each week. Life had been simpler when she was strictly a registered nurse at Hope Haven. Since she’d become nurse supervisor in the Cardiac Care Unit, the number of reports she’d had to prepare each week had increased at least tenfold, keeping her from spending as much time as she’d like with patients. Still, she enjoyed supervising the other nurses, offering advice, making suggestions on patient care and attending advanced training so she and her staff could offer the best care imaginable.
When she was satisfied the report was perfect, she hit one simple key and sent it off to Human Resources. She wasn’t all that crazy about the computerized system that had been installed in the hospital a few years ago. She much preferred writing everything by hand. But sending reports electronically was much easier and, fortunately, didn’t waste paper.
With just another few keystrokes, she logged off the computer—and it was only a quarter past three. For a change, she was ending her shift almost on schedule.
Tucking her glasses into the pocket of her lab coat, she grabbed her purse out of the bottom drawer in the desk behind the CCU counter and put her hand to her mouth, hoping no one would notice her yawn. She might be nearly sixty-three and gray-haired, but she didn’t have any plans to retire, and she didn’t want anyone to think that working full time was too taxing for her.
Standing, she pressed her hands against the small of her back to stretch out the kinks. She’d worked hard today, putting together a request for an extra registered nurse and sending it to the nursing administrator, Leila Hargrave, even though she doubted it would be okayed considering all the recent budget constraints.
