“Okay, Mimi,” he said after Muriel left, “when you were in here before we didn’t have much interaction and I believe you were upset about the fact that Dr. Caine didn’t come in while you were here.” He repeated the events as he understood them and she agreed.
He asked a few more questions and discovered that one reason her husband had transferred to a smaller community was because of her inability to emotionally handle the stresses of their life in Little Rock
Grant was beginning to pick up on some key points but he wasn’t there yet. It didn’t sound like a problem with her gallbladder but he would check it out with ultrasound. It could be appendicitis but not likely. Chronic pain and illness could fray a person’s nerves but this patient had something else going on.
“How long have you been struggling with this?” he asked.
“Over two years, off and on.” She fidgeted with her hair, wiped her brow, turned her head from side to side as if to stretch her neck muscles. “It comes in spurts, like maybe I’m eating something that doesn’t agree with me.”
“Are you keeping a food diary?”
She shook her head.
“And you don’t remember any specific illness or injury that might have precipitated the problem?”
“I was on a diet when I first started getting all antsy and upset and I was afraid I’d gain my weight back.”
“Obviously you didn’t.”
There was a hint of a smile that barely registered before it was gone. She shook her head. “I lost more weight.”
“Mimi, what medications have you taken in the past two years?”
She had memorized quite a few medications that had been tried and she named them one by one. “Dr. Jonas tried to give me the same stuff twice and then he got huffy when I told him I was allergic to it, even though I’d told the nurse about it. Don’t people communicate in this place?”
“Sometimes it’s difficult but we try.”
“Please don’t tell me it’s in my head.”
“I’m not going to tell you that but would you please allow me to run some additional tests on you this time?”
“Do these tests involve needles?”
“I’d like to check a few leads out first but it will involve one needle, most likely. We’ll make it as painless as possible.”
She hesitated.
“Isn’t the pain you’re suffering worse than a little needle prick?”
She nodded.
He stood up and stepped out to get Muriel’s attention. He was going to risk the displeasure of her family doctor but he agreed with Muriel—there was something wrong with Mimi. He’d been fooled by drug seekers before and he might feel stupid about this later but he would feel worse if he overlooked a real problem and Mimi suffered because of it.
***
Lauren McCaffrey stepped out her front door with a feeling of freedom she hadn’t experienced in a while. She ignored the fact that guilt mingled with the other emotions. There was no reason for her to feel guilty. It was her day off, she owed no one a visit, had no responsibilities at church, and so what if she didn’t take her cell phone with her? For now she was a free agent and she intended to indulge in it.
Today was her day. The auto body shop had done a great job of repairing her truck and it was due for a road trip.
She locked her door and practically bounced down the sidewalk toward her ride. Tuesday night’s memories nudged her every few minutes and questions lingered. Despite that, she was going to do all she could to forget Grant’s question.
Some people thought there was something wrong with her simply because she enjoyed her own company from time to time. Brooke was especially confused when Lauren took time away from the crowds. But Brooke was president of whatever extravert club might exist. Lauren, on the other hand, had been an introvert in a large extraverted family.
That’s why she’d learned long ago to escape when she could where she could. It was why she loved fishing—always a nice solitary sport.
Yes, today would be a good day to escape for a while and enjoy the freedom of a beautiful day.
Chapter Sixteen
Grant sat down at his desk and pressed Lauren’s speed dial number. The phone rang four times before her machine answered. He heard his own voice advising him that he needed to leave a message after the tone.
When the kids gave Lauren a new answering machine for Christmas, Brooke had insisted they record the announcement with Grant’s voice in case strangers called. With the drug culture that had seemed to permeate the town this past year, it seemed like a logical suggestion.
“Lauren, this is Grant. If you’re asleep, I apologize.” He knew that wouldn’t be necessary. Lauren awakened at the first light of dawn. The kids teased her that she had a mind link with the fish. “When you get this would you give me a call? I’ll probably be at the hospital at least until noon finishing up some paper work. I’d like your input on a return patient.”
He hesitated. He wasn’t quite to the point of saying “I love you” on an answering machine that might announce his words to any of the McCaffrey clan who might be visiting and overhear his message. It wouldn’t embarrass him but it might put undue pressure on Lauren with her family.
Right now, for some reason, she wasn’t being very communicative.
Since his proposal Tuesday night she’d been unusually preoccupied. She didn’t joke with the staff, didn’t tease the patients, didn’t take breaks with Gina. It wasn’t like Lauren to isolate herself from others.
She obviously had a lot to think about.
Unfortunately, he’d had scarce opportunity to influence her thinking this week because she’d worked two additional shifts for another nurse on vacation. It was frustrating.
He returned to the central desk. “Vivian, I’m waiting to hear from Lauren. If she happens to call when I’m not here in the department would you page me? I really need to talk to her.”
“Will do, Dr. Sheldon.” The secretary didn’t look up from her work.
On his way back to talk to Mimi he passed Muriel in the hallway. She was rolling a syringe between her palms to warm the penicillin it contained. She grinned at Grant, nodded, opened the door to an exam room.
“Here we go, Mr. Scroggs. Get ready to feel better fast.”
There was a grunt. “Guess he told you where to stick it.”
“Yep, and I also heard him say it was my decision.” Muriel’s voice could be as tough as anyone’s when she wanted her way. “Better undo that belt, pal. This stuff is the consistency of glue. I’m not sticking it in your arm.”
Grant reentered the room where Mimi sat slumped on the side of the bed.
“How are you feeling now?” he asked.
“Better,” she mumbled. “Thanks for the pain shot. Is that blond-haired nurse here? Lori...or Lauren?”
“Sorry, not today.” He sat down beside the bed. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to talk another family member about the problems you’ve been having?”
She looked up. “Why?”
“Having the support of close friends and family can have a positive impact on your recovery.”
“My husband says I’m just trying to get attention.”
“You have my attention. Let’s see if we can’t help you get well.” He hesitated. “Mimi, we have a chaplain call system here at the hospital. I believe prayer also makes a big difference in the healing process, not only physical, but emotional. Would you like me to contact—?”
“No. I can’t stand the thought of some new stranger knowing about my business.”
“That’s okay, I understand, but if you should change your mind let me know and I can put you in touch—”
“Does it have to be a minister?”
“For prayer, you mean?”
She hesitated, nodded.
“No, Mimi. I can pray with you. I’d be happy to.”
Again, she nodded.
As he bowed his head Grant heard Scroggs’ call through the door. “H
ey, nurse! You sure you took that needle back out?”
***
“He’s been missing since last night?” Mrs. Boucher, the church secretary, typically had a gentle voice but this morning it shrilled over the receiver with enough force to make Jessica wince. “Have you called the police? Didn’t he go to that potluck deacon dinner at the church? Has he been to the hospital?”
“Yes, yes, and yes,” Jessica said. “The last ones to see him were hospital personnel. The police have no reports on him and I haven’t tried to call any of the deacons yet.”
“Well, those are the ones we need to contact. Jessica, I wish you’d called me last night. I bet you’ve been pacing the floor all night long.”
“No, I really thought he might have been stranded at Mrs. Eddingly’s house because of the flooding. Dr. Sheldon thinks so, too, and he still could be. I tried calling there, but her phone line is most likely down. I’m probably overreacting and he’ll either come walking through the back door any moment or he’ll call me—”
“Meanwhile it doesn’t hurt us a bit to start praying. I’ll start the prayer chain and if anyone knows anything I’ll have them call you directly.”
Jessica thanked her and said good-bye, then sank down onto the sofa with an initial wash of relief. She didn’t feel so alone now. Why hadn’t she called Mrs. Boucher sooner?
The relief lasted for about sixty seconds. As she thought about it, the panic—which she had fought so hard to control during the night—threatened to overwhelm her. Mrs. Boucher had taken this so seriously. All the excuses, the possible reasons for Archer’s absence, were beginning to weaken. She clung to the hope that he was stranded somewhere safe from the flooding.
But the hope had let her down.
She punched in the prefix of the next number on her list and then faltered, battling the effects of an extended overdose of adrenaline as nausea and dizziness attacked her. She replaced the receiver and forced herself to stand up and walk to the bathroom to splash her face with cold water.
In the mirror she looked drawn, lips pale, eyes shadowed. Looking at her reflection, she could no longer ignore what she had struggled so hard to deny—she was terrified that something bad had happened to Archer. What if something totally unrelated to the storm...?
Patting dry with a towel, she walked into the bedroom where the bathroom light reflected against a plaque awarded to Archer by the city for providing drug awareness education to the teenagers in Dogwood Springs and the surrounding towns.
The amount of drug activity in this town had dropped with amazing speed since the drug bust at Christmas—and since Simon Royce’s death. Because of the drug war, Sergeant Tony Dalton had been blinded in a booby trap last year.
What if someone had chosen last night to retaliate for Archer’s role in the battle?
Jessica tried to dismiss the unreasonable fear but at this point her imagination was attacking her with vicious intensity.
Her gaze fell to the silver-framed photograph of Archer on the nightstand on her side of the bed. She never tired of looking at those beautiful deep blue eyes, so filled with... life.
A knot moved from her chest to her throat. Archer would never leave her to agonize this way if he could help it.
She picked up the telephone and dialed Tony Dalton’s home number. He was one of Archer’s closest friends. She would remain calm. She would simply explain to Tony that she was an overreacting newlywed and would like to know if she could have her husband arrested for abandonment. Keep it light. Don’t let him know how many times she’d thought the worst over the past few hours.
But then he answered with a sleepy voice after the first ring and for a moment Jessica couldn’t speak.
“Hello?” he repeated. “Archer?” The grogginess in his voice dissipated.
“No, Tony. It’s Jessica.”
“Jess? Is something wrong?”
She took a deep breath. “I need help.”
There was a sound of movement and a surge of tension over the line. “What’s wrong?” Tony became a police officer.
Mental visions Jessica had tried so hard to battle all night now thrust toward her with overwhelming force. Archer in trouble. Archer hurt... maybe even dead! Life without him. Her head suddenly felt too light for her body. She couldn’t fight the fear any longer, not even for a few seconds.
“Please, God,” she whispered. “Please, God, don’t let this be happening.” She was going to lose control.
“Jess, what’s wrong?”
“Archer didn’t come home last night.” She paused, took a breath, forced herself past a wave of dizziness. She could no longer convince herself everything would be okay. As tears ran unchecked from her eyes, she spilled out her fears over the telephone.
***
Mitchell fried eggs and made toast and tried, time after time, to talk through a terminally dry throat. So far their conversation had been stilted. What was he supposed to say? Welcome home?
This wasted young woman slumped at his dining room table wasn’t the child who had grown up under this roof.
Trisha had refused to step foot in this house for three and a half years. The drug addiction, the pregnancy, possibly even countless abortions had transformed his daughter into a wasted skeleton with track marks instead of jewelry on her arms. Instead of looking like a young woman nearing her twenty-first birthday she looked... old.
He placed the toast on the table. The organic whole grain bread had been in the freezer for weeks. Since Darla left he had eaten out most of the time. “You’re probably hungry,” he said. “I can cook more eggs.” He put a glass of milk in front of the silent wraith and returned to the stove.
“No.”
He looked back at her. After she fainted, he had revived her, checked her over physically, forced her to drink some orange juice. Then he had carried her to the guest bedroom and let her sleep. She had wandered into the kitchen only moments ago, bleary-eyed and silent.
Now she just stared at the food in front of her. “My bedroom...isn’t mine anymore.”
He nodded and pulled a chair out and then hesitated, unwilling to sit down across from her and endure that dead stare. “Your mother took the furniture when she moved out.”
Trisha winced and hunched down further in her chair, not moving to pick up a fork or knife, ignoring the food. “She took my stuff?”
He finally forced himself to sit down. “Trisha, how long has it been since you spoke with her?”
She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “A few months.”
“Did she know where you were? I can’t believe she would leave you to wonder where she was, not after—”
“You think I’m lying?” Trisha snapped.
Steel met stiletto and clashed. She definitely had his sharp tongue and icy stare. What father wouldn’t be proud?
He waited until Trisha looked away. “What I’m saying,” he replied quietly, “is that your mother made you the focus of her life for twenty years. When I refused to allow her to drain our bank account dry—”
A snort from Trisha pricked his temper and he waited until she was acceptably silent for several seconds before continuing. “All I’m saying is that your mother sold some of her good jewelry in order to send you money every month.”
“She shouldn’t have had to do that.”
“You’re right for once. At the age of twenty, if you hadn’t destroyed the last four years of your life, you might be in college focusing on your future—in whatever career you might have chosen.” He felt another rush of frustrated rage at the rebellion that had destroyed her.
He needed to calm himself. It would do no good to fight her. She might even be under the influence at this moment. This wasn’t the right time.
“And since I didn’t finish school like a good little girl you cut me off,” she said.
“I didn’t cut my daughter off. I cut off a drain of drug money that went straight into my daughter’s destruction in the form of methamphetamine. I tried to cut off the f
low of poison that murdered my own granddaughter.”
She sucked in a hard breath.
He bit back the angry flow of words, wincing at the look of shock on her face. He must calm down, find some kindness somewhere, or he would destroy any chance he would ever have to repair the damage that had shattered this family years ago.
Trisha hugged her frail arms around her skeletal body.
Mitchell forced himself to breathe deeply, to look away from the sad specter of what could have been. He could at least try to prevent further fractures. Until Trisha arrived he hadn’t even expected this opportunity.
“Your mother—” How he hated the woman right now. He deeply resented the necessity of repairing Darla’s reputation for her own daughter’s sake. But for Trisha’s sake it was a necessary evil. “Misguided as she was, your mother went to a great deal of trouble to see that you received money every month.”
Tricia gave a garbled snort. “Sure. To keep me out of her hair, stifle her conscience.”
“You can’t have it both ways, Trisha. Are you telling me you resent your mother for sending you support money every month and that you also resent me for withholding what I knew to be your drug money?”
“That’s right, stick me in the middle of your little tug-of-war with Mom.”
Mitchell grasped the table edge. Darla’s sick preoccupation with their daughter had caused this whole mess in the first place and all the brat could do was blow her mother off? And him? She’d never grown up in spite of the years that had passed. She was still that spoiled child whose only concern was for her own—
“Where will I sleep?” Trisha asked.
Mitchell studied a worn hole in the shoulder of her T-shirt. She belonged on the doorstep like the beggar she had become. “You can use the guest room. Forgive me if I sound like your mother but your food is getting cold.” He heard the emptiness of his own words but what else could he say? He had so many questions for her but if he asked them wouldn’t she just grab her grocery bag and flounce back out the front door?
URGENT CARE Page 15
