Blue Like Elvis (5 page)

He patted my
hand. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Um . . .
I don’t know, I just . . .” And that was it. I couldn’t seem to
find another word and was too embarrassed to try.

He patted my
hand again. “I tell you what. You call the church office and set up a time to
come see me this week. Let’s have us a nice long chat. What do you say?”

I just nodded.
Apparently that was all I could handle.

“Good. I’ll look
forward to it.” He gave me a wink and disappeared around the corner.

I dug in my
purse for a Kleenex, wiped the snot off my face, and left the library . . .
in all my glory.

Chapter 6

Monday morning,
Sandra and I made the drive to town with all the demented Memphis drivers. We
planned to take turns driving to work, and I’d insisted we take my car that
morning. We tuned in to hear Rick Dees as we drove. The DJ was in rare form,
doing a parody conversation as someone called Lester Roadhog Dees, a crusty old
country DJ who kept touting something about “Roadhog’s used cold cuts and left-over
deli treats.” Sandra laughed so hard I thought she’d spill her coffee all over
my leather seats, but I had to admit he was funny. A nice companion on our
morning commutes.

I’d already grown
accustomed to wearing a suit to work. It felt good to be dressed like the rest
of the girls. And I couldn’t believe the difference it made, wearing such
professional clothing. I felt proud to be part of the team. More mornings than
not, I couldn’t wait to get to work.

Half-way there, my
Caddy started to sputter.

Sandra turn down
the radio. “What’s the matter with it?”

“I don’t know. It’s
never done this before.”

It coughed and
kicked then seemed to rattle a couple times for good measure. “Great. Just what
we need on a Monday morning.” I tried to pull over to the shoulder but a semi
was blocking me. Then, as if we’d just imagined it all, the Seville stopped
complaining and drove like a gem.

“That’s just weird.
I’ll have to give Dad a call and see what he thinks. I’m sure he’ll want me to
take it by the dealership.”

“No problem,”
Sandra said, finishing her make-up in the mirror on the back of the passenger
shade. “We can drop by on the way home. It’s not far from the hospital.”

Thankfully, we
made it to work with no more problems. We parked in the garage and began our
long walk to the hospital in the bright April sunshine.

I was slowly
beginning to understand the more relaxed schedule of our department. Don’t
misunderstand me. We worked hard, and we were on call the entire time we were
on the clock. But Mrs. Baker was often away from her desk or in meetings a lot,
so the routine wasn’t nearly as rigid as I’d first thought. Most days, we’d
arrive by 8:00, check in, then mosey down to the cafeteria for breakfast until
around 8:30. I loved the relaxed start. The cafeteria bustled that time of
morning as the entire range of employees grabbed a quick bite to go or took
more leisurely breaks over eggs and bacon and grits, and tapping the enormous
urns of coffee.

After breakfast we’d
hustle back to the office, gather our new patient cards and supplies, then head
up to our floors. By now, I was getting to know my fellow workers up on Nine
fairly well. Pamela was a natural when it came to people. She’d helped me learn
their names, told me about their families and backgrounds, and instructed me
what roles they served. They all adored Pamela, so I knew I’d have to work hard
to fill her designer shoes.

That morning, she
had an appointment in one of the administrative offices to begin finalizing her
departure, so I was on my own. I stopped in to greet the staff then made my way
to the desk roster to verify my patient information against their list. After
culling the cards of patients who had already checked out, I began my rounds.

It was all
becoming more natural for me, these patient visits. Most of them, surprised and
pleased to know the hospital provided a service like ours, were extremely
grateful. Some asked a barrage of questions while others simply accepted my
card and brochure, said thank you, and sent me on my way. By 10:00, I had
already made two inquiries for patients down at the insurance office, picked up
some magazines in the gift shop for the 50-something lady in 905, delivered a
sealed envelope of valuables from the man in 941 to the business office for
safekeeping, put in a request for a chaplain to stop by and see the gentleman
in 936, and bought some Sour Tarts for the guy in 950.

I only had two more new patient visits to make, then I planned to take a
break. I tapped gently on the door of 922. “Good morning, Mr. Underwood, I’m
Shelby Colter, your hostess, and I just wanted to stop by and say—”

I stopped. The tears on the face of the elderly gentleman staring back at
me broke my train of thought. He was sitting up in bed under the soft glow from
the light above him. “Mr. Underwood?”

He quickly rubbed
his face as if he could hide his tears, then pulled a tissue from the box on the
bedside table and blew his nose.

I approached the
side of his bed, unsure what I should say or do. “Are you okay?” I asked
quietly.

He took a deep
breath and let it out. “Oh, well, I . . . who are you again?”

I handed him my
card. “Shelby Colter. I’m your hostess. I’m here to run errands for you, make
contacts for you—that sort of thing.” I smiled at him. “Is there something I
can do for you, Mr. Underwood?”

He stared at my
card then dropped his head back against his pillow, stifling a sob. “I’m just
so worried about my wife . . .”

I pulled up the
chair beside his bed and took a seat. “What’s wrong with your wife?”

He wiped his nose
again. “We’re in here . . . in this hospital because of me. I
was driving and I . . . apparently I blacked out. They said I
had a mild heart attack. I don’t know. I don’t remember . . . but
my wife . . . she wasn’t wearing her seat belt and she—” He
stopped, breaking down again.

I waited, giving
him time to compose himself. This was a first for me. None of the patients I’d
visited with Pamela had responded anything like this. But she told me of
several experiences she’d had with distraught patients.
Sometimes they just
need a listening ear. Don’t feel like you have to fill the silences with chatter.
Let them talk.

And so I waited.
And prayed for wisdom.

“She’s in
intensive care. She was thrown from the car . . . they told me
she had a ruptured kidney. They had to operate . . . she also
had a concussion and broke her arm. She’s really banged up.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr.
Underwood. Have you been able to see her yet?”

“No, not yet. I
think my doctor’s afraid my heart can’t take it.” He looked down at the line of
red, raised skin stapled together down the center of his chest, disappearing beneath
his hospital-issued gown. His eyes welled up again. “It must be really bad if
they won’t let me see her. Don’t you think?”

Careful,
Shelby.
“I’m sure they just want to make sure you’re okay first. You had
surgery too. I’m sure your doctor doesn’t want you to exert yourself or risk
something else happening to you.”

“But she must be
so scared. We’re from Arkansas. We were on a trip to see our children in North
Carolina. We don’t know anyone here, and now we don’t have a car, and—”

“Has anyone
notified your kids yet?”

“I talked to my
son this morning. He’s trying to make arrangements to get here. But it could be
a day or two . . . he can’t just up and leave. He’s got people
depending on him at work and . . .” He stopped again, unable to
continue.

“Mr. Underwood,
would you like me to check in on your wife for you? See what I can find out?”
Even as the words came out, I wasn’t sure what the protocol for this type of
thing might be. Would they even allow me into ICU?

“Would you?” he
asked, his bushy eyebrows lifted with hope. “If you could just tell her I’m
okay, tell her I love her . . .”

We talked a while
longer and I jotted down some notes to find out exactly what he wanted me to say
to his wife. By the time I left, his expression was visibly relieved. Now, if I
could just deliver on my promise.

I called Mrs.
Baker and told her about the situation. She told me to come to the office and
in the meantime, she would make a quick call to ICU. By the time I got
downstairs, she had the information I needed and told me who to check in with
once I got to ICU. A few minutes later, I was at the bedside of Margaret
Underwood.

I knew immediately
why her husband had not been allowed to see her.

An unbidden
thought rushed to mind—
she looks like a corpse.
So frail and tiny in
that bed, surrounded by tubes and monitors and the constant beep-beep-beep of
the machines. Her face was horribly bruised, her head wrapped in gauze with
wisps of white hair sticking out here and there. Her arm was in a cast, held in
a sling against her chest. And she was clearly out of it. The attending nurse
told me she’d been in and out of consciousness and completely incoherent,
though her recovery from surgery had gone well. I tried to decide what to do.
Finally, I wrote a note on the back of my card and left it on her bedside
table.

What on earth
would I tell Mr. Underwood?

“Shelby, it’s not
your responsibility to share the details of Mrs. Underwood’s physical condition
with her husband,” Mrs. Baker told me when I returned to the office. “Still, it
sounds like he could use some reassurance. Here’s what I would suggest . . .”

Half an hour
later, I was about to leave Mr. Underwood’s room. I had told him his wife was
sleeping when I’d stopped by and that the doctors and nurses were taking good
care of her. He seemed relieved just to know someone had checked on her for
him, and he was especially happy to hear I’d left a note conveying his love. We
talked briefly, then I told him to call anytime he needed me.

As I gently closed
the door behind me, I finally let out a long breath. I still didn’t feel
totally confident in what I was doing yet, but I had to admit it felt good
knowing I was there for someone in their time of need. As I knocked on the door
of the new patient in 931, I wondered what kind of ministry opportunity I might
find next.

“Hello, my name is
Shelby Colter. I’m your hostess—”

“It’s about *#%! time
you got here,” growled the disheveled middle-aged woman in the bed, flashing a
couple of dollar bills at me. “The nurse told me you could go get me some
cigarettes. I want a pack of Marlboro’s.”

Reality check.
From Florence Nightingale to cigarette girl in mere moments.

Chapter 7

By 2:00 that afternoon,
I’d finished my rounds and was trying to decide if I wanted to go get a Tab. As
I stepped off the elevator, I ran into Tucker.

“Moonpie! I was
beginning to think you’d fallen off the face of the earth. How’s it going?”

We stepped off
to the side of the hall, allowing the other passengers to exit the elevator. I
knew I’d eventually run into him again, but I had no clue what to say.

“Good. It’s
good. Just getting acclimated around here. How are you?”

He tugged at my
sleeve, pulling me along. “Come have coffee with me. I need to ask you
something.”

Whoa.

He turned to
look at me. “Oh, c’mon. You have time. It’ll only take a few minutes. You’re
allowed a break now and then, you know.”

“I know,” I
answered a little too defensively.

We entered the
café at the far west end of the first floor on Madison. It was more of an
oversized snack bar than café, but there were a dozen or so small tables for
seating. We got our drinks and found a table in the corner.

I stuck my straw
into my fountain drink. “So how many cups of coffee does a resident drink
during any given 24-hour period?”

“You don’t even
want to know. But I’d never make it without it. The hours are brutal.”

“Yeah, I’ve
always heard that. How’s it going?”

He ran his hand
through his hair and shook his head. “It’s tough. I keep asking myself why I
thought I wanted to go into medicine. Course, then I work with patients, see a
few miracles, and it all comes back to me. I just need to handle my off-hours
better. Maximize my sleep time. That sort of thing. But enough about me.”

I took a sip of
my diet drink and waited. Finally I asked, “And? What was it you wanted to ask
me?”

“Oh, yeah. I
want you to come to Bible study tomorrow night. It’s at Dr. Krause’s house.
Great study. We’re going through Genesis right now. Very laid back, but we
always have a good time. And it’ll be a good chance for you to get to know some
of the singles.”

Oh, the
bliss.

“Tucker, I
appreciate it, but I’m just not ready for the whole singles thing right now.”

“Right now? What
does that mean?”

I toyed with the
wrapper from my straw then flattened my hands on the table. “Okay, I might as
well just level with you so you won’t keep inviting me to these things. I just
recently broke off my engagement. It was painful, I’m still not totally over
it, and the last thing I want to do is being around a bunch of singles. No
offense, but I’m just not ready to be back in a meat market environment.”

“Well, I’m glad
you told me about your situation. And I’m really sorry to hear about the broken
engagement. That had to be tough. But Moon— I mean,
Shelby—
it’s just a
Bible study. It’s not a ‘meat market’ as you so delicately put it. Seriously,
this group isn’t like that. I promise you. We all have a blast together. Just
come one time and give it a shot. If you don’t like it, fine.”

“We’ll see. I’m
having some car problems so I’m not sure if—”

“That’s no
problem. I can give you a ride.”

“Oh, that’s
okay. I wouldn’t want you to go out of your way.”

“Please. Will
you stop acting like I’m some stranger and just come? Rachel and Rich said you
moved out. You’re over near MSU, right?”

“Look, Tucker,
don’t worry about me. Besides, I’m sure Cassie wouldn’t appreciate me tagging
along.”

He drained the
rest of his coffee and stood up. “Oh, Cass can’t come to Bible study. She has
class on Tuesday nights.”

Oh?

He tossed his
empty cup in the trash and pulled a card out of his pocket. “Give me your phone
number and I’ll call you tonight to get directions to your place. And I won’t
take no for an answer, so don’t even bother.”

I huffed. “You’re
relentless, you know that?” I grabbed the card out of his hand and put it on my
clipboard. I wrote down my home number and handed it back to him. “But so help
me, Tucker, if one goofball starts clinging to me, I’ll never speak to you again.”

“Fair enough.
Gotta run. Talk to you later.”

I shook my head,
wondering why I’d caved so easily. Why couldn’t I just stick to my guns?

This has
trouble written all over it . . .

Sandra caught a
ride home with Chelsea, so I headed to the dealership. I’d called Dad earlier
in the day and he insisted I take my car right over to Brentwood’s Cadillac as
soon as I got off work. Since he’d worked there for so many years, he called ahead
and made arrangements for them to take a look at my baby and see what was wrong
as soon as possible. He also reserved a courtesy car for me to drive while it
was in the shop.

I had vague
memories of Brentwood’s from my childhood. We were in and out a lot of the
time, stopping by to see Dad at work. Occasionally he’d take me to work with
him on Saturday mornings. But I guess I was too young to remember much, and I
certainly didn’t recognize anyone there. Still, as soon as I walked through the
door, the familiar car dealership smell hit me like a wave, making me miss my daddy.

“So you’re Jack’s
girl,” a rather portly man said after I’d checked in at the repair shop. “I’m
Burt Brentwood, good friend of yo’ daddy’s. My goodness, how you’ve grown! Why,
last time I saw you, you weren’t this high.” He held his hand low, as if I’d
magically remember. I had no memory of this man, but since he was a Brentwood,
I’m sure we must’ve met before.

“Nice to see
you,” I said. “Did Dad talk to you this morning?”

“Sure did. And I
promised him I’d take good care of you. We’ll make sure the boys get your
Seville back running like a top. Meanwhile, I had that pretty little coupe out
there washed and waxed for you this morning. That’ll keep you running while we’ve
got yours in the shop.”

He handed me the
keys as I looked out to see a shiny red clone of my baby. “Thanks, Burt. I
appreciate it.”

As he waited for
me to sign the form at the desk, he talked about my dad and how much they all
missed him. “But no one misses him more than Elvis. Fact is, he was in here
just this morning and asked how ol’ Cadillac Jack was doing down in Birmingham.”

I looked up. “
Elvis
asked about my dad?”

“Oh sure. Always
does. Elvis loves yo’ daddy. He still buys his cars from us, but he always lets
us know he wishes Jack was still here.”

“Wow. What do
you know,” I mused, signing my name and handing the form to the clerk behind
the desk.

Burt escorted me
to the loaner, its shiny red coat glistening despite the long afternoon shadows.
“Yeah, ol’ Elvis likes his Caddies. Bought six today.”

“Six?!”

“Oh, that’s
nothing. Sometimes he orders ’em by the dozen.” He opened the driver’s door for
me.

“I guess I
shouldn’t be that surprised. Dad said he used to come in and buy several at a
time. He said sometimes they were for complete strangers. He just enjoyed
giving them to folks.”

The wind whipped
under Burt’s sad toupee and he quickly patted it back into place. “It’s true.
Waitresses, movie theater cashiers, lawn guys—you name it. He just has a ball
surprising folks. Though this time, these were what he calls his ‘guilt cars’ . . .
Elvis can’t stand knowing somebody’s upset with him or disappointed in him. So
if he gets sideways with anyone, even over something trivial, he has to make it
right. Buys ’em a Cadillac. Can you imagine?”

I slipped into
the car. “No, I can’t. I wonder if people take advantage of him just to see if
he’ll give them a Cadillac.”

“Oh sure.
Happens all the time. He’s just too blind to see it. But he’s a good guy. Has
his faults like everyone else, but a good man. You ever meet him?”

“Dad tells me I
did, but I don’t remember it.”

“That’s a real
shame. You’d love the guy. We all do.”

I bet. I couldn’t
imagine what the commission on those six Caddies had been, let alone a dozen.
Love indeed.

“Thanks, Burt.
Let me know when my car is ready.”

I drove off with
thoughts of Elvis swimming in my head. I remembered the story Dad often told me
of the night Elvis called, asking him to give a private showing for some of his
“Memphis Mafia”—his entourage of friends and bodyguards. He wanted to let them
each pick out their own cars for Christmas and special order all the extras
they wanted on them. Dad thought it would be fun for Jimmy and me to meet “the
King” so he let us tag along. Mom was home sick and none too happy about our
little outing, especially since it was at midnight. But Dad convinced her it
was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And since Elvis was a night owl, midnight
it would have to be.

I wish I
remembered it, but he says I was only four at the time, so my little brain
cells apparently weren’t yet cranking out the memory field at the time. He said
it was like one big party, all these grown men acting like kids in a candy
store. Dad was busy, of course, so he said Jimmy and I just kind of hung around
and watched. Then later, when Elvis was in Dad’s office signing some papers, he
said I walked in and backed along the wall never taking my eyes off Elvis. Dad
said Elvis immediately took to me.

“Well, who have
we here? Jack, is this little angel yours?”

“Elvis, meet Rayce.
Rayce, can you say hello to Mr. Presley?”

He tells me I
just stood there with eyes wide open, chewing on my pinky.

“C’mon over here
and let me take a good look at you, sweetheart,” Elvis said.

Dad said I
slowly approached him, twisting one foot back and forth and back and forth.
When I got close enough, Elvis picked me up and sat me on his knee.

“Well, aren’t
you just the cutest little thing? How old are you, Rayce?”

Dad says I
whispered “four” and never once took my eyes off the King.

“Four? Well, you’re
just about all grown up, aren’t you? I hope some day I have a pretty little
girl like you.”

“What would you
name her?” I asked.

“Well, now, I
don’t guess I’ve thought about that too much, seeing how I’m not married yet.
What do you think I should name her?”

“You could call
her Rayce.”

He threw his
head back and laughed. “Well, I just might do that. I like cars that go real
fast, so maybe that would be the perfect name for her.”

Of course, Dad
says I had no clue what my name and fast cars had in common.

“Rayce, maybe
some day your daddy will bring you and your mommy out to Graceland to see me
sometime. Would you like that?”

“What’s a grassland?”
I asked.

Dad says Elvis
had a good laugh at that one, then went on to explain it was where he lived. Dad
said Elvis gave me a big kiss on my cheek before setting me back down.

Imagine that.
I was kissed by Elvis.

I shook off the
memories. Well, the memories I knew only because Dad had shared them over and
over. And I tried to remember why it was that I didn’t really care that much
about the superstar. I guess I should’ve, what with having met him and all. It
wasn’t that I didn’t like him. I was just indifferent. Well, who knows, maybe
that would all change now that I was back living in Memphis.

Heck, we’re
practically neighbors.