Life Support

by Candace Calvert

  Eli had sent a couple of texts to her cell. And called once, but it went to voice mail. The judge had a strict policy of no cell phones at the dinner table. It was too early for dinner, but Eli had no doubt his father would hijack the phone anyway. Cut off Eli’s communication with his daughter as effectively—if not legally—as he had with his brother. Eli had lied to his mother, told her that he was working a few hours at Houston Grace because of his role in disaster response. He’d told Emma the same thing so she wouldn’t be caught up in this whole ugly mess. He’d done what he had to.

  Right now, his priority was Drew.

  “Those chickens are on the screened back porch now. Next thing, they’ll be right here in the house wanting pancakes for breakfast. Better watch your plate.” Eli brushed his brother’s hair away from his damp forehead, feeling the fever under his fingertips. He’d ask Florine to check it again. See what time they’d given the last Tylenol—maybe add some ibuprofen. “I need you to get better, Champ. You’re my big brother.” His throat squeezed. “Who’s gonna give me a better knuckle bump?”

  Drew’s eyelids flicked open. His arm stayed still, but he tried to smile. It broke Eli’s heart.

  He set the water cup on the table beside the framed fishing photo and lava lamp, reached for Drew’s headphones. Then he remembered Florine had said Drew liked it better in the dock these days, the music playing aloud in his room. Eli switched it on. For the Champ, he’d cope with Christian music. And chickens on the porch.

  “How’s he doing?” Cyril, his impressive bulk in full rain gear, peered through the doorway. “Looks more peaceful now that his brother’s here.”

  “I don’t like this cough,” Eli admitted, grateful once again that this family team was so dedicated to the welfare of their residents. As far as he knew, they hadn’t taken action regarding Eli’s presence here. Cyril would be a forbidding bouncer. “He’s trying to drink fluids, though. That’s good.”

  Cyril smiled. “And my man has his music—battery-powered. Music is good medicine too.”

  Music, rainbow drawing, palm-leaf cross . . . Eli was still betting on the antibiotics.

  “How’s it look out there?” Eli glanced toward the window, forgetting the view was obstructed by plywood covers. Cyril and his brothers had been busy.

  “Chicken house is maybe six inches underwater. The gravel road has a couple small mud rivers running across it, but all that’s far from the house. We’re good up here. I’ve seen to it this roof’s as watertight as a frog’s—” Cyril grinned. “It’s not gonna leak.”

  Eli smiled back at him.

  “Plenty of rural roads flooded between here and the city,” Cyril continued. “City crews have their hands full with local flooding in the usual spots, and the TV news says folks are moving up the I-10 pretty thick. Coming up and through from the coast, I suspect. No contraflow yet, but I’m glad I’m not drivin’ in that.” He shook his head. “You ask me, it’s the wind that’s gonna be the bogeyman in this storm. Already have a lot of power outages.” The lights blinked off and on again as if to prove Cyril’s point. “My guess is we’ll be on generators before long now.” His dark eyes connected with Eli’s. “You’re here. Better plan to stay. Is that little daughter of yours in a safe place?”

  “She’s at my folks’ house in River Oaks.” Eli thought he saw a hint of surprise on the big man’s face. Maybe because of the upscale zip code—or the down-and-dirty family feud.

  “News hasn’t reported serious problems there,” Cyril assured, “even with the bayou so close. Seems like most of the damage has been in neighborhoods closer to the Grace Medical complexes.”

  Eli frowned. The Barclays’ house was roughly in that area. As well as the Donnellys’. He was glad now that Parrish’s family had decided to evacuate and that Emma was with his folks—even if she’d had her cell taken away. He’d call his mother. Have her put Emma on the phone. He’d let her know there was a possibility he’d be spending the night away from home. And Eli would warn Lauren to stay at her apartment tonight. No reason to take chances.

  “The Weather Channel—TOR:CON—is putting out warnings of a potential tornado risk. Gave it a value of 6. High probability over the next couple of hours.”

  “What? In Houston?” Eli tensed.

  “Yes, sir—spawned from that landfall near Victoria. Glorietta may have been downgraded from hurricane status, but she’s still having one ugly hissy fit. We’re too close not to feel it.”

  Eli pulled his phone from his pocket. “I should call my—”

  The room went inky dark. Quiet except for the soft sound of Drew’s music.

  “That’s my cue.” Cyril’s voice sounded as if he’d moved into the hallway already. A flashlight snapped on, illuminating his rubber wading boots. “I’ll get the generators going. You and my man there . . . you sit tight.”

  Eli watched the flashlight disappear, then scooted his chair closer to the bed. Somehow the darkness—so much deeper with the window boarded—made the sound of Drew’s breathing louder, shallower, faster. Anxious probably . . . or getting worse?

  “I’m here, Champ.” Eli took hold of Drew’s withered and contracted hand. “I’m right here with you. The lights will be back on any minute. I promise. Remember when you read the Narnia stories to me after we had to turn the lights out? I’d hold your Scout flashlight, and you’d do all the different voices: Peter and Aslan and that evil White Witch.” His throat tightened as the memories flooded back. “I’d get excited and talk too loud, and you’d tell me to put my hand over my mouth so Dad wouldn’t hear. . . .”

  - + -

  Lauren checked the desk monitor at the nurses’ station again. Darcee Grafton’s numbers had changed. Blood pressure 94 over 50—not really hypotensive, but trending downward. Heart rate 104, respirations 28. Darcee had been talking to Jess for almost ten minutes and had initially been more animated than usual, intense. That might account for the faster heart rate and breathing. Heaven knew, Jess could wear a person out. But Lauren didn’t like Darcee’s oxygen saturation reading: 94 percent on two liters of nasal oxygen. Whether they liked it or not, she’d break up this conversation, check Darcee’s temp, listen to her heart and lungs, and—

  Lauren’s personal cell buzzed in her jacket pocket. Eli.

  “Hey there.” She glanced at the monitors again, then leaned against the desk. “How is Drew?”

  “Temp’s climbed some.” It sounded like Eli was whispering. “I don’t like the sounds in his left lung. But there’s no way we’d get him transported for an X-ray now. First responders are having issues with this weather. Mimaw’s is on generator power.” There was the sound of a wheezing cough. “I should see about getting him another breathing treatment. Then I’m going to check on Emma. But I wanted to tell you it might be better if you and Jessica stay at your apartment tonight. It’s a much newer building. Apparently there’s a tornado risk.”

  Lauren had a sudden image of Jess in the Oz apron. “I hadn’t heard. We’ll do that, then. Jess got called in to work for a few hours. But the nurse I’m covering for should be here any minute; her husband’s a firefighter and he’s bringing her in a rescue rig. As soon as she takes over, I’ll head home and get Hannah Leigh packed up.”

  “Check with Fletcher before you drive over that way. I saw him earlier and he said he was going to keep an eye on your street. I don’t want to worry you, but Cyril said there’s already been some wind damage around your community. And with that warning about tor—”

  “Lauren!”

  Jess called frantically from Darcee’s room. There was no mistaking the panic in her voice. “Hurry. Something’s wrong—she can’t breathe!”

  “Gotta go, Eli.”

  The moment Lauren began jogging toward the bed, the overhead lights flickered and the ICU plunged into darkness.

  Ten-second delay for the backup generators—just ten. One, two . . . God, please . . .

  “IT . . . HURTS. . . . MAKE IT . . . STOP. Oh . . . God . .
. Can’t breathe!”

  “Darcee, hang on. Easy now. I’m going to help you. We are—Jess, grab that oxygen mask, the one with the bag hanging down from it. Yes.” Lauren had never seen eyes as panicky-big as her sister’s. Except maybe Darcee Grafton’s right this minute. “See that oxygen meter on the wall? Twist the knob to crank up the flow, make that silver ball go as high as it goes. Do it. Right now.”

  Lauren kept her voice as calm as possible amid the cacophony of distant alarms and hustling footfalls, the short-staffed intensive care unit scrambling to get things settled down after the power switchover. Thank heaven they had light. Dim, but there. She took the rebreather mask from Jess. “Where’s the pain? What’s hurting, Darcee?”

  “My . . . ribs . . . my chest . . . bad. Hurts to breathe.” She pressed a hand to her chest. Her face was pale, shiny with sweat. “Can’t get . . . air. I need to be up. . . . Let me out of here!”

  “Easy. This will help.” Lauren settled the mask over her patient’s face.

  “What’s wrong?” Jess bit at a fingernail, eyes fixed on Darcee. “What’s happening?”

  “Push that red button. Right there beside the oxygen meter. That will bring extra staff,” Lauren instructed, diagnoses swirling in her head. Trauma patient with a leg injury. Pulmonary embolism, fat embolus? Both dangerous.

  The panic button began its urgent chime.

  “I need to page the doctor.” Lauren’s gaze moved to the monitors. Blood pressure now 88 over 58, pulse 118, oxygen saturation 92 percent. “He’ll want an EKG, X-rays, labs, blood gases. Help me keep her still, Jess. She’s getting agitated. I can’t lose those IV lines. I need your help.”

  Lauren brushed back the stray red strands of hair clinging to her patient’s forehead, connected with her panicked eyes. “Hang in there, Darcee.” The young woman gulped for air, fogging the oxygen mask. “It’s going to be all right. Stay with us.” Please don’t die. . . .

  - + -

  Fletcher strode toward the road crew, a headwind plastering his rain jacket against his uniform shirt; at this point, even his body armor felt wet. But at least he wasn’t having to hunch over a downed tree while wielding a chain saw, like these men.

  “How’s it going?” he shouted over the wind and tool roar. The air smelled like sawdust, sweat, and motor oil. Wooden street barricades blinked amber light in the deepening dusk.

  “’Bout got it,” one of the crew shouted back. He grinned, exposing a gold-rimmed front tooth. “Which means our crew’s only twenty-seven trees behind. I’m hungry enough to eat some branches. How come no tree ever falls outside a County Line BBQ?” He glanced at the patrol car and then toward the blocked entrance to the community. “Power went out a while back. Someone need help in there?”

  “No,” Fletcher reassured him. “I’m not answering a dispatch call. It’s my parents’ neighborhood. Thought I’d do a drive-by. You know.”

  “For sure. My ma retired to Florida. Out of the frying pan into the fire, I tell her, far as hurricanes go. But you don’t argue with Ma.” He reached for a huge pair of branch loppers. “We’ll be finished in about twenty.” His grin glinted again. “Faster if I start eating them branches. Who knows? Beavers might be on to something.”

  Fletcher slid back into his car, checked the computer. No changes in the disaster-response plan. Still on voluntary evacuation, though the highway traffic was thinning some now. Numerous rescues of citizens from vehicles stranded in water . . . lots of reported wind damage to buildings, both residential and business. Even some citizen reports of isolated tornado touchdowns—suspicious but not confirmed. No looting so far. Plenty of power outages. Three hospitals on emergency power. But no storm-related fatalities, thankfully. The coastal communities had taken a much harder hit in the storm. By all predictions, the worst of Glorietta would subside before morning. Fletcher hoped that was true.

  He glanced toward the downed tree. They probably would have that road cleared in twenty minutes. But there was another gate on the adjacent street, so—

  His computer signaled a call: a neighbor versus neighbor complaint about stolen storm supplies? The neighborhood was a couple miles away. Fletcher sighed. He’d settle that—short of hefting wet sandbags—and swing by here again. His drive-by could wait awhile. His parents’ tenants had decided to evacuate yesterday. And he’d talked with Lauren briefly; she and Jessica had been called in to work. As for the shih tzu, well . . . Fletcher smiled. Miss Hannah Leigh had the strongest sense of self-preservation he’d ever seen.

  - + -

  “It’s good soup.” Eli lowered his spoon as Vee stepped through Drew’s doorway. “Gumbo?”

  “Yes. My own version.” She smiled. “Somehow soup always tastes better on a stormy night.”

  “That’s true.” Eli glanced at the bed. The rhythm of Drew’s breathing blended with the chug and hum of the power generator. “Our Mimaw made andouille-shrimp soup on rainy nights. We’d camp out with sleeping bags on her screened porch and eat the soup out of coffee mugs. One time Drew said whoever got the most shrimp in his cup was a winner. I had eleven and a half pieces. He had nine. It was the first time I ever beat him at anything. He teased me that the prize was helping Mimaw wash the dishes. Then he gave me his favorite baseball.” Eli shook his head. “I’d forgotten that until just now.”

  “Memories taste better on stormy nights too.”

  “Maybe so.” Eli took a slow breath. “I wanted to say I appreciate that you all didn’t give me a hard time for showing up here today. Because of that restraining order. Your whole family has been nothing but kind to Drew and to me. I don’t want to get any of you in trouble.”

  “We know that. And we see how much you care about your brother, how he feels about you. It’s not something we want to get in the way of.” She raised her brows. “But for the record, Florine did report your being here to an officer. A sheriff’s deputy, Marcel Fruge.”

  “Fruge . . . like Cyril?”

  “His older brother—two years on the force. We’re hugely proud of him.” She shrugged. “Marcel says he’s sorry, but unless you start throwing furniture around, this storm has him pretty much tied up.”

  A lump rose in Eli’s throat. “I promise not to do that.”

  “We figured.”

  She glanced toward the dimly lit hallway as a wheelchair passed by. The young woman with the halo brace, being pushed by her mother. “We also wanted to let you know that if you want to bunk down on the couches in the great room, we have plenty of sheets and blankets. Or we’re fine with bringing a cot in here.”

  “I haven’t been listening to the TV weather. Are the nearby roads flooded?”

  “Pretty much. At least enough that the first responders said it’s doubtful they could get in here.” She glanced at Drew. “Florine checked. Just in case.”

  Eli’s heart stalled. He didn’t want that anyway . . . right? He didn’t want to start that awful journey toward the misery of last Christmas. It was at the bottom of the whole mess with his father.

  “Well, think about it,” Vee told him. “We’ll set you up with anything you need.” She clucked her tongue. “Regular pajama party goin’ on here tonight. Poppy’s granddaughter. Debra’s mom. The cousins bunking in the loft. Chickens on the porch.” She winked. “All we’re missing is your darling Emma and her big lug of a dog.”

  “Yes.” Eli chuckled, missing her. He’d gotten no answer when he called the house—they’d probably been at the dinner table by then. “I was just going to try calling her again.”

  - + -

  “A fat embolus,” Lauren told Jess, standing back as three physicians, the EKG tech, and two oncoming ICU nurses jockeyed for position beside Darcee’s bed. “That’s the working diagnosis at this point. Set loose from her leg fracture to her lung. They’re still ruling out a blood clot, though.”

  “It’s bad, whatever it is. I could tell that by the look in her eyes.”

  The look in Jess’s eyes wasn’t so good either.

>   “She’s a little more comfortable now,” Lauren assured. “Most of the time fat emboli absorb on their own. If it’s a blood clot instead, they’ll have to make a decision about tPA—the clot-busting drug. It’s riskier because she’s had bleeding in her brain. She’s young and otherwise physically healthy, so that’s on her side. But this is a very serious complication.”

  She touched her sister’s arm. “You were a help, Jess. Letting me know immediately that she was having trouble. Working with me to get the oxygen going and holding her down when she got so agitated. That wasn’t easy.”

  “I tried,” she said, hugging her arms around herself. “But I’m not a nurse—not even close.”

  “You’re moving closer all the time.” Lauren caught her gaze, nodded. “I’m proud of you.”

  “I suppose I should get downstairs.”

  “Right. I just wanted to ask you about—oh, my phone’s ringing. Hang on a second. I’m going to grab this.”

  Lauren took a few steps away before connecting to Eli’s call. “Your timing’s perfect. My relief is here, and I’ll be leaving for—”

  “I can’t get ahold of Jessica.” Eli sounded breathless, almost panicked. “She’s not answering her phone. The clerks say she’s not in the ER. I have to get ahold of her.”

  “Eli, what’s wrong?” She waved to Jess, beckoning her over.

  “My parents called me. Emma’s not there. She never arrived. I’ve tried calling Emma’s cell phone a dozen times. There’s no answer.”

  “But . . .” Lauren’s heart froze. “That’s not possible. It must be a misunderstanding. Wait, I’ll get Jess. She’s right here.” Lauren cradled the phone to her chest, anxiety making her mouth go dry. “It’s Eli. He’s worried sick. You didn’t take Emma to his parents’ house?”

  “I . . .” Jess’s face went pale. “No. I was going to tell you about that. I was. And call Eli too. Then all this happened with Darcee.”

  Eli was shouting through the phone, his voice unintelligible but frantic.