A Nurse's Forgiveness

by Jessica Matthews

  “Were you drinking just two cups a day?” Evan asked.

  Juanita giggled. “I drink three, sometimes four. I want lots of healthy hair. The women in my family don’t have thick hair.”

  Marta studied Juanita’s head. If the rosemary tea had made a difference, she couldn’t see it.

  “Rosemary is used to improve the circulation,” Evan explained, “which in turn can affect the blood pressure. You’re drinking more than the recommended dose, plus bathing in it every night, so you might be overdosing yourself.”

  Juanita’s expression turned to one of horror. “Oh, my goodness. If two cups are good, then four should be better, no?”

  “No,” Evan said. “Don’t drink any more tea.”

  “No more rosemary? Not even in my bath?”

  “No. At least not for a while,” Evan conceded. “I want Marta to check your blood pressure in about three weeks. If it’s gone down, we’ve found the culprit.”

  Juanita’s disappointment was palpable. “No rosemary for three weeks. Si. I understand.”

  After Juanita had left, Marta shook her head. “I never considered a herb when I asked her what she was taking.”

  “Apparently she didn’t consider her tea as medicinal either. If she’s lucky, eliminating the rosemary should bring her BP down and we’ll have solved another mystery.”

  Marta laughed. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”

  Evan glanced at the wall clock. “It’s almost noon and I’m starved. I hope you brought plenty.”

  At that second, Ros braked to a stop in front of them. “Better forget about lunch.”

  A sense of foreboding came over her as Ros went on, “There’s been an accident. Frank requested you two to come.”

  “Isn’t he the paramedic?” Evan asked.

  “Yes,” Marta answered. “What happened?”

  “Some sort of construction accident near the south end of town,” Ros reported. “The highway crew has been replacing the drainage culvert. Someone is trapped underneath.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MARTA ran to the supply cupboard, pulled out a trauma pack she kept on hand and tossed it to Evan, before she yanked another tackle box off the shelf.

  “Let’s go. We’ll take my Jeep.”

  In a few seconds flat Marta was heading toward the location of the accident with Evan beside her.

  “Do you always bring extra supplies?” he asked, hanging onto the roll bar as she turned a corner on two wheels.

  “Usually. We don’t normally need them, but I’d rather have extra than not enough.”

  Marta sailed through town, aware of Evan’s white-knuckled grip but impressed by his stoicism. “We’ll be there in another minute or so,” she said.

  The stoplight ahead had turned yellow, but she gunned the engine to zoom through the intersection before the color switched to red.

  “Done any stock-car racing?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get us there in one piece.”

  If he replied, the wind carried it out of earshot.

  Flashing lights of a police cruiser blocked off the road. Marta slowed to a crawl, but the officer waved her on ahead where every emergency vehicle owned by the city of New Hope was parked. City and county highway employees stood helplessly in a group, their faces black with dirt and covered with worry. She pulled up next to the ambulance and hopped out while Evan followed.

  As they hurried toward the stretch of road where the viaduct was being replaced, she saw a large concrete drainage cylinder lying haphazardly to one side of the road. An arm appeared outstretched from underneath it and a host of emergency personnel had closed ranks around the victim.

  Marta forced her mind to think of the task at hand rather than the individual involved.

  To her relief, Evan took charge. “Coming through,” he called.

  The men parted, allowing them access. “How much time have we lost?” he asked.

  Marta stared at the victim lying on the ground with only his head, shoulders and one arm exposed. Blood trickled from his mouth although he didn’t appear conscious. One EMT knelt near his head and monitored the oxygen flow through the non-rebreather mask. Marta tossed Evan a pair of latex gloves, before donning her own, and Frank spoke as he tried to start an IV.

  “It happened about ten minutes ago. They were lifting the culvert off the truck when the chain broke. It dropped several feet, hitting the truck and rolling off the bed. Everyone managed to jump out of the way, except for Chico.”

  “Vitals?”

  Frank recited a low blood pressure and a rapid heart rate. “Distended jugular.”

  “Stethoscope,” Evan ordered. Marta pulled hers out of her pocket and handed it to him. He slid against the edge of the huge drainage pipe and tucked the chestpiece against the part of Chico’s chest he could reach.

  For a long time he didn’t say a word. Finally, he straightened and gave his report. “Heart sounds are muffled.”

  The significance didn’t escape Marta, and as she exchanged a quick glance with Frank she read the same, unmistakable message in his eyes.

  The three observations—decreased blood pressure, distended jugular veins and muffled heart sounds—formed what was called Beck’s triad. The results they’d noted were all typical of pericardial tamponade, where an injury to the heart caused the blood to flow into the pericardial sac surrounding the organ.

  If they could remove the concrete in time to stop the bleeding…If they could even halt the bleeding…If they could reverse the pressure caused by the blood accumulating around the heart…and if his heart and lungs weren’t crushed beyond their capacity to function, Chico might live.

  Those were a lot of ifs to pin any hopes on.

  Evan turned to the fire chief who was overseeing both the emergency and the highway department crews as they worked frantically to ready the concrete for lifting. “What’s taking so long?” he demanded.

  “Had to find another chain. Just a few more minutes, Doc.”

  Evan glanced at Marta. She would have missed the imperceptible shake of his head if she hadn’t been watching him so carefully.

  “Keep the O2 going,” he instructed.

  Frank hesitated, before he acknowledged the order. True to his training, he continued to monitor Chico’s blood pressure as best as he could.

  The fire chief crouched beside the group. “We’re ready if you are.”

  Adrenalin surged through Marta and she steeled herself for what they would see.

  “OK, guys,” Evan told them. “As soon as he’s out, we’ll do what we can.”

  Marta nodded and poised herself to spring into action. “Got it.”

  Evan motioned to another fireman hovering nearby. “You and Frank will drag him out on my command. I’ll tell you when there’s enough clearance. Wait for my signal. Marta? Move back.”

  With grim determination etched on their faces, both men fastened their attention on Evan and prepared to grab Chico’s shoulders.

  Evan lay back on the ground, wiggling against the unyielding concrete. Marta reluctantly obeyed his instruction to stand out of harm’s way, but remained close enough to step in when the time came. Waiting was terrible, and her silent prayer was for the three men who, if this chain broke, could be crushed like insignificant bugs.

  A minute later he called out, “Ready.”

  The chief passed along the word, raising his hand at the same time. “Let’s go. Easy now.”

  Unable to take her gaze off the scene, Marta heard the gears grinding as the crane operator slowly shifted his levers. The slack in the chain slowly disappeared until at last the links grew taut.

  With a shudder and a small bounce, the metal groaned. Slowly, the concrete lifted in small increments while a group of men steadied it with their hands. Marta didn’t breathe in case the slightest extraneous motion brought about more disaster.

  “Now!” Evan yelled. At the same time he rolled away from the cylinder and bounded to his feet. Instantly, C
hico was pulled free and moved to a safer distance.

  Evan grabbed Chico’s shirt and ripped, exposing the man’s sunken and purple-colored chest.

  Marta knelt beside the man she knew to be in his mid-twenties, objectively cataloguing the rest of his injuries from his neck to his pelvis. Intent on doing her job, she hardly noticed the rumble of the earth beneath her as the concrete settled back on the ground under the guiding influence of many pairs of hands.

  “I’m losing him,” Frank shouted, although raising his voice wasn’t necessary since they were all kneeling around the young man. “No BP.”

  Evan’s hands pressed on Chico’s chest as he assessed the damage. It seemed to take for ever but actually only took a few seconds. It was clear to everyone that no amount of intervention would be enough.

  Evan sat back on his heels. “Every rib feels broken. Chances are the impact ruptured his aorta and crushed everything inside. Poor guy didn’t have a chance.”

  Marta had suspected as much, but the knowledge didn’t diminish her grief over the loss of this young man’s life.

  “What’s the time?” he asked calmly.

  Frank glanced at his watch. “Twelve-fifteen.”

  “Time of death, twelve fifteen,” Evan pronounced as he rose.

  With grim faces, Frank and his fellow EMTs removed the IVs and the oxygen mask. He motioned with his head toward his truck, and a few minutes later someone came running with a black body bag.

  Marta busied herself by gathering the litter strewn over the ground. Sometimes performing the most mundane of tasks helped hold the pain to manageable levels.

  To her surprise, Evan assisted Frank and the other EMTs with the body. He didn’t have to help; it wasn’t expected. In fact, it was most unusual for a physician to perform such a humbling act.

  Then again, Evan Gallagher was a most unusual man.

  His respectful handling of a person he’d never seen before brought a lump to Marta’s throat. Now wasn’t the time to realize she would miss him horribly when he left. It wasn’t the time to realize that no one she’d ever met, or ever would meet, could compare. Nor was it the time to realize how badly she wanted to spend her life learning everything about him.

  She watched him load the body into the ambulance, strip off his gloves, then approach the local authorities who stood within hearing distance.

  “You’ll notify the next of kin?” Evan asked.

  Nate Brooks, the rotund police chief of a four-officer force, nodded. “We’ll take care of things.”

  “There wasn’t anything we could do,” Evan added.

  “No one thought you could, Doc. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure the family understands.”

  “You’ll notify the coroner?”

  Nate nodded at Evan’s question. “We’ll drive the body to the morgue in Liberal. Dr Edwards will do the autopsy.”

  Any fatal on-the-job accident required a postmortem exam for legal purposes. The pathologist would determine the exact cause of death and either rule out or implicate drug abuse.

  For the sake of Chico’s family, Marta hoped the drug tests were negative, although she didn’t have reason to assume otherwise. Chico was as straight as an arrow and everyone in town knew it. However, insurance companies looked for ways to avoid paying death benefits, and employers protected themselves against negligence lawsuits if they could prove a person had been under the influence at the time of an accident.

  Marta finished her self-appointed task. As she tossed the last wrapper into a trash bag, Frank took it from her and knotted it.

  “Thanks for coming, Marta,” the paramedic said. “When I got here, I didn’t think he was alive. Even though he was, well…I never figured he’d make it to the hospital. There are times when a man hopes he’s wrong.”

  “I’m glad you asked for us,” she said.

  Frank motioned toward Evan. “I’m glad he was here.”

  “Me, too, Frank. Me, too.”

  Without a word, she gathered her unneeded supplies and headed for her Wrangler. She didn’t want to see the faces of the curiosity-seekers now lining the police barricade or the horrified expressions of Chico Rodriguez’s co-workers, so she kept her head down. Idly, she noticed her uniform was liberally covered with dirt from kneeling on the ground. Evan fell into step beside her. “Let me take that,” he said, removing the bulky trauma kit from her fingers before she could protest.

  After dropping the carry-all into the back seat, he held out his hand. Wordlessly, she handed him the car keys. She was fully capable of driving, but knew Evan would prefer to sit behind the wheel himself.

  He turned the ignition key. “Where to?” he asked. “The office?”

  Marta shook her head. “I need to change clothes before I see any patients.”

  “Yeah. I’d better do the same.”

  “Why don’t you drop me at my place, then come back after you’re ready?” she suggested, before she recited her address.

  “Do you trust me with your Jeep?” he asked.

  She’d already given him her heart, so placing her vehicle in his care seemed rather inconsequential. However, she couldn’t express her thoughts so she hid her true feelings behind a joke.

  “Are there dark secrets in your driving past?” she teased. “Things like grand theft larceny?”

  He laughed. “Only a speeding ticket when I was eighteen.”

  “Speeding?” She pretended to be horrified.

  “Believe me,” he assured her, “I wasn’t going as fast as you were earlier. I’m surprised the FAA didn’t cite us for not filing a flight plan.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” she protested.

  “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “You weren’t hanging on for dear life.”

  For the space of a few seconds the day had seemed normal. Those few words brought the tragedy flooding back in living color. Her smile dimmed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, reaching for her hand.

  “It’s OK,” she said. “We’d better go. Ros will be wondering if we’re playing hookey.”

  “We could, you know,” he said as he drove away from the tragic scene.

  The idea held a certain appeal, but if she gave in to her impulse, it could easily become a habit.

  “Yeah, but it’s better if I stay busy. Less time to think.”

  “You’re right.”

  Evan drove her home. Aware of her uncommunicative mood, he didn’t try to force a conversation. Everyone handled situations such as this differently. Some people clammed up while others simply chattered non-stop in an effort to push it out of their minds.

  “He was twenty-four,” Marta commented idly.

  Instinctively, Evan knew she was referring to their victim. Talking was a good catharsis for the soul, and so he listened.

  “Did you know he was going to get married next month? That’s why his dad, Joe, came in and had the lipoma excised. So he’d look nice for the pictures.”

  Evan made the mental connection. Sadly, those photos would never be taken, but he didn’t state the obvious.

  “Chico delivered newspapers when he was a kid,” she said idly. “He had quite an aim. He was one of the few who could hit our front porch.”

  “Quite a feat,” he said, pulling to a stop in front of her house. It was a white frame house with a small porch, and resembled every other one on the block. The only difference lay in the trim. Marta’s shutters had a border of hearts cut into the wood and were painted a robin’s-egg blue.

  Marta stared into the distance, making no effort to leave the vehicle. “Life can be the pits.”

  “At times,” he agreed. “Which is why we have to make the most of our days. We never know what tomorrow will bring.”

  Her hazel eyes met his. “Is this where you remind me to mend fences with my grandfather?”

  Evan gave her a half-smile. “You reminded yourself.”

  “I’m not ready,” she said flatly. “I don’t know if I eve
r will be.”

  Evan wondered if he might do irrevocable harm by discussing this—but nothing ventured, nothing gained. “I spoke him with on Sunday,” he began slowly. “I learned something interesting.”

  She didn’t cover her ears, so he pressed on. “At the time you came to his office, a tabloid had run the story of Winston and his daughter, Lily, conveniently leaving out the details of her death. Consequently, people came out of the woodwork, all claiming to be his grandchild. He didn’t believe any of them, including you, because he thought you’d both died years earlier.”

  “If you’re trying to get me to feel sorry for him—”

  “I’m only relating the facts so you’ll understand why Winston reacted the way he did,” he interrupted. “He asked if I’d tell you he’s sorry. For everything.”

  Marta nibbled on her bottom lip and stared through the windshield.

  “If he could possibly undo that day, he would,” he added. “Will you give him a second chance?”

  Marta slid out of the passenger’s seat and slammed the door before she met his gaze. “I’ll think about it.”

  She didn’t refuse him outright, so he took it as a good sign. “Shall I come back in, say, thirty minutes to an hour?”

  “Fine. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

  After she went inside, he headed for the Lazy Daze, where he showered in record time. Before long, he was on his way back to Marta’s house.

  Evan stepped inside to escape the heat. “Hello,” he called to warn her of his arrival.

  She appeared in the doorway of her kitchen, wearing an off-white pair of casual trousers and a sleeveless green-plaid shirt. Her hair fell about her shoulders in a mass of auburn curls. “Hi.”

  If wishes were horses, he’d ride over to her and carry her into the bedroom. “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

  “In a minute.” She paused. “The night of Charlie’s birthday party, did you mean it when you said you wanted to kiss me?”

  Did a fish need water? Did the sun rise in the east? Did he dream about her every night?

  “Oh, yes,” he said, watching her reaction. “I still do.”