Life Support

by Candace Calvert

  “And so,” Vee said, hauling Lauren back to pedicure status, “it’s unanimous; the party’s on. Sunday. Unless you need us to change the date. Because it wouldn’t be a party without you. But let me know now, girl—” she grinned—“because I’m about to have these toes painted purple, green, and gold.”

  “Mardi Gras in June?” Lauren chided, reaching for her icy tumbler of sweet tea. “You’re almost as late as I am using this gift certificate.”

  Vee shrugged. “No one wanted to tackle it after Auntie passed. Mardi Gras was always her party. Right down to the plastic baby in the king cake. Don’t get me started on Uncle Henrie swallowing it one year; we thought he’d bought himself an esophagoscopy.” She offered a thumbs-up to a woman wobbling by with cotton threaded between her freshly lacquered toes. Then turned to Lauren again. “Truthfully, no one had the heart to do a party so soon after losing Auntie. But now we think it will be fun, a way to honor her. She’d love that. And it’s a celebration, too: Poppy’s pacemaker, having you on staff, passing our licensing inspection with flying colors, and Drew Landry getting up in a chair. Plus there’s Tropical Storm Francis fizzling out . . . and our eleven new baby chicks . . .”

  “Chicks?” Lauren laughed, set the tea back down. “You so want a party.”

  “You bet.” Vee stretched a micro braid across her chin. “You’ll be there? Sunday, after church?”

  “Definitely.” Lauren smiled. “But if we’re eating gumbo, you’ll have to crank up the AC or we’ll all sweat to death. And I don’t play the kazoo. Remember that.” She laughed again, raising her hand to meet her friend’s in a hearty high five.

  Vee lifted her feet from the water as one of the spa staff readied a towel. “Shall we meet up for dinner at the hospital?”

  “Sure. You’ll be at the chapel gathering?”

  “Gonna try my best,” Vee promised. “Though I’m thinking I’ll be running back and forth between the ER and urgent care tonight. Thank goodness Eli is more merciful than the other PAs.”

  “Right.” Lauren sighed. Merciful?

  It had been two days since Lauren and Eli knelt over Poppy, then exchanged those tense words in the medicine room. They’d passed each other in the Houston Grace hallways with barely a nod. It was probably better that way. But when Lauren heard about Drew’s recent accomplishments—the chair and even tossing a Nerf ball with one of the Viette cousins—she so wanted to tell Eli how wonderful she thought it was. And more. She wished she could tell him that Drew’s improvement was a sign of hope. That despite Eli’s bitter doubts about mercy, God did promise it.

  “Your God.” That’s what he said. As if Eli had no connection to him. How did you explain the promise of hope to someone like that?

  “Hope and a future . . .” Lauren believed in that promise, always had. It was the only thing that had held her together this past year. During Jess’s disappearance, her father’s stroke, those confusing moments with Eli afterward. And all the months Lauren stayed away in Austin to give her sister a chance to succeed on her own. She’d chewed her fingernails but faithfully reminded herself to let God handle it. She’d tried to find the peace promised in that; it was her consistent prayer. But lately Lauren couldn’t shake the awful feeling that . . .

  She wasn’t getting it right.

  - + -

  “It would really help me out, Doug,” Gayle told the physician. “Leo’s miserable, and he’s got this stoic pride that’s butting up against his good sense these days.” She shook her head, dizzy for a moment as her heart did a double somersault. “I love that big guy, but without the steering wheel of an 18-wheeler in his hands, he’s floundering like a bear on roller skates.”

  “Surely Leo’s physician is giving him pain meds.”

  “Anti-inflammatories. They’re not working. And he’s trying to gut it out because he thinks if the record shows he’s not better, he’ll get passed over for jobs. It’s been more than a year now.” Gayle tilted her head a little, hoping the doctor didn’t see her bruises. This was humiliating enough. “Leo’s attacking physical therapy like a demon, but I can tell he’s suffering. The pain keeps him awake. I thought if I could convince him to take one Percocet at bedtime . . .”

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor told her, visibly uncomfortable. “I’d like to help you out. And I do understand. My father has disk disease; he’s being seen in a pain management clinic now. Mom’s had a lot to deal with.” He met her gaze. “I’m your gynecologist, Gayle. I’ve known you for a long time. I feel for what’s going on with your husband. I know it affects you. But writing a prescription for narcotics would be unethical. I’m sure you can understand that.”

  She couldn’t. This doctor was her last hope. She wanted to scream that to him, drop to her knees and beg. Tell him she was afraid her husband’s sanity depended on that triplicate narcotic script. Maybe her own life depended on it. . . .

  “Of course I understand, Doug. No problem.”

  The physician’s brows drew together. “You look thin, Gayle. I’m concerned. Make an appointment; I think we need to run some tests. Repeat that thyroid panel. I want to be sure everything’s okay.”

  “First spare minute I get. Promise.” She forced a smile, murmured something about giving regards to his wife, and walked away.

  Sweat beaded on Gayle’s forehead. She’d have to check her makeup. And try to think of someone else she could ask.

  She stopped walking, peered toward the ICU. “Jessica?”

  “Oh . . . hi, Gayle.” Jessica Barclay stepped from the alcove outside the ICU doors. Her expression said she’d rather have gone unnoticed.

  “You’re not working today.” It was a statement, not a question; Gayle had reviewed the schedule, of course. The young woman’s appearance confirmed it: baggy jeans, faded burgundy hoodie topping a long ribbed tee. Too much clothing for a June day in Houston. Flip-flops, oversize sunglasses perched atop uncombed hair, not an ounce of makeup. And still so incredibly lovely. Something only the very young could pull off. Gayle was surprised by a stab of envy, then more so by the match-strike of anger that immediately followed. “What are you doing up here?”

  “I wanted to check on a patient.” Jessica’s expression was wary, guarded.

  “It’s immediate family only in the ICU.”

  “I know that.” Jessica scraped her teeth across her lower lip. “I thought maybe I could catch one of the nurses, find out how Darcee Grafton is doing.”

  “I see.” Gayle crossed her arms. “I don’t think I need to remind you about privacy laws.”

  “No . . .” Jessica was quiet for a moment, then glanced at the ICU doors. She muttered something under her breath. “You don’t need to remind me. The same way you don’t need to tell me where I can be and what I can do on my day off.” Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “You know?”

  “What I know,” Gayle countered, “is that—day off or not—it’s a bad idea for you to be wandering around the hospital. Considering the recent security problems.”

  Jessica’s beautifully young face went pale, pupils dilating. Gayle waited for a rush of satisfaction that didn’t come. What am I doing?

  “I’m only thinking of your best interests,” she added more gently.

  “Right.” Jessica pulled her glasses from the top of her head. “I hear that a lot.”

  “Well . . .” Gayle’s anger gave way to shame. “I could find out for you,” she offered, stopping herself from touching Jessica’s arm. “If you’ll wait right here, I’ll go in and—”

  “Don’t bother.” Jessica slid the dark glasses in place, then shoved her hands in the pockets of her hoodie. “Thanks. But it really doesn’t matter anyway. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow. In the ER.”

  “Yes.”

  Gayle watched as Jessica walked to the stairwell and disappeared through the door. She told herself that despite handling it poorly, she was right. There had been several instances of theft in past months. Three more than regular staff were even aware of; secu
rity had briefed management. Supervisors were expected to watch carefully. If Jessica Barclay was seen wandering around the hospital in areas unrelated to her work, it could generate suspicion.

  - + -

  Flowers. Mom’s hands smelled like flowers. They were soft. And busy. All the time.

  “There, Drew. Isn’t that better?” She rubbed lotion onto his bad hand, moving his fingers back and forth like those people from therapy. Only Mom sang while she did that: “‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine . . .’” And then she’d hide a kiss in his hand. Every time. She’d kiss his hand, then fold his fingers around it. Tell him to hold on tight. She didn’t care that he couldn’t; she just liked to do it anyway. Like she was doing right now. “And here’s a good-night kiss to save for later, darling.”

  “O . . . kay.” Drew smiled at her, breathed in the flowers.

  Dad stood. “I’ll have another look around. Poke into the nooks and crannies. Talk with the staff. I want to be sure they know his needs. I’m still not happy with the fact that this place is almost twenty miles from the Houston hospitals. And more like a dude ranch than a care facility. But on the whole, barring problems, I’d say it could pass muster.”

  Mustard. Dad talked about it a lot. Like it bothered him. You could tell by his face. Sort of mad. And sad sometimes. Even when he was smiling. He didn’t sit very long. He liked to move around, look at things. Now he was holding the fishing pole picture. Champ and Trouble . . .

  “I’ll bring more photos, Drew. You need new ones.”

  Dad liked to tell him what he needed.

  “I’ll bring that picture of you and me at the space center. With Neil Armstrong.” Dad walked back to Drew’s bed. “I arranged for you to meet a famous astronaut, Son. Do you remember?”

  His dad always asked that: “Do you remember?” It was his favorite question. But Drew didn’t remember those things. He mostly remembered his brother, Emma, Shrek, his favorite breakfast, words to his favorite songs . . . a lot of good things. The really good things were easy to remember.

  “Well, well, you’re having a nice visit, Mr. Drew.” The lady came in, the one with the big white flower in her hair. Florine. The same lady who closed her eyes, raised her hands, and sang to Drew’s music. “I promised you we’d try the iPad today. Remember?”

  He smiled at her. “Yeah. Remem-ber.”

  - + -

  “You don’t have class today?”

  “I wasn’t feeling well. My throat’s kind of scratchy. I keep feeling too hot, maybe feverish.” Jess swallowed with a lackluster grimace, then glanced across the hospital parking lot. Her desire to escape couldn’t have been any more obvious if it were tattooed on her forehead. “Thought I should stay home,” she explained. “Try to fight it off.”

  “Ah . . .” Lauren watched her sister sweep back her hair; her nails were chewed to the quick. “Gayle said she ran into you upstairs.”

  “Gayle?” Jess’s brows pinched. “What did she say? Did she accuse me of something?”

  Accuse you?

  “Nothing,” Lauren assured her. “Really. She only said she was surprised to see you here on your day off.” I am too.

  “What’s with Gayle, anyway? Doesn’t she have something better to do than follow people around? I only wanted to find out about a patient in the ICU. Darcee Grafton. That’s all I wanted.” Sudden tears rose in Jess’s eyes. “Is it some kind of crime to check on a patient?”

  “No. Oh, sweetie . . . Of course it isn’t. It’s only natural you’d want to; you met Darcee. And talked to her the night before the . . . the accident. You care. That’s the kind of person you are.” Lauren ached to put her arms around her sister. But Jess’s moodiness had her second-guessing every instinct these days. In truth, most days, for more than a year. She hated feeling that way. Was it a crime to hug your sister? “What happened to Darcee has affected a lot of the staff,” she added, tentative. “It’s why I’m leading a staff gathering this afternoon. I think it will help. We can talk about what happened with Darcee. Support each other.”

  “No.” Jess hugged her arms around herself. “I won’t come.”

  Lauren took a slow breath. “I wasn’t suggesting—”

  “Yes, you were. You want me in that pathetic group huddle, taking part and grateful, while every one of them talks about feelings. And then takes bets on whether it was the wind that knocked Darcee off the roof or if she was crazy and flat out jumped.” Jess prodded a finger toward Lauren. “You think if I agree to come to the hospital chapel, I’ll take the next logical step and wade back into church again. Then maybe flop myself down on the couch of that ‘amazing’ Christian therapist Fletcher keeps hinting about.” She frowned. “Subtle as a patrol car siren.”

  “Fletcher?” Lauren’s brows rose.

  “Forget it. All I know is that I don’t need to sing ‘Kumbaya’ with the Houston Grace staff to understand why that girl went off the hospital roof. It’s pretty obvious. A bunch of folks with good intentions chased her off.” Jess slid her sunglasses over her eyes. “Maybe God cheered them on.”

  “Jess . . .” Lauren took a slow breath. There was no point in taking this further. Better to change the subject entirely. “I think there are some Ricola lozenges in Mom’s medicine cabinet. There’s plenty of juice. You do look a little flushed, but I’m really not surprised. It’s ninety degrees and ugly humid, and here you are in those jeans and two layers of long sleeves. It doesn’t make sense when you have all of those cotton shorts and T-shirts, a whole rainbow of tank tops, and—”

  “Now you’re the fashion police? Just what I need. Gayle telling me what I can’t do on my day off and my sister dictating what I should and shouldn’t wear.” She hitched her purse over her shoulder, lips tense. “What are y’all trying to do? Shove me off a roof too?”

  GAYLE SNEAKED A DISCREET GLANCE at her watch before returning her attention to the small circle of staff gathered in the chapel. She still had time to catch the podiatrist when he came out of bunion surgery. He was new to the Houston Grace staff, and they’d chatted several times in the cafeteria. He’d had back surgery himself and might be empathetic enough to write a prescription for a few pills to tide Leo over. If that didn’t pan out, Gayle didn’t know what she’d do. Leo’s patience was long gone.

  She blotted her damp palms against her scrub top and watched as Lauren encouraged the group to share their concerns regarding the tragedy with Darcee Grafton.

  “I’d never seen anything like that,” the hospital dietitian admitted. “It seems impossible it could happen outside the cafeteria, so near my office. I guess it’s unrealistic to work in a hospital and expect to be insulated from tragedy. But still . . .”

  “I know what you mean,” one of the housekeepers agreed. “I can’t tell you how many delivery room floors I’ve mopped down. But seeing Ernie and Hal hosing off our patio after the poor girl fell . . . I’ve eaten in that cafeteria for seventeen years. Never miss Taco Thursday. But now I’m packin’ a sack lunch.”

  “Rita?” Lauren nodded at one of the ER registration clerks, compassion in her expression. “You signed Darcee in the day she arrived in our department.”

  “Yes.” The clerk twisted the hem of her cardigan, eyes wide behind her bifocals. “She reminded me of my youngest daughter; Holly’s had some troubles. Emotionally. Depression, they say. And when I heard that girl jumped off the—”

  “We don’t know it was intentional,” one of the second-floor nurses blurted. “People shouldn’t jump to that conclusion.” She groaned, obviously regretting her choice of verbs. “I mean we don’t know for sure.”

  “I’m sorry,” the clerk apologized. “You’re right. I only meant that it made me worry about my daughter.”

  “Of course.” There was a sudden pained look on Lauren’s face. “It’s only natural, normal, to personalize an incident like this. Some of us witnessed the tragedy firsthand. A few provided care for this patient before it happened. Many only heard about the incident lat
er. Regardless, the chances are that we’re all affected in some way by what happened that day.”

  “I agree,” Gayle heard herself say. When Lauren nodded encouragement, she continued. “That’s why we’re here. I appreciate this opportunity to support each other. I think it’s helpful that social services provided those brochures with information about coping with traumatic stress. I encourage you each to take one. We all have worries.”

  Lauren sighed.

  “And . . .” Gayle resisted the urge to check her watch again; if she didn’t catch the doctor when he left surgery, she’d have to look in the physician parking lot. He drove a Lexus SUV. “I have no doubt that some of our staff feel deeply affected by what happened. In fact, today one of my registration staff was concerned enough to drive to the hospital and check on this patient.” Gayle saw Lauren’s brow furrow, told herself she wasn’t breaching privacy or pointing any fingers; she was simply helping her staff. Making certain they understood the symptoms of stress. Everyone needed to hear this. “This employee was here—up on the second floor. On her day off.”

  Lauren caught Gayle’s gaze, anxiety in her blue eyes.