Emerald Street
by Felicia Rogers
Published by Astraea Press
www.astraeapress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
EMERALD STREET
Copyright © 2014 FELICIA ROGERS
ISBN 978-1-62135-330-0
Cover Art Designed by AM DESIGNS STUDIO
This book is dedicated to the men and women missionaries who leave the comforts of their home and the security of family to spread the gospel.
Prologue
Machines hummed, and the floor vibrated. Oxygen dribbled into the huge pump like water dripping off a gutter. Odors of rust and elderly people assaulted her senses.
Raylyn walked the lit aisle. Hospital beds lined both walls. Sporadically, a single wail rent the air. She twisted to face the patient, only to find them fast asleep.
Checking her list against a bed label, she stopped. Lt. Robert O’Malley lay unmoving. The pale pallor of his skin wasn’t a good sign. The lieutenant had been losing blood, but the doctors were unable to ascertain the cause.
She checked his vitals, wrote the numbers down, and moved on.
The next soldier was unnamed. For privacy reasons, his family had ordered the staff to call him Johnny. He’d lost both his legs and one arm in a military excursion.
Vitals checked and documented, she moved on. Tonight all the men slept. Her feet clicked against the tile floor, breaking the silence. She reached the nurses' station and stopped.
Where was everyone?
The computer screen blinked on. Bright green letters popped up one at a time.
H-E-L-P M-E!
She stepped back. Her hand hit a clipboard, and it clattered against the counter. She twirled.
Shocked, she blinked.
The patients were out of their beds and stumbling toward her. She opened her mouth to scream, but there was no sound.
They were coming for her…
****
Raylyn woke in a cold sweat. Tendrils of the dream clung to her consciousness. She ran her hand over her face and released a sigh. Outside, a streetlight buzzed. Dogs barked.
She kicked free of the covers tangled around her legs, rolled out of bed, and stumbled to the bathroom. She put on her glasses, and stared at herself in the mirror. “Morrison, get a hold of yourself. It was just a dream. A crazy whacked-out dream, but still a dream.”
As Raylyn splashed water on her face; she gasped and adjusted the faucet. She splashed her face again, toweled-dry, and headed back to bed. The bedside clock read 2:00 a.m. She plopped on the edge of the bed, but didn’t lie back. Sleep was over. If she closed her eyes, the dream would replay until she rose. Might as well not even try.
She gathered her clothes from the closet before heading to the shower.
Dressed in scrubs, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she padded into the kitchen. The one-bedroom apartment sported decent-sized rooms and a fabulous view. From the living area, she could just make out waves striking the sandy shore. She opened the window and listened to the violent sounds.
Instead of continuing to enjoy the pleasures of the room, Raylyn grabbed a bagel and gnawed on it as she exited the front door.
Nancy Bryant, the head nurse of the severely wounded ward at Grace Community Military Hospital, would not be surprised to see her arrive before her time off ended. The one-week-on, one-week-off schedule remained only a suggestion to Raylyn. She had clocked more overtime hours than any other nurse on their floor.
Upon arrival, the parking lot was largely empty. With her key card, she buzzed herself into the building. Her footsteps echoed as she ascended the stairwell. Each floor was marked. She stopped at number five, and pushed the door open. The floor was quiet, just like in her dream.
Four nurses sat at the nurses’ station, monitoring screens. One walked the aisle.
At the door’s squeak, Nancy lifted her head and frowned. She pointed to her office, and Raylyn headed in that direction.
Nancy entered and closed her door. “What are you doing back here?’
Defensively, Raylyn answered, “I work here.”
Nancy relaxed her posture. “Look Raylyn, you’re a wonderful nurse, probably the best I have, but you need rest. If you hurt someone because you worked too many hours…” She stopped talking and shook her head.
Raylyn approached the one-way mirror. From there, a person could see every patient and every nurse.
“Why do you keep coming in so early, dear?”
Without looking at Nancy, Raylyn answered, “I can’t sleep.”
“Why can’t you sleep?”
Raylyn studied her hands as they clenched the mirror’s sill, and her knuckles whitened.
Nancy squeezed her shoulder. “Raylyn, you have a tender heart. And I know you feel responsible for every young soldier in the ward, but you can’t get too attached. If they go home to be with the Lord, you have to let them go and move on to the next one.”
A single tear slipped down her cheek. She let it run to the end of her chin and drop off.
“Why don’t you go read to Jack? We’ve been too busy to get to him tonight.”
Raylyn nodded and left Nancy’s office. Hard, penetrating stares followed her as she neglected to grab the book at the end of the counter and proceeded to the end of the row of beds.
She riffled through her shoulder bag, pulled out a book, dropped the bag at the foot of the bed, scooted a chair closer, and took a seat.
Over her shoulder, nurses dealing with other patients spoke in hoarse whispers.
“I tell you, Jack’s voice is going to sound smooth, like velvet.”
“Well, I think he is going to have a husky sound. Just look at his broad shoulders. I bet he was captain of the football team in college.”
“I still say he is going to sound smooth, like velvet. Just think. Black hair, blue eyes, why if you look at him just right, sometimes he looks like Elvis. What if he is Elvis?”
Raylyn heard a soft pop as one nurse slapped the other playfully before they burst into a fit of giggles. She shook her head, opened her book to a folded page, and started to read.
The words of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice flowed past her lips even as her mind wondered.
Staff Sergeant Jack Williams was thirty years old with buzz-cut black hair and the tanned skin of a man who loved the outdoors. The chart said that his eyes were blue, and Raylyn imagined they matched the color of the ocean or the summer sky.
The ladies had been right. He sported broad shoulders and a muscular frame. But they'd neglected to mention the rest. On the lower half of his body, the sheet dipped on one side, and a white turban covered his head.
The ventilator rose and fell, assisting Jack’s every breath. Comatose for several months, Jack had become the ward’s longest visitor.
Raylyn read a humorous piece of dialogue and covered her mouth as a giggle escaped.
Beep, beep, beep!
She jerked her head upward as the monitors slowed to a normal rhythm. Reading farther, she laughed again.
Beep, beep, beep!
She rose in her seat, leaned closer to Jack’s bed, and laughed again.
Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep!
The machine’s warning signals increased.
Nancy ran toward them. She p
ushed Raylyn out of the way. “What did you do?”
“Do?”
“Yes. What did you do?”
“I laughed.”
Chapter One
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Chance.”
“I’m glad to help.”
“Yes, your wife said you would be.” Nancy clasped her hands and steepled her fingers under her chin. This was her serious pose, and Raylyn had seen her strike it on many occasions.
“How may I be of service, Mrs. Bryant?” asked Mr. Chance.
“As you know, our ward cares for the most serious of cases. The wounded soldiers who come to us often don’t make it. Occasionally, however, we have a miracle in our midst, a soldier who against all odds pulls through.”
Raylyn studied the pattern on the tile floor and worked to hide her surprise at the visitor’s British accent.
As the conversation continued, she wondered, Why am I here? I know this already.
Nancy continued, “We have a soldier who recently rose from a coma.”
Raylyn sucked in a swift breath.
“For no apparent reason the soldier awoke. Within days therapy ensued, but the soldier has shown little progress.”
“May I ask why you need me? It seems more like a job for professionals.”
“The doctors claim this patient should be dancing through the halls on his new prosthetic leg. They can find nothing else physically wrong with him. We thought maybe if you spoke with him, perhaps invited people from your support group…”
“Of course. I’ll help in any way I can.”
Raylyn waited to be addressed. She gnawed on her lip. Nancy had forced her to take her normal time off, then as soon as she’d arrived for her regular shift, Nancy had dragged her into her office before Raylyn had had a chance to visually search the ward. What patient was Nancy talking about?
“Mr. Chance, if you’ll wait outside, someone will escort you.”
Raylyn discreetly watched as Mr. Chance limped out of the office.
Her musings about his injury were interrupted when Nancy explained, “That was Mr. Rory Chance, multi-millionaire, ex-British soldier, married to the famous Hannah Baker.”
“Uh-huh.” Raylyn couldn’t swallow. She’d read all about Rory in the tabloids, before and after his incident.
“He was injured in a military excursion and lost a leg. I believe…”
Raylyn couldn’t wait a moment longer to find out why she was in the boss’s office. She finished the story. “He was sheltered in a South African monastery when he rescued Hannah, his future wife, from human traffickers. Now the gent helps injured military men integrate themselves back into society.”
Nancy’s brow became a straight line, and Raylyn felt heat rush to her cheeks. She smoothed hair away from her face. “Sorry.”
Nancy relaxed her jaw. “I guess you want to know why I called you in.”
“Yes.”
“Raylyn, do you remember Jack?”
Raylyn tensed; her heart thumped madly against her ribs. Please Lord, let him be okay. “Yes.”
“While you were gone—”
Bells rang and alarms blared. Nancy and Raylyn jumped to their feet and rushed to the nurses’ station, their conversation completely forgotten.
“It’s bed five!” shouted the monitoring nurse.
They rushed along the aisle, but before they reached the bed, another nurse cut the machine and drew a white sheet over the patient’s face.
****
Raylyn sat in the cafeteria and nursed a cup of coffee. Bed number five had housed Jeffery Todd. He’d been twenty-three years old and newly married, and now he was gone.
A sniper’s bullet had penetrated the young man’s neck while he’d served U.S. military forces in the Middle East. Jeffery had arrived at the Grace Community Military Hospital in a coma. The doctors had retrieved the bullet, but the damage had already been done. The prognosis — only a miracle would save him.
“Miss Morrison?”
She swiped at her tears and looked up. “Yes?”
“They’ve been paging you.”
Her pager danced across the table. She pocketed it, tossed her coffee, and rushed to the stairwell. She took the stairs in a run, only stopping when she reached the ward’s door. She punched in the special key combination and tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for the door to swing open.
“Where have you been, child?” asked Nancy.
Out of breath, and holding her rising chest, she said, “In the cafeteria.”
“Oh, well. Here are your charts. After your shift, we need to finish our conversation.”
Raylyn dropped her jaw, but Nancy had moved away. Fighting rising anger, she grabbed the paperwork and hurried to her desk. Finished charting, she strolled through the two rows of beds.
She shuddered to a halt. Fighting the tremble in her voice, she asked a nurse opposite her, “Where’s Jack?”
“Oh, he’s gone.”
Fear squeezed her heart like someone held it in a vise. She clutched the nearest bedframe for support. “Gone? Where?”
The nurse pointed upward. Raylyn covered her mouth and gasped.
“Don’t worry. He’s in a much better place.”
Hot tears burned her eyes. Raylyn covered her mouth and ran from the room. In the stairwell, she stopped and bent over as sobs racked her body.
Eyes closed, she envisioned the last time she’d seen Jack. He still lay in the bed, the sheet covering his remaining leg. His short black hair was growing longer by the day. The color had seemed to return to his cheeks, and she’d imagined one day he would wake up and walk around.
Tears coursed along her face and dropped onto the stairs. She swiped them away, but they continued. She laid her head against the wall.
“Why, God? Why?” she whispered, the words echoing in the empty stairwell.
No answer came. Raylyn fisted her hands. She couldn’t take it anymore. She just couldn’t stand the thought of losing another patient.
She stalked back to the ward, gathered her charts, carried them to Nancy’s desk, and dropped them. “I want to be transferred.”
Nancy lowered her pen and removed her glasses.
“I need to see the success stories. Just for a little while,” begged Raylyn.
“No.”
Raylyn blinked. “What?”
“I know you think you need a break, but you’re the best nurse I have. So let me present another solution to you.”
Raylyn nodded and prepared to listen.
Chapter Two
“Jack, I want you to use your arms and pull yourself to a standing position.”
Jack Williams exhaled loudly as he clutched the bars in a death grip and proceeded to obey the therapist’s directions to place his weight on his new prosthetic.
“Good. Now I want you to take a step. Just one step.”
Jack gritted his teeth and concentrated. Come on, brain. You can do it. Just one step. Just move one tiny step.
Nothing happened.
“Jack, are you trying? I don’t see you tr—”
Jack attempted to move forward using his arms. He lost his grip and fell. He smacked the mat, rolled onto his back, slapped his hands to his sides, and swore under his breath.
The therapist, Richard, frowned. Several therapists gathered, placed their hands under Jack’s arms, and lifted. Settled in his wheelchair, Jack studied his clasped hands and worked to control his rising temper.
Richard squatted before him. “Jack, we’ve been over this, but I’m going to tell you again. The doctor says there is no medical reason you can’t walk. You’re just holding yourself back. Maybe you don’t want it bad enough, who knows, but regardless, you have to let go and just let it happen. I’ll not let you ruin my winning streak.”
Jack took the scolding without a response, but he didn’t care one wit about Richard’s winning streak. Arrogant, bigheaded, ego—
“I see you’ve retreated into your shell.” Richard waved. “C
arlos, take tortoise back to his room.”
Jack wrung his hands together. Patience, Jack, patience. This too is only for a season. The orderly wheeled him to his room and assisted him into bed.
“Would you like the TV on Mr. Williams?”
Jack enacted a blank stare and didn’t answer.
Carlos strode to the door and looked back and forth along the hallway. Jack followed him with his gaze and narrowed his eyes. What was Carlos up to?
The orderly returned and bent over him. In a whisper, he said, “Mr. Williams, since you’ve been here you’ve not improved.” Jack cocked a brow, and Carlos continued, “I hear things.”
Jack drew his brows together, hoping to express curiosity. Stupid voice box injury. Just wait until he could speak; then some people were going to get an earful.
Carlos lowered his voice further. “They say not to tell patients things, but you need to know. There is talk that if you don’t show some effort, you will be moved to a psychiatric facility. I know you’re not crazy, and you know you’re not crazy, but they,” he pointed to the door, “don’t know. You must show more effort.” Carlos fluffed his pillows.
Jack licked his lips and forced his speech. The words came out in a raspy whisper. “Thank you.”
Carlos patted his shoulder. “My family prays for you.”
Jack blinked back tears.
“You were wounded fighting for our freedom. Because you served, I am free to live in this country and work.”
A tear slipped from the corner of his eyes, and Carlos grabbed a tissue and gently wiped it away.
Jack clasped Carlos’ hand and squeezed.
The orderly left, and Jack stared at the light khaki-colored stucco walls. The air conditioner lifted the thick white curtains, and Jack caught brief rays of sunlight. A wall clock ticked loudly in the silent room.
Maybe he should have let Carlos turn on the television. At least it would have killed time. There sure wasn’t anything else to do. Magazines brought in by the candy stripers were out of date, and he’d read them three times already. He was estranged from his family, so there was no one to call on the phone.
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