The Complete Arms of Grace Series
ARMS OF GRACE * LITTLE LOST THINGS * GRACE’S FAVORITE ITALIAN DISHES
Eleanor Chance
Darlington Publishing
Copyright © 2019 Eleanor Chance
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, places, incidents, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real or are used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.
Published by Darlington Publishing
Williamsburg, VA
eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-951870-00-3
Cover Design by: Dissect Designs, London
Created with Vellum
In loving memory of Cindy, dear sister and friend. You are deeply missed.
Volume One
ARMS OF Grace
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
1
Johnny blew into my life on a hurricane. It happened in early September. The Category 1 storm made landfall in the Chesapeake Bay and roared up the James to Richmond. Meteorologists predicted our certain doom, but few others seemed concerned about the danger. The governor called for evacuations, but most chose to ignore him. Most came to regret that choice.
It wasn’t the wind so much as the rain that wreaked the havoc. The storm stalled over downtown Richmond and lower parts of the city flooded within hours. All avenues of escape were soon underwater. I was trapped with those who’d decided to stay and ride out the storm, but I wasn’t there by choice. I was considered essential personnel at Richmond City Hospital where I worked as the charge-nurse on the internal-medicine floor, so escape hadn’t been an option.
I trudged ahead, working long after my shift ended. At forty, I couldn’t pull thirty-six-hour shifts like I used to, so I snuck away to my office at nine for a break. I had no idea how long the flooding would keep me from my cozy brick rancher in the suburbs, so I needed to pace myself.
The phone rang two minutes after I sat down. I grabbed the receiver and said hello. Daniel Kinsley’s voice answered back. He was my boss and least favorite person at the hospital. Just when I thought my day couldn’t get worse.
Without greeting me, he said, “They need you in the ER. They’re swamped. I can’t force you, but with the hurricane, it’s all hands on deck.”
That was Kinsley’s way of telling me it was optional but expected. My aching body begged me to say no, but since Kinsley and I were in a perpetual state of battling wills, I hoped to gain some ground if I agreed to go. I knew the ER staff would be glad of the help too. I told Kinsley I’d go and made my way to the ER for round three.
Five grueling hours later, I went to the nurses’ lounge for a break. I closed my eyes with a sigh and propped my throbbing feet on the cluttered coffee table. As I did, a flash of lightning flooded the room. Thunder boomed three seconds later and rattled the walls. Wind howled between the buildings only feet from where I sat. I’d been too busy to notice the storm while I’d helped treat a never-ending stream of patients, but I couldn’t escape it in the quiet of the nurses’ lounge, so I downed a bottle of water and went back to work.
I peeked into the waiting room as I passed by. It was full, but not overflowing like earlier. As I turned to go, a young couple stormed in through the sliding doors and thrust a baby into the arms of the receptionist, Amanda. They were talking in a rush. The only words I caught were “drowning” and “mouth-to-mouth.” The receptionist tried to hand the baby back so she could help them, but they wouldn’t take him.
“I can’t understand you,” she said. “Slow down. Tell me what happened.”
“We were evacuating in our boat,” the man said between gasps. “When we got to shore, we spotted him floating in the water. I pulled him out, and we ran to find a cab. He wasn’t breathing. I gave him mouth-to-mouth on the way here.”
I didn’t wait to hear more. I tucked my hands under the infant and carefully lifted him into my arms. “Announce a code blue,” I said to Amanda and asked the couple to follow me.
The man ignored me and yanked on the woman’s arm. She tried to fight him off with one hand and grabbed the child’s foot with her other hand. She looked to me for help with anguish in her eyes, and I wondered why she refused to leave some random infant. The man grabbed her wrist and dragged her toward the entrance. He gave her a shove, and they disappeared through the curtain of pelting rain.
I tore my eyes from the scene and rushed the baby to the nearest trauma room. I laid him on a gurney and studied him for the first time. He was blue and unconscious, taking shallow, choking breaths. A swollen bruise covered the left side of his forehead. I examined his body for other superficial injuries but found none. I estimated his age at about six months. Doctors and nurses came flooding in from all directions and crowded around the gurney.
As I removed my little patient’s wet clothing, I described the scene from the waiting room. The attending physician took his place, and I stepped back to let his team work. He fired questions at me without looking up. I recounted what little I knew.
“Go ask Amanda if she has any more information, and hurry,” he said as I ran out of the room.
The waiting room was calm when I got back, but Amanda was staring wide-eyed at the entrance. When I asked if she had any details about the incident, she held her hand up to my face, and said, “Look, I’m still shaking. What was that?”
The ER was always unpredictable, but even I had to admit that what that couple had done was bizarre. I smiled reassuringly at Amanda and repeated my question.
“They wouldn’t tell me anything, not even their names. All they wanted was to get away. I’m sure they were lying. Did you see the way the woman hung on to the baby?”
I nodded but tried again to get the information we needed. “You didn’t notice anything else?” I asked, hoping something would come to her.
She just shrugged. “You saw the whole thing, Ms. Ward. You know as much as I do.”
“We’ve got to get those people back here,” I said and rubbed my forehead.
“The orderly gave the couple’s description to two cops who’d been dropping off a DUI patient. They took off after them,” she said.
“Hopefully they’ll find them,” I said, knowing it wasn’t likely. “We don’t even know how long the infant was in the water or how his head got injured.”
The attending wouldn’t be happy with so little to go on. As I turned to go, Amanda asked about the baby.
“Not good,” I said. “They’ve got him intubated. Hopefully, the cold water slowed his circulation and need for oxygen. He has a head injury too. I need to get back and report.”
“Poor little guy,” Amanda said and shook her head. She was about to say more, but a man stepped up to the counter cradling his bloodied hand, so I made my exit.
By the time I got back to the trauma room, the baby was lying silently in a hospital crib. The blue tinge in his skin was gone, but the bruise was bigger and more swollen. He had an IV runni
ng and a collar to stabilize his neck. Whips of his blond hair peeked out of the blue knitted cap on his head. The attending came in and shined a light into the baby’s pupils to check his response. I recounted what Amanda had told me.
“It’s not enough, but it’ll have to do,” he said, pulling off his gloves. “We’ll keep a close watch on his intracranial pressure. The next few hours will be critical. They’re making room for him in the PICU. They’re slammed like everyone else. What a night, and it’s not over.” He ran a hand through his hair.
All thoughts of the hurricane vanished when I volunteered to stay with the child until he was moved to the pediatric ICU. The attending thanked me for my help and walked out, shaking his head as he went. I dragged a chair next to the crib and rested my arms on the rail. He was an adorable little boy. Despite his ugly wound, he was peaceful and oblivious to the fact that his life was in danger. I wondered again at how he’d ended up in the river. If he’d been my child, I’d have protected him with the fierceness of a lion.
It had been a long, exhausting day, and my eyes became heavy as I watched him. I leaned back, resting my head against the wall to let sleep come. The next thing I knew, the trauma nurse supervisor was shaking my shoulder.
I sat forward and rubbed my eyes. They felt like sandpaper. “What time is it?” I asked. “And how did you get to the hospital?”
“Five thirty. I walked. I live close by. We just finished our shift change, such as it is. Why don’t you take off? We’ll keep an eye on him,” she said, cocking her head toward the baby.
I was reluctant to go but knew I’d need sleep to brace for the rest of the day. “I’ll go crash in my office,” I said. “Call if there’s any change.”
“I’ll let the PICU know. We’re getting ready to transfer him. Now go,” she said and shuffled me out the door.
I took a last longing look at the baby and headed for my office.
I spent what remained of that night haunted by dreams of that pale little face. After tossing on my office sofa for three hours, I gave up and went to the staff showers to clean up. After my shower, I pulled my wet hair into a band and threw on some scrubs. By then, it was almost ten. My stomach growled, and I realized I hadn’t eaten anything but cheese sticks and yogurt since around five the day before.
I gave the cafeteria a shot but wasn’t surprised to see that there wasn’t much of a selection. I choked down cold cereal and a day-old doughnut and then went back to my office to tackle charts. That was a total waste of time. The words and numbers danced on the screen in an incomprehensible jumble, so I gave up and decided to give sleep another try. As soon as I was snuggled in on the sofa, the phone rang. Assuming it was Kinsley again, I was tempted to ignore it but knew I’d get an earful later if I did.
I reached for the receiver and said, “Grace Ward,” without trying to hide my irritation.
“Hi, Grace, it’s Walt,” my cousin said.
My irritation vanished at the sound of his voice. Walt never called me at work. He rarely even called me at home. I swallowed and braced for the bad news about to come.
“Hello, Walt. It’s great to hear from you,” I said, trying to mask my dread.
“You won’t say that when you hear why I’m calling. I’m sorry to bother you at work with the hurricane and all, but you didn’t answer your cell. There’s no way to soften this. Andrew Whiting passed away this morning. Heart attack. Mom called me with the news but didn’t have the heart to tell you. I’m so sorry. I know he was like a father to you.”
I gasped and didn’t trust myself to speak for several seconds. When Walt asked if I was still there, I said yes and swallowed again. “Thanks for letting me know. When’s the funeral?”
Walt didn’t know but said he’d call back with the details. “I really am sorry. Talk to you soon,” he said and hung up.
My thoughts reeled, refusing to accept that Andrew was dead. I’d talked to him two days earlier. We’d been making plans for Christmas. How could he be dead?
Andrew had been much more than a father figure to me. He’d been my savior. If not for Andrew, I wouldn’t have become a nurse. If not for him, I would have died twenty years earlier. I hadn’t even told him how much I loved him when we last talked. I didn’t tell him he was everything in the world to me. Had he felt that? I’d never know. He was gone too soon, like everyone I’d loved.
I gazed at the framed photo of Andrew that sat on my desk. I had taken it at my nursing school graduation. That was the first day I had allowed myself to believe I had a shot at a normal life. Andrew had encouraged that, and he’d been so proud of me.
I was startled out of my thoughts when thunder rattled the windows. I’d forgotten the hurricane in my grief. I wished I could forget my grief so easily. I’d faced loss in the past and knew what was coming. I longed to run and hide, but long experience had taught me that grief is a relentless stalker we can’t escape. I hugged Andrew’s picture to my chest and curled up on the sofa in a futile attempt to cry away the pain.
I drifted off at some point and woke three hours later with drool running down my cheek. It took several seconds for me to get my bearings and figure out why I was sleeping on my office couch. When my head cleared, I looked for Andrew’s picture and found it lying face down on the floor. I picked it up and was relieved to see that the glass wasn’t broken. I wiped it clean with my sleeve and sat it on the blanket next to me.
Desperate for a distraction and change of scenery, I decided to check on the abandoned baby in the PICU. He’d looked so defenseless and vulnerable the night before. With the storm, I knew the PICU staff wouldn’t have time to give him the love and care he required. I had time and love to give. And I needed to be needed. I tenderly set Andrew’s picture back on the desk and went out, locking the door behind me.
I was afraid of what I might find. The last thing I needed was news of another death. Working with critically ill patients wasn’t new to me, but having trouble maintaining my professional detachment was. My patients had always mattered to me, but I rarely gave them a second thought once they left my department. For the first time since becoming a nurse, I began to understand how families felt about their loved ones lying in those beds.
I trudged ahead in spite of my trepidation. The supervising nurse blocked my way at the PICU entrance and started to say that only authorized personnel were allowed, but she stopped when she recognized me.
“What do you want?” she asked, sort of suppressing a scowl.
“I’m here to see the infant who came in last night with the head injury,” I said, trying to appear calmer than I felt.
“You and everybody else. He’s in six.” She gestured with her thumb toward his station.
Relieved by the good news, I nodded and went to room six. Marci, a nurse who’d once worked for me, was taking his vitals. She raised an eyebrow at me but didn’t say anything. When she finished with her patient, she faced me and said, “I heard you were subbing in the ER when he came in.”
“That’s true,” I said, not in the mood for small talk.
“What happened?” she asked, not taking the hint from my tone.
“Probably just what you’ve heard. How is he?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.
“Still comatose. Intracranial pressure’s stable but still high. We’ve his lowered O-two sat. Dr. Carter hopes to take him off the vent in a few days if his ICP comes down. We’re watching for pneumonia too.”
The improvement in his breathing was a good sign, but the brain pressure wasn’t. If the swelling didn’t go down or continued to increase, they’d have to open his skull to drain it. With his other injuries, he probably wouldn’t survive the procedure, or he’d have significant brain damage. I cringed at the thought of him with his precious little skull cut open.
“Thanks, Marci,” I said, softening my tone. “I’ll keep an eye on him if you have another patient.”
“I don’t, but I do need a break, so I’ll take you up on your offer.”
/> Once she rounded the corner, I pulled the curtain around us and peered at the baby. The bruising had spread down to his cheek, and his eye was swollen shut. Even with his injuries, I was smitten with him. I wanted to cuddle and kiss him and make it all better. Ignoring protocol, I brushed my gloveless finger across his chubby palm. He gripped it and squeezed, making me jump. He shouldn’t have reacted. I tried to pull away, but the baby tightened his hold. My training cried out that it was only an instinctive reaction, but my heart refused to listen.
I stepped closer and wrapped my other hand around his. His warm hand in mine sent shivers up my arms, and I wanted to cling to him forever. After checking that no one was watching, I put my lips to his ear and whispered, “That’s right, my little man; I’m right here. Hold on tight. Fight for your life.”
My tears welled up as we clung to each other, and I didn’t fight them. I cried for the baby. I cried for Andrew. I cried for myself. I cried until I couldn’t mask the force of my sobs. The curtain rustled behind me, and I turned to find Alec Covington staring at me through the opening.
Alec was my second least favorite person at the hospital, and there’d been bad blood between us since she’d been hired to work in my department. Alec was everything I wasn’t. She was five nine, with dark wavy hair and perfect skin. I was five one in shoes, and I had a slight limp and thin, flat blond hair. Her nursing degree was from UCLA on a full scholarship, and she’d been recruited to a top-rated hospital in San Francisco straight out of school. I’d had to work full-time while I was in nursing school. I wouldn’t have been able to do it if Andrew hadn’t paid my tuition.
The Complete Arms of Grace Series Page 1
