Disaster Status (10 page)
Erin groaned. “Touché. But, honestly, tetanus shots just plain ache. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. . . .” Her words faded.
When he met her gaze again, her expression was so openly caring that he was caught completely off guard by her sincerity and the way she looked, standing in the sand in that green sweater with the sea breeze playing with her long hair and deepening sunlight turning it all shades of gold and red . . . like a California wildfire. Scott blinked. What was he doing? He’d come down here to put out a fire, not start one. And he needed to talk this stubborn nurse out of dragging him into a psychological circus he had no time for and no faith in. Besides, he wasn’t looking for a relationship. He drew in a deep breath of briny sea air and was relieved when Erin broke the silence with a question.
“You swim here a lot?” she asked after scanning the shoreline.
“Yes. The currents are challenging. It’s good training for Ocean Rescue.”
“So you battle the ‘cold ocean like a tortured soul’?” Erin’s eyes crinkled at the edges. “Isn’t that how Annie put it?”
“Annie Popp is prone to quoting Scripture and to colorful storytelling. But then you probably already know that, Wonder Woman.” He chuckled, thinking of a little girl with pigtails, a crown, and a doubled-up fist. “Sounds like she had you pegged as a fighter from the start.”
“You’ll be relieved to know I gave up the Lasso of Truth. I think it turned into a dog leash.” Erin lifted her chin. “But I’ve got red boxing gloves.”
He raised his brows and she laughed. “Seriously. It’s a great workout. And a good way to let off steam. Maybe punching my speed bag is like your swims.” She sighed, and her expression grew serious. “But then some things are worth fighting for, and some . . .” She turned toward the ocean, took a step away, and the soft crashing of the waves muffled the rest of her words.
Scott wasn’t sure, but he thought she’d added, “Things are worth fighting against.”
Erin crossed her arms and walked farther; Scott followed, feeling certain that the tentative conversation was about to turn back to business. She was going to bring up the critical stress counseling again. He was surprised when she didn’t.
“My grandmother’s worth any fight,” Erin said.
Scott drew alongside. He shortened his stride to match hers, and their feet sank side by side in the sand as they walked, hers leaving prints much smaller than his.
“She’s an incredible woman, honest and loyal . . . a rock all my life. Nana marched in protests during the sixties, traveled with the Peace Corps, and volunteered at mission clinics in places that would scare the wits out of me. But she’s been through way too many hard times these past few years. She’s lost so much. Hurt too long.” Erin glanced at Scott, and the look in her eyes made his breath catch. “It breaks my heart, you know?”
Scott stared out at the sea, struggling against a familiar ache. His family. Their losses. He turned back to Erin, and the words slipped out before he could stop them. “I do know. It’s how I feel about Cody.”
Erin brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “You said he was in the hospital for an infection. It was something serious, then?”
“They’re concerned he might develop osteomyelitis. Be at risk for losing his leg.” Scott jammed his hands into his pockets. “They’ve been fighting it for a few months now. He’s only ten.”
“Oh no. How did that start?”
“His leg was crushed in a car accident. Almost a year ago. He’s had so many surgeries on the muscles, the vessels, the nerves. . . .” Scott swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “He’s the bravest person I’ve known. Ever.”
Scott faced the ocean and felt Erin’s hand rest lightly on his arm. For a while they stood there silently watching the sun, huge and ember orange, slip under the purple edge of the sea, and for some reason a sense of peace washed over him. Not like a wave. It was more of an eddy . . . like one of those fleeting, inexplicable warm spots he’d enter while dragging his body stroke after stroke through the bone-chilling sea.
“I’m sorry,” Erin whispered, her fingers warm even through his jacket sleeve. “His parents must be so—”
“They’re dead. My sister and her husband were killed in the accident.” Scott fought the pain and anger threatening to drown him like always. Her eyes widened, and he knew he was about to horrify her. “The car was traveling over ninety miles an hour. And the report confirmed that my brother-in-law swerved into that power pole deliberately. To kill them all. Colleen tried to grab the wheel, begged him . . . Cody remembers everything.”
Chapter Eleven
Erin gasped. “Oh, that poor boy. I don’t know what to say.”
Scott sighed, wishing he’d said nothing at all. Why had he done that? “You don’t have to say anything, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Don’t expect me to jump on board any of that psychological business. My brother-in-law had anger issues, was emotionally abusive. My sister tried to save her marriage, but everything only got worse and worse. They separated and he began harassing her. She was advised to take out a restraining order, but he volunteered to get counseling, so she held off.” Scott swallowed hard. “Cody’s father came directly from his therapist’s office the night of the accident. He’d been going for months, and—” he stared into Erin’s eyes and nodded to be sure she got it—“the doctors think he just snapped.”
Erin hugged her arms around herself. “And you think something like that could happen because of peer counseling? That my staff, yours . . . Sandy, Chuck, any of them might be at risk? You think it’s safer to let them work things out by themselves?”
He heard the skepticism in her voice and saw determination in the way she’d lifted her chin. The woman who’d challenged him that first day at the hospital barricade, a fighter for her staff and her grandmother. Wonder Woman with a splash of freckles and pair of red boxing gloves. What was he going to do with that? He wanted to shake sense into her, but at the same time, he wanted . . .
what?
Scott’s eyes moved slowly over Erin’s upturned face, and all at once he wanted that eddy of peace and warmth to return. He started to wonder what it might feel like to hold her right here on this beach, where he’d always been cold and alone. . . . He nearly jumped when his cell phone buzzed on his belt.
“McKenna,” he barked. “Really?” he said after listening for a few moments. Relief washed over him. “And what about the latest water samples? . . .” He nodded and paced a few steps as the fire chief went over the details.
Erin followed. The look on her face said she was ready to punch him if he didn’t let her in on what was happening.
“So when does it go on the local channels? . . . Good. Thank you for the update.” When Scott disconnected, he found Erin peering at him from mere inches away. So close . . . but taking her in his arms was never an option anyway. He’d settle for giving her some good news and avoiding a kidney punch.
“Well?” she asked, raising her voice over the sound of a boat engine in the distance.
“We’ve had some reassurance from the EPA. They feel that even if the farmer’s records were off by several barrels, the contamination couldn’t be as bad as we’d feared. And the newest water samples are clean. They’ll continue to test for at least another week, and we’ll still be drinking bottled water, but so far so good.”
Erin’s breath escaped in a rush. “Thank the Lord. This is such good news.”
Scott barely had time to nod before Erin launched herself against him in an exuberant hug, her arms around his back, her face against his jacket, and her silky hair brushing his chin. He felt, crazily, like a kid finding his dream gift under the Christmas tree. She was warm, soft, and smelled like . . . extra cinnamon. A rush of warmth made him dizzy for an instant. “Hey, what’s all this?” he asked, his lips moving against her hair, as he wondered what to do with his dangling arms.
Before he could decide, Erin stepped away. “Thank you for telling me. I mean, I’m sure somewhere in some book, you weren’t supposed to do that until it comes out officially on the news. My grandmother will be so encouraged. It’s a glimmer of hope, and I’m so relieved. Thank you, Scott.”
“No problem,” he said with a casual shrug, trying to convince himself it was that boat engine, not his heart, pounding in his ears. “Let’s get back up there. I want to call Cody. He won’t admit it, but the news coverage has been worrying him. I want him to know things are looking safer.”
+++
Sarge padded as quietly as he could across the darkened patient room, switched the water bottle for a safe one, turned to leave, then stopped, teetering for an instant on his prosthesis. Cody was awake. Even though Sarge waited nearly thirty minutes after the TV had been turned off.
“Rich?”
“Yes,” Sarge whispered after glancing furtively at the doorway to the corridor. No sign of the night nurses. It was around eleven thirty; they were probably still in report. He’d be fired if he was found here. He’d never expected to interact with Cody—just protect him from afar. Check on him now and then as he slept. Keeping watch, as much as he could, from his base in the housekeeping closet next door. When the boy awoke that first time and assumed he was one of the nurses, he didn’t correct him.
Rich.
The night nurse.
That’s who Sarge was to Cody Sorenson.
The boy giggled. “I can tell it’s you even in the dark. You have that squeaky shoe.”
Squeaky plastic leg.
“That’s right. Maybe I need an oilcan, like the Tin Woodman in
The Wizard of Oz
. You know that story?”
“Sure. But that’s kid stuff. I’m ten, you know. I like those old comic books you brought. They’re cool.”
“Good.” Sarge searched his fuzzy memories, trying to recall his own son at age ten.
Does Ricky remember me?
He pushed the thought away. “Go to sleep, okay?”
Cody sighed. “Okay. But could you bring me that medicine first? My leg’s getting sore again.”
“You’ll have to push the call button. Pills aren’t my job.”
“Only water bottles?”
“Mm-hmm.” Sarge needed to get back to the closet before someone saw him. Then watch the hallway and slip down to the south wing when it was clear. “And keeping you safe. That’s my real job. To keep you safe. Remember that.”
Five minutes later, Sarge settled into the housekeeping closet. He had thirty minutes left on his scheduled meal break. The rest of the sparse night staff, if they even noticed his absence, would assume he’d gone to the cafeteria or lounge. He preferred it here—and the mission left him no choice. He had bottled water, beef jerky, and an aluminum baseball bat. If the enemy came for the boy, he was ready.
The town meeting was an obvious attempt at a cover-up, the officials either paid off or part of the conspiracy. But then Sarge might have believed that be-happy-don’t-worry garbage himself a few weeks ago. When his brain was still full of those medications. A different kind of poison but a poison nonetheless, designed to dumb him down and keep him content with scrubbing toilets and mopping up delivery room floors. And to keep him unaware of what they were planning, make him forget he was a warrior. Flushing those pills was the best decision he’d made in years. He didn’t care if the nightmares returned or if he heard the rocket fire, felt the stifling desert heat, inhaled the acrid rubber of the gas mask, or
. . .
If I see
the faces of the dead civilians.
Nausea rose and he swallowed it back. Saving this boy was worth the risk. Sarge leaned against the storeroom wall and pulled the bat onto his lap.
+++
Erin set her toothbrush down and glanced at the stained-glass panel in the bathroom window. Its purple, red, and green shards glistened with shower steam, almost as if the sword and shield were lifted in some stormy battle. How long had it taken her to make that window hanging? She wasn’t sure, but it filled those awful weeks when thoughts of her father left her sleepless and agitated and unspeakably angry. The painstaking process of drawing a pattern, cutting the glass, wrapping the edges with foil, and applying the solder—building something instead of smashing things like she’d been so tempted to do—saved her life that summer.
And my soul?
Erin sighed, thinking of Annie Popp working day after day with glass too. “Art for my soul,” she’d said. But Annie’s designs were so different, fragments of pale glass tumbled by the sea. Green, amber, a dozen shades of blue, bits that were once clear and now frosty opaque, all strung on fishing line, suspended in the sunshine and balanced by pieces of wood she’d collected from the beach. Driftwood. Like in Erin’s childhood musings, when she’d imagine Jesus using a piece of driftwood to conduct the rhythm of the waves, the sound peaceful and comforting as she waited for sleep. And so very different from the way the ocean seemed now, restless and unsettling. And lonely. Although tonight, walking on the beach with Scott . . .
Erin raised a comb to her towel-dried hair, noticing in the mirror that she was flushing.
I hugged him.
Her stomach fluttered as she remembered being close to him, the solid muscles of his back, his warm breath against her hair. She chuckled, thinking of Scott’s surprise at her spontaneous hug, how he’d stood there almost holding his breath, with his arms dangling at his sides. He’d be far more comfortable with a fire ax in his hands. The man didn’t do emotion.
No, that wasn’t true. He was clearly troubled when he’d told her the details of his nephew’s medical problems. And that tragic car accident, which he felt was a direct result of counseling gone wrong. She grimaced, thinking of Cody hearing his mother scream, watching her struggle to gain control after his agitated, hopeless father pressed the accelerator down and aimed their car toward a power pole. Was it true? Had a psychological intervention pushed that man over the brink? And could peer counseling and a possible stress debriefing be similarly risky for Erin’s ER staff?
She pulled the comb through her hair, encountered a snarl, and picked at it with the teeth of the comb. Scott could be right; maybe the counseling wasn’t necessary. Maybe she’d imagined that fear in Sandy’s eyes when they’d talked about her returning to work. After all, the TV news had already reported that the risk of water contamination was far less than what was feared, and recent testing showed no evidence of poisons. There wasn’t any reason to believe her staff wasn’t as resilient as she was. Maybe they could all just take a deep breath and forget this disaster ever happened. Go back to life as normal.
She turned at the sound of her grandmother’s voice calling from the living room.
“Erin? Will you help me with this?”
She set her comb down and walked barefoot to the living room to find her grandmother kneeling in front of Elmer Fudd’s aquarium. As usual, the old goldfish’s nose was pressed to the glass, his mouth opening and closing placidly as he peered outward.
“The lid keeps dropping,” Iris explained. “Will you hold it up for me so I can add enough water to—?”
“Water?” Erin’s gaze darted to the pitcher on the floor next to the tank. “Which water? Is that from the tap? Oh no. Did you already pour some in there?” She hurried forward, stomach churning at intruding images of floating fish and a little girl sobbing over her dead cat. She was being irrational; she knew it. She’d just showered in the water. It was safe. But . . .
Iris let the tank cover close. “I didn’t put any in yet, but I did get it out of the kitchen faucet. Isn’t that okay now? The news said the water was showing no signs of contamination, so I thought . . . Erin?”
What am I doing?
“Let’s use the bottled water. Just until we get the last of the reports. I’ll help you.” Erin fought a shiver that had less to do with her wet hair and far more to do with a decision she’d just made. Her staff needed a stress check—maybe Erin did too. She’d get permission to go ahead with peer counseling this week whether Scott McKenna approved or not.