Rescue Team

by Candace Calvert

  “Let’s cut these wet clothes off.” The tech looked toward the warming unit being wheeled into the corner of the room. “Good, the Bair Hugger’s here. We’ll have her temp reading in a minute.”

  “X-ray’s standing by for a portable,” Kate reported, her throat constricting as the young patient’s eyes met hers. So lost and alone. She caught the doctor’s attention. “Think you’ll have to intubate?”

  “She’s tired but still making a fighting effort.” The physician, a father of teenagers, looked at the girl’s face and sighed. “With her Glasgow well above 8, I’m going to give her some time on BiPAP while we run arterial gases. I expect her PO2’s will be low—we can support that. But if her PCO2’s are high, there’s a ventilatory problem, and she’ll get that tube.” He nodded at Dana. “We’ll get her dry and warm. Let me know as soon as you have a temp. Start another IV line, pull blood for labs—I’ll write those orders. Tox screen too. Pregnancy test. Put in a Foley cath. We’ll want to x-ray her neck, clear it before we get complete chest films. Once I have a better look at her, I’ll be able to tell you what else I’ll need.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dana told him, getting the monitoring equipment ready as the techs cut away the girl’s multiple layers of soaked clothing. She glanced at Kate, her expression wary.

  “Good,” Kate said, not entirely sure who she was addressing. “I’m going to see what the social worker’s found out about contacts and family.” She took another look at the pale girl battling to breathe. If this had happened to Kate in Las Vegas, they would have notified her father. And he’d have discovered my pregnancy.

  Kate stepped into the outer corridor, surprised to find Lauren.

  “I’m filling in for Dana for a couple of hours,” Lauren explained. “Didn’t she tell you?”

  “She barely looks at me these days. But I’m always glad to have you. What’s going on with Dana?”

  “Baby Doe. That church is having a memorial service today. She wants to be there.”

  “Oh.”

  “One of the ICU nurses is married to a PD officer; she told me undercover detectives would be there too.”

  “In case the mother . . .” Kate’s voice caught. “Shows up.”

  “Sad business all around.”

  “Yes,” Kate agreed, remembering what Lyon had said about the optimal outcome for all of this. That the mother “. . . stays lost, the church buries Baby Doe, and it all dies down.”

  “Miserable situation. This morning’s not much better. I’m on my way to find the social worker—” Kate nodded toward the trauma room—“for our near drowning. A teenager from a homeless camp. They rescued her from a flooded creek.”

  “I heard.” Lauren’s lips hinted at an incongruous smile. “From your rescue man.”

  “My . . .” Kate tried to deny the sudden quiver. “You mean Wes?”

  “You have more than one?” Lauren teased, hitching her thumb over her shoulder. “He’s nursing a cup of scalding coffee in the ambulance bay. And he’s drenched. Someone should put plastic caution cones around that man.”

  “I’ll see about that,” Kate told her, hoping her face didn’t look as pink as it suddenly felt. Caution cones? She smiled. It was too late for that.

  - + -

  “Will you mention it again, please?” Judith peered through a narrow opening in the window separating the waiting room from the emergency department registration office. She wanted to be sure Beverly understood the seriousness of the situation.

  The clerk stared back at her, holding a phone receiver protectively against her shoulder. Likely a personal conversation Judith had interrupted. They were all too frequent.

  “I’m certain the triage nurse would want to know that Mr. Beck has begun to perspire,” Judith explained. The sixty-year-old truck driver’s face had gone suddenly pale, maybe even gray. Something was definitely wrong. Judith searched for the word she’d seen in her Internet medical research. “Tell the triage nurse that Mr. Beck has become . . . diaphoretic.”

  Beverly frowned. “I get it. He’s sweating. I’ll check the thermostat. People complain it’s cold. Then it’s too hot. This humidity is making things all wonky. All I can do is—”

  “No. Wait,” Judith insisted. “That’s not what I meant, Beverly. He’s not sweating because it’s hot in here. He’s sicker.”

  The clerk leaned toward the window, stared into the waiting room. “Is he having chest pains? It doesn’t say chest pains on his admission note.”

  Judith was tempted beyond reason to lie. “Not exactly. He told the nurse it’s his gallbladder. He ate chile rellenos last night. He knew it was a bad idea. But some people can’t tell the difference between indigestion and cardiac pain. And with this sudden heavy sweating, I think—”

  “Sure. I understand, hon.” Beverly’s patronizing smile pointed to an essential truth: Judith was a volunteer. Her role was to fetch coffee, direct patients to the restrooms, work puzzles with the children. And push wheelchairs . . . with careful supervision. Medical diagnosis was not part of the deal. “I’ll tell the triage nurse what you said.”

  “When?” Judith jutted her jaw and felt her angel earrings rally. “How long will Mr. Beck have to wait? It’s been close to forty minutes now.”

  The clerk’s smile vanished. She held up a finger, whispered something into the phone, and disconnected. “The nurses in the back are busy with that girl who almost drowned. That is a priority. Meaning they probably won’t have time for Mr. Beck right now.” The barely tolerant smile returned. “But as soon as the triage nurse is finished with the baby she’s seeing now, I’ll tell her that Mr. Beck’s gallbladder situation is worse. No worries, hon.”

  Judith bit her lip, made herself nod patiently despite rising anger.

  No worries? It was Beverly who should worry. That woman was sadly mistaken if she believed Judith would put a patient at risk so she could resume her personal phone call. And nibble on that warehouse-size bag of cheese puffs she kept in the desk drawer. Judith would do what was right. She’d check on Mr. Beck again and take whatever actions were necessary to—

  Except that he was gone.

  Judith stood at the vacant chair, her anxiety rising. “Where’s that man who was sitting next to you?” she asked the woman who’d injured her wrist in a fall at a grocery store. “Balding. Wearing a blue jacket with a trucking company logo. You were talking to him . . .”

  “He went to the bathroom.” The woman pointed her ice pack toward the far hallway. “He looked like he was going to vomit.”

  “How long’s he been gone?” Dread made Judith’s mouth dry.

  “Quite a while. Poor man—he said something about bad Mexican food.”

  Oh, please . . .

  Judith jogged toward the hallway bathroom, heart pounding.

  - + -

  “You found me,” Wes told Kate, remembering that she’d used those exact words yesterday. The prelude to some very memorable minutes in the rain at Zilker Park. She had raindrops in her hair right now. His pulse quickened and he reminded himself that it was completely inappropriate to pull her into his arms. “You must have seen Lauren.”

  “Yes.” Kate stepped closer to the sheltered visitors’ bench, the Bambi eyes moving over his rescue attire: rain suit, boots, vest, radio. “She said you were drenched. I’d say she has accurate assessment skills.” A smile teased her lips, quickly replaced by a flicker of concern. “You went into the creek after that girl?”

  “Climbed out on the fallen tree mostly. The swift-water team provided the real expertise. How’s Carly doing?”

  “Awake, still confused. On BiPAP by now. We’ll know more when we see the blood gases. But . . .” Her eyes held Wes’s long enough to make his breath snag. “You got to her in time.”

  “The team—”

  “You saved her life, Wes.” Her fingers brushed his shoulder. It took all he had not to capture her hand, raise it to his lips.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m glad we found Carly
. She’s just a kid.”

  “Social services will try to locate contacts, phone numbers—family.”

  “That group she was with is familiar to PD. Transients.” Wes hesitated, knowing the impact the scenario must hold for Kate personally. “She’s probably . . .”

  “A runaway.” Kate crossed her arms, rubbing the sleeves of her scrub jacket as if suddenly chilled. “The tech thought so.” She gazed at the continuing rain. “Lousy time to be on your own.”

  “The year I was gone was a terrible time in my life.” Wes recalled the pain on Kate’s face when she shared that confidence. He hated to imagine what she’d endured.

  “Are the counties anticipating more flooding and rescue calls?” She looked toward his truck parked nearby: tailgate still down, his twenty-four-hour pack, helmet, and the rest of his gear inside.

  “The rain’s supposed to continue until tomorrow sometime. But lighter, I think.” Wes reminded himself to check the weather feed on his phone app. “Those west Texas cells are moving through. TV and radio stations are broadcasting the usual warnings about low-water crossings.”

  “‘Turn around; don’t drown.’ I’ve seen the ads. And those videos. Scary.”

  “You’d be surprised how many people take the risk anyway. Drive right into the water.”

  Wes saw Kate flinch and knew she was thinking about his mother. He was glad she didn’t know the whole story.

  “I suppose the greenbelt is flooding too.” Kate frowned. “There goes my jogging. Such as it was.”

  “For a while probably. Reports say there’s at least one major sinkhole on the trail. Near the Zilker trailhead. And mudslides, trees down. Lots of debris. They brought bulldozers in during the break this morning, started some of the cleanup. The rest will have to wait a few days. Meanwhile it’s all behind barricades.”

  Wes had heard something else. A grid search for evidence in the Sunni Sprague case was indeed being organized. The area would include the greenbelt trail not far from Zilker Park—after the rains let up and they could get volunteer teams in. There was already some covert discussion between crews eager to clear the park and law enforcement intent on preserving evidence. But bottom line: jogging and searching were both on hold for now.

  “I’ll be doing Pilates,” Kate said with a sigh. “DVD in my living room with no risk of flash flooding or—” She stopped short, peering toward a buzzing crowd of people near the doors to the emergency department waiting room. “What’s happening?”

  “Nurse!” a man shouted, waving frantically at Kate. “Some guy’s passed out on the floor in the bathroom and the volunteer lady needs help—hurry!”

  - + -

  Oh, please . . . help . . .

  Judith told herself not to panic, to keep on until help came. It would, wouldn’t it?

  A crowd had gathered. Knees, feet—she couldn’t see more from down on the lavatory floor. Couldn’t take the time to try. Voices, shouts. Her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.

  “What’s happening?” someone shouted.

  “That lady’s doing CPR—tell somebody. Get some nurses over here!”

  Press down on his chest; count. Judith rocked forward on her knees again, lowering her full weight onto her palms. Flat against the center of Mr. Beck’s breastbone. She counted each compression out loud, a fearful quaver making it sound like a foreign language. “One and two and three and four and—”

  Her gaze darted toward the man’s face, too much like a death mask already: gray skin, blue lips, eyes glazed and unseeing. It had been terrifying to find him like that and a miracle he hadn’t taken time to lock the bathroom door behind him. She’d yanked the emergency call cord, shouted for help, then dropped to the floor to check his breathing and pulse. It had only been a minute or two since then, but it felt like forever. “Fifteen and sixteen and seventeen and eighteen . . .”

  Nervous sweat dripped from her chin, splashed onto the trucker’s shirt now stained and sour with vomit. He wasn’t breathing. There was a froth of mucus on his lips. She couldn’t have done mouth-to-mouth without gagging. But rescue breathing wasn’t necessary in cardiocerebral resuscitation, just the chest compressions, so—

  “Judith . . .” A deep voice, someone crouching beside her.

  She looked up, her hands still trembling on the man’s chest. There was a commotion at the lavatory doorway. Nurses, a security officer, a technician . . . gurney wheels, a squeak as it lowered to the floor. Was that Kate Callison?

  A hand tugged her gently. “Judith, it’s okay. Help’s here. Come away now. Let them in.”

  She rose, legs weak, and staggered backward as the staff converged in a rush.

  “Lift him. One, two, three—okay, let’s go!”

  “Stand back, folks. Everyone back!”

  Judith watched as Mr. Beck disappeared through the door to the emergency department corridor in a surreal blur. So horrible. The whole thing—fighting to get him reexamined, discovering him missing, finding him collapsed. Judith felt her legs losing strength, her vision dimming. Don’t faint . . .

  “Here, lean on me.” An arm slid around her waist. Strong, solid. “Let’s get you sitting down, Judith.”

  She blinked up, recognized him. That rescuer. The man who’d found the lost woman with Alzheimer’s and helped with Baby Doe. He’d been here again when his friend was shot and needed surgery. She couldn’t recall the man’s name right now, but she’d never forgotten that look in his blue eyes, each of those times. It was there now, for her. Compassion.

  “Your first time doing CPR?” he asked gently as he guided her toward the lounge a merciful distance from the still-buzzing waiting room.

  She nodded, already feeling an arthritic twinge from kneeling on the cold floor. “I tried to get him help. His wife dropped him off and then went to check on her elderly mother. Mr. Beck was waiting by himself. All alone.” She shivered and the rescuer’s arm drew her closer to his side. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

  - + -

  Kate added more warm water to the tile-topped tub and then stretched out, letting the frothy bubbles swoosh over her like meringue. She closed her eyes, breathing in the scent. Sweet pea, her favorite fragrance—favorite flower. Blossoms in ballerina-skirt colors, smelling like still-warm angel food cake. The way her mother made it, drizzled with pink glaze and topped by maraschino cherries.

  But it wasn’t only the flowers’ scent that amazed Kate. It was also that sweet peas started out so humbly. Rock-hard, unlovely seeds—nicked with a knife to encourage sprouting and then submerged in water overnight. She sighed, remembering them in a jelly jar on their Happy Hollow Lane kitchen sink. Wounded seeds poked unceremoniously into cold, inhospitable, and barren soil. As if they were some sad sacrifice to the loneliness of winter. Gone. Forgotten. And then suddenly, in spring . . . Kate smiled, remembering. There they would be: pale green and arching from the ground, reaching for support. Then climbing, twining, turning toward the sun. Fairy-tale flowers that smelled of birthday cake. And hope? Was that what felt so good about them?

  Kate slid lower in the tub, letting the bubbles beard her chin. Even after all that had happened at the hospital today, there did seem to be room for hope. Carly Udall, the near-drowning victim, showed improvement and hadn’t required the ventilator. She was in the ICU, receiving antibiotics and vigorous respiratory treatments. While awaiting the arrival of her family, divorced parents united in the relief of finding their daughter. Her pregnancy test, mercifully, had been negative. Kate had held her breath reading the lab results.

  Mr. Beck’s lethal heart rhythm resisted the first two jolts from the defibrillator, converted successfully on a third try, and was maintained via drug infusion. By the time Mrs. Beck returned to the hospital, he was in the capable care of the cardiac cath team. And reportedly able to squeeze his wife’s hand. With tears sliding down his face.

  Kate had reviewed his chart with some anxiety. But Mr. Beck had no known history of heart disease. Vital signs were normal
on arrival to the ER and he’d rated his abdominal discomfort low on the pain scale, insisting it was food related. He’d been adamant in his denial of chest pain. The triage nurse’s first inkling that the stoic trucker felt worse was a message via the clerk; she’d been on her way to check him when . . . Kate sighed. Things had been done according to policy, fully documented. Bad things couldn’t always be predicted. Thanks to Judith Doyle, the man was found right away.

  Kate’s cell phone buzzed on the edge of the tub: Lauren.

  “Catch you at a bad time?” her friend asked.

  “Up to my neck in a bubble bath—definitely good.”

  “I thought maybe you’d be out with Wes.”

  Kate smiled, remembering the discreet hug they’d shared before he left the hospital. “He had plans with Dylan. Brothers’ movie night. We’re doing something on Sunday.”

  “Good. I wanted to let you know that I called Judith at home, checked on her again.”

  “How did she seem?”

  “Quiet. But okay, I think. Considering. She said again how appreciative she was of Wes’s help. And she was glad I could give her at least a general update on Mr. Beck’s condition. I’m going to talk to the Ladies Auxiliary about nominating her for volunteer of the year.”

  “That’s a great idea. Judith is such a hard worker, but this went far beyond the call of duty. It had to have been awful for her.”

  “For everyone in that waiting room too. I vote for a lot less drama out there. Which reminds me—did you see that piece on the news? After the service for Baby Doe?”

  “No.” Kate reached for her terry robe with one hand. The water was getting cold.

  “It was really short. Just a few words from the pastor and from a representative of a women’s clinic regarding Safe Haven.”