Disaster Status (12 page)

Chapter Fourteen

“I almost said something at Faith QD this morning.” The registration clerk stared at the oatmeal cookie in her hand, then back at Erin.

“Yes?” Erin leaned forward in her office chair and nodded at Arlene, hoping to encourage her. She’d been surprised that the feisty ER veteran had volunteered for peer counseling, which only proved the point:
no one is immune to stress.

Arlene shrugged, though the look in her eyes was anything but casual. “I felt selfish talking about my own problems. You know, when we were offering prayers for the boy who could lose his leg and that poor, sweet Ana Galvez.” Her fingers trembled and she set the cookie down. “I’ve been at that ER window for twenty years now. I’ve seen stuff, you know? Like a guy who cut his knee with a chainsaw. And when that fisherman, who stank to death of mackerel, had that big hook stuck in the bridge of his nose . . . Ugly things, awful stuff. More than I can count. But that little girl getting poisoned . . .”

Erin reminded herself of the goals of this initial contact:
acknowledge, validate, reassure.
“Can you tell me about that day? When did you start to feel this case was affecting you differently than the others?”

“It was after I knew that Ana wasn’t just sick. That she’d been poisoned by those pesticides. I mean, I’d even seen her having seizures. She had one when I was trying to fasten her identification band. I handled it fine, same as always.” Arlene nodded as if to convince Erin. “I’m tough. I really am. But—” sudden tears shimmered in the clerk’s eyes—“I have twin nieces the same age as that little girl. And I kept thinking, what if it were them? What if they’d been poisoned? And even after I found out they were okay, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I had a strange nightmare about my uncle who died from fumes in a mine cave-in when I was just a kid. I haven’t thought about that in forty years.”

Arlene glanced at the cookie. “No one will believe it, but I’ve hardly been able to eat. I listen to the news, even at work. I’m making my sister crazy by calling to be sure she’s only giving my sweeties bottled water. I keep washing my hands, and I replaced all the pens in my cubicle. Don’t tell my supervisor, but I threw away a couple dozen in case they’re contaminated.” She groaned and met Erin’s gaze, her expression helpless. “I’m usually so tough.”

+++

The last of the vodka went down in a single searing gulp, making Sarge’s eyes water. He coughed and set the glass on the apartment’s table, leaning heavily on a crutch to balance against his dangling stump. He hadn’t touched alcohol in more than five years, but lately he needed something to take the edge off, to filter the brain-scalding glare—too much like relentless desert sun—that had replaced the fog of medication and lit dark corners he never wanted to see again.

He closed his eyes against a wave of dizziness, and in an instant the images intruded. A dead camel, bodies of civilians, bloodied and sprawled in the rubble of the shelled desert camp. Dark eyes, vacant and lifeless, staring skyward. Impossibly, some of them children. He flinched, hearing the echo of his own tortured wail that day, his tear-choked voice praying aloud again and again.
“Father God, not the children, not the children
. . .
”

Gagging, Sarge grabbed for a chair and sent his prosthetic leg—abandoned on its cracked vinyl seat—clattering to the floor. He dragged the chair close and dropped down, burying his face in his hands as he recalled his brief conversation with Erin Quinn. She meant well; he didn’t discount that. She was a good nurse and had always treated him kindly. Like he was more than the man who mopped the floor. But she’d been fooled too. She’d bought into that cover-up the mayor was spewing. Only instead of offering bottled water, she was offering advice.

He groaned, thinking of the pamphlet he’d tossed in the trash. Reassurances that it was “normal” to feel anxious or sleepless or depressed after experiencing stressful situations, that they weren’t signs of “weakness.” Too much like stuff the psychiatrists fed him at the VA while they were renewing his prescriptions. No one understood.

He shook his head, remembering the useless, printed advice:
“Listen to music, exercise—”
he glared at his prosthetic leg lying on the floor—
“eat well, write in a journal . . .”
He glanced at the spiral notebook he’d purchased at the Little Mercies Gift Shop. Not a journal. A tactical plan. For his mission. It was getting harder and harder to keep things straight in his mind. He’d make notes during his night shift tonight when he slipped into pediatrics to keep an eye on Cody’s room from the housekeeping closet. His foxhole.

Sarge leaned across the table and grabbed the vodka bottle, fighting the returning images of the bodies. He’d nap until it was dark, then return to Pacific Mercy.

+++

Erin smiled at Sandy as she came through the doorway, relieved that the triage nurse looked more rested now and that she’d been willing to come in. She hadn’t yet returned to work.

“This is the first time I’ve walked through that trauma room, since—” Sandy rolled her eyes and forced a laugh—“I did my little swan dive that day. Nothing like drooling all over yourself and becoming a public spectacle.”

Erin recalled the self-defense mechanisms mentioned in her training. Humor—gallows humor, in particular—was often a choice of health care providers. She’d used it plenty of times herself.
Laugh quick so you won’t cry.
“I’m glad you came in today. Like I told you on the phone, I’m touching base with everyone. Not for a critique or a performance review. Basically, this is a how-are-you-doing chat because you’re my staff, my friend. And we’ve all been stressed by this incident. Bottom line: I want to know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

“I appreciate that. I’m embarrassed to admit how helpless this whole thing made me feel. I’m not used to that.” Sandy attempted a smile. “Ask Chuck; I’m the worst kind of control freak. But that day . . .”

“You felt out of control?”

“Oh yes. One minute I’m triaging patients, making decisions, handing out basins. Then all of a sudden I’m dizzy and sick, and I start to worry I’ll faint right in front of my patients. And then, of course, I did. In that child’s room, with you and Dr. Stathos.”

Erin nodded. “How did you feel when you realized what had caused it?”

“It’s mostly a blur. I remember Sarge picking me up and Chuck being there. And all the firefighters and police coming in.” Her pupils widened and she swallowed. “Then they paged Code Orange. I remember being really frightened. Because then I knew it was a hazardous material incident.”

“What was the first thought that came to your mind?” Erin prompted, remembering the importance CISM placed on this key question.

“That I might be pregnant. And if I was . . .” Her eyes filled with tears. “You know Chuck and I have been trying to start a family for over a year. Last fall I had that miscarriage after I’d done everything I could to guard my health. So the thought of exposing a baby to . . .” A tear slid down her face.

Erin reached across the desk and took hold of her hand. “Are you pregnant?”

“No.” Sandy’s chin quivered. “Trust me, I never dreamed I’d be glad to see a negative test.” Her voice dropped to a raw whisper. “And I never thought I’d be afraid to come back to work. I know it’s irrational, and I can’t explain it . . . but I’m afraid.”

It was dusk by the time Erin gathered her belongings, and she was wrung out physically and emotionally. It had been her first experience with peer counseling, and she’d felt her way through—sending up more than a few silent prayers—but knew now she’d done the right thing by talking with her staff. Four days after the initial disaster, people were indeed showing signs of stress.

Her throat squeezed as she remembered Sandy’s fear that she’d endangered an unborn child and Arlene’s nightmare about an uncle who died decades ago in a mine. The impassioned and graphic warnings of the Safe Sky group could only have added to their anxiety. Equally distressing was that both Sandy and Arlene felt embarrassed and angry at themselves for being “weak” enough to experience stress symptoms. It was a common reaction for health and rescue workers who often hold themselves to unrealistically high standards. Erin was glad that Sandy and Arlene intended to contact employee assistance for counseling.

She reached for her purse, hesitated, and then shook her head.
Counseling.
How had Scott reacted when she sent those pamphlets via his chief’s office? Had he tossed them in the trash? tucked them away where they’d never see the light of day? Probably.

But then, maybe it didn’t matter anymore. She hadn’t seen Captain McKenna in several days, and if things continued to improve with the community’s water status, she’d have very little reason to connect with him again, beyond the paperwork required for the incident review, and they’d already discussed that. No. She’d have no reason—
no excuse?
—to spend more time with Scott. Erin ignored a confusing wave of regret and grabbed her purse, then stepped out into the hallway and nearly bumped into him.

“Scott.” Her heart climbed to her throat without warning.

“Hi,” he said softly. “I wanted to talk with you about those pamphlets you sent over.”

“Please. Don’t start on me. It’s been a long day. And I’ve already heard your reservations about crisis counseling.”

Impossibly, he smiled. “That bit in the pamphlet . . . about doing things that ‘feel good to you’? Is that an important part of the process?”

“Yes. So?”

“Well, I’m doing that. Tomorrow. I can’t swim because of the stitches, but I thought of something else.”

What was she supposed to say? Bully for you?

“Come with me.”

What?
“Where?” Her heart did that foolish dance again. “To climb a fire ladder?”

“No,” he said, his eyes lighting. “Nothing that tame. We’ll go to the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. I think we could both use some roller-coaster therapy. Ride the Giant Dipper with no hands. What do you say, Wonder Woman?”

Chapter Fifteen

The morning breeze smelled of seaweed, hosed asphalt, cotton candy, and popcorn. Screeches from gulls blended with other sounds: laughing children, an electronic
ding-boing
,
pow-pow-pow
from the Casino Arcade, the relentless whoosh and pull of ocean waves, and a continuing chorus of screams from the Giant Dipper roller coaster.

If Erin kept her eyes shut a moment longer, it could be 1985 and she’d be perched atop her grandfather’s shoulders, her nose sun-crinkled, feet bare and sand-speckled, fingers wonderfully sticky, and tongue half-numb from a frozen chocolate banana. Grandy’s rumbling laugh would blend with Nana’s, and Erin would throw her head back and add her own silly giggles. She’d be back in a time when she felt secure and loved, when life was simple and honest. Without threat of betrayal, heartache, death . . . or even poisonous disaster.

But Scott’s voice hauled her back to the present as effectively as if he’d thrown her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “Always the same.” He stared up at the towering Cocoanut Grove Casino, its neon-embellished facade freshly painted in orange, gold, and fuchsia. He clucked his tongue and looked at Erin, his expression giving no clue to whether he thought sameness was something good or bad. The breeze lifted a golden thatch of his hair, and she caught a subtle trace of citrus cologne. “Straight to the Dipper?”

“Sure,” she agreed, pulling up the hood on her zip-front vest. The chug and clatter of the giant wooden roller coaster—and even the screams—would be a welcome distraction from being with Scott, which was anything but simple. And she wasn’t sure how to feel about that. The hour drive from Pacific Point had seemed longer, his comfort with silence making her chatter, antsy as a prizefighter box dancing in the corner of a ring. He had rolled the truck’s window down a few inches, while she sat with her chin tucked into the collar of her vest to keep warm.

Still, there were things about him that drew her too. Scott’s quiet confidence, the way his arm sprang out to protect her when he’d had to brake suddenly, that smile when he mentioned his mother’s upcoming birthday, and most of all, the small snipped photo of a blond-haired boy carefully tucked onto the truck’s sun visor. Little things that said volumes about him. Seemed sincere. Warm. Like when she’d hugged him on the beach. But then Erin had been fooled before. There was so much about Scott she didn’t know. And wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to. She needed to remember she was here for a roller-coaster ride; that was all. It was a perfect prescription after the stress of the last week. If she could enjoy that without managing to butt heads with him, all the better.

“I’m surprised.” He turned to look at her as they passed the colorful, shark-stenciled entrance to Neptune’s Kingdom and walked toward the carousel.

“You mean that I’d ride the roller coaster?”

Scott shook his head. “That you agreed to come here at all.”

She studied him for a moment, the silence filled by circus-style whistles and toots of the merry-go-round calliope. “I’m surprised you asked me.”

“I wanted to make things up to you. I gave you a pretty hard time. From that first day, I guess.”

“Yes, you did.” Erin lowered her voice to a teasing mimic: “‘I go by the book.’ That’s what you said. And you found out pretty fast that I do too. In my own way.” She sighed, the urge for teasing—for her usual defensiveness—ebbing. “Seriously, I think we’re both pretty stubborn. But about things that count. Doing the right thing at our jobs and for our families.” She noticed his brows draw together, followed by something in his eyes that looked like a flicker of discomfort. “Honestly, I considered your concerns about peer counseling and the debriefing process as a whole.”

Scott grasped Erin’s elbow protectively as half a dozen giggling children ran from the exit of the Haunted Castle. He let go of her and started walking again. “And then you sent pamphlets to my chief and went ahead with peer counseling at the hospital this week. Chuck told me that Sandy met with you.”

“Yes.” She exhaled, relieved they were getting this dicey discussion out of the way. Maybe it would clear the air once and for all. “From the reaction of my staff, I think it served a good purpose. I don’t know if it will be necessary to move forward with a more formal debriefing; that depends on feedback from the peer counselor in ICU. And how things go within the community. But in my book, the counseling felt necessary.”

Erin raised her voice over a torrent of screams from the roller coaster. “I sent the pamphlets simply to share the information. In case you needed it. That’s all.” She stopped and stared upward at the towering stretch of red and white framework that supported half a mile of curving track. Her pulse quickened like a ten-year-old’s. “Well, here’s the Dipper.”

“Front seat?”

“Of course,” she agreed. It seemed far less daunting than this conversation.

In scant minutes, they purchased the tickets and hustled along the row of linked metal cars—bright yellow like a Wonderland caterpillar—and slid into the padded red seat. Ahead of them loomed the gaping darkness of the wooden tunnel and the first stretch of uphill track.

“I’m excited about this.” She grinned, feeling girlishly giddy. “I’m glad you thought of it.”

“Same here.”

The warning bell sounded with a loud
brrring
, and the safety bar lowered over their legs. Scott’s outstretched arm brushed her shoulder as he settled it along the back of the seat.

“And I’m . . .” Scott cleared his throat. “I’m glad you felt good about your peer counseling. Really. I know how much you want to help.”

She smiled again as the line of cars lurched and moved forward slowly, wheels clacking. “Thank you for saying that.”

The cars moved into the tunnel’s inky darkness to begin the slow, upward chug, and Erin became way too aware of Scott beside her, the brush of his shoulder and leg against hers. She tried not to think of the giggling stories from her teenage years, girlfriends talking about stolen kisses in the Big Dipper tunnel.

When Scott spoke again, leaning close, she flushed. She was grateful for the darkness. “Chuck mentioned some other meetings that you hold regularly at the hospital and that you’d encouraged Sandy to come. What’s that about?”

Erin blinked as gravity forced her back against the seat. “Oh, right. He was probably talking about Faith QD.”

“What’s that?” Scott raised his voice against the metal-against-wood chugging of the climbing coaster.

“A fellowship group. Nondenominational. I started one at my other hospital, and it caught on, so I—”

“Fellowship group?”

Erin’s stomach sank, completely at odds with the car’s upward climb.
Be careful.
“Yes. To start our shifts with prayer. I’ve found that it helps support staff, and . . .” Her words hung in the air, and Scott’s silence felt like a third presence wedged between them in the coaster car.
Why do I care what he thinks?

As they reemerged into the sunlight, she sneaked a look at Scott’s expression. Stony as the first day she’d met him at the barricade.

He turned toward her as the cars climbed,
click-click
, high above the boardwalk and pressed them both backward into their seats. “Prayer?”

“Yes.” Erin studied his face—the best she could with her head pushed back against the seat—and decided she had nothing to lose. “You’re not good with that, either?”

His lips pressed together, and he was silent.

Erin glanced down, way down, a dizzying distance toward the tiny people on the boardwalk below, and then out across the sand to the sun-dappled sea. Her head felt at once both heavy and buoyant as a helium balloon. Her stomach fluttered.

When Scott finally spoke, she realized she’d been holding her breath for his answer. “Raise your hands.”

“What?”

“Raise your hands—we’re at the top!” He grasped her hand and lifted it high, and the world fell away in a torrent of screams.

+++

Disappointed, Iris wheeled the library cart out of the pediatrics room, then smiled at the gray-haired gentleman standing in the hallway. The Chihuahua dozed in the carrier on his shirtfront.

“Cody’s down in X-ray,” he said. “I just checked at the nurses’ station. You’re Iris, right? Proud owner of a goldfish called . . .”

“Elmer Fudd,” she said with a laugh. “And yes, Iris Quinn. It’s good to see you again, Dr. McKenna.”

“A fish named Fudd. How could I have forgotten?” He extended his hand to her. “Please call me Hugh. There are far too many doctors here, and I hardly think anyone needs to be examined for fin rot.” He glanced toward the empty room. “You’ve met my great-grandson?”

“Cody Sorenson is your great-grandson? I didn’t know that. Then he’s also Scott’s . . .”

“Only nephew,” Hugh confirmed, finishing her thought as he stroked the ears of the blinking dog. “Which reminds me how grateful I am that Scotty’s spending the day in Santa Cruz with your lovely granddaughter.” He caught the look on Iris’s face. “Is something wrong?”

“Only that the world is suddenly shrinking. This is awkward, but I really don’t want Erin to know I’m making visits up here. Not yet. I’m going to beg you to keep it quiet.” Iris sighed at his confused expression. “It’s a long story.”

“Then we should go downstairs and have some coffee. Cody’s going to be another thirty minutes, and Jonah here—” Hugh tickled the dog’s whiskered chin—“is wild about the cafeteria’s buttered rye toast. Aren’t you, boy?”

The little dog perked his ears, then raised his nose . . . and crooned a long, warbling sound from deep in his throat.

“Was that . . . ?”

“A yodel,” Hugh said, grinning. “His claim to fame.”

They took the elevator to the lobby floor, returned the library cart to its closet, and joined the breakfast crowd—wearing scrubs or lab jackets, some in patient gowns—in the sunny cafeteria. The room smelled of coffee, toasted bagels, and bacon. Iris smiled as the PA system played its snippet of “Brahms’ Lullaby” to announce a birth, struck once more by how very good it felt to be part of this again.

She followed Hugh to the coffee urn and filled a cup. “I’m surprised that they allow Jonah in the hospital,” she said as they sat down at a table near the garden window.

“He’s a certified therapy dog. Most of them are golden retrievers and Labs, so I tell folks Jonah is big medicine in a small package. Plus, he yodels. It never fails to make people smile.”

Iris chuckled. “That’s wonderful. Erin was involved in the dog visitation program at her last hospital. And the softball team, her staff fellowship, and a charity fund for burn victims. My granddaughter is a bit of an activist. She’s determined to take up the gauntlet to help—or protect—everybody.”

“Including you?”

“Especially me.” Iris gave in to a withering groan. “She wants me to stay in the gift shop so I won’t be exposed to the sadness involved with patient care. Erin’s been so protective since my husband’s death.”

“Has it been long?”

“Two years, but . . .”

“It’s still there with you. Every day.” Hugh’s eyes were filled with empathy. “I’m a widower myself. I understand that. I’ve lost a son too . . . and then there was the car accident a year ago. Cody’s parents—my granddaughter—killed.” He exhaled slowly and reached down to pat Jonah.

“I’m so sorry.”

Hugh gave an appreciative smile. “I’ve watched my family trying to put their lives back together. Each in his own way. It’s been hard on all of us, but I’ve been most concerned about Scotty. He and his sister were very close. And since Colleen’s death, he’s changed. He seems intent on pulling away.”

“From the family?”

“Family, friends, church. From Pacific Point too. Scotty’s always been ambitious. More than ambitious. Driven, I’d venture to say. In sports, at school, in Scouts—he made Eagle Scout. And now he’s pouring that drive into his career. Not at all unusual when one’s father was a celebrated hero.”

Iris remembered the news clip she’d watched with Erin. How the reporter had mentioned Scott’s family and how he’d seemed so upset.

“The son I lost, Gabe McKenna, was also a Pacific Point fire captain. He was killed on duty when Scotty was twelve.”

“How awful.”

“Yes. And while we’ve always accepted Scotty’s ambitions, this past year has been different. He’s been working some paramedic shifts in San Francisco, traveling back and forth. But now he’s applied for a full-time position there. In a few other neighboring cities as well. And for a position as chief of emergency medical services in Portland, Oregon. Portland! He thinks his chances are remote and hasn’t mentioned it to the rest of the family, but still . . .” Hugh sighed, and then his expression brightened. “That’s why I’m heartened to know he’s taken Erin to the beach today. It’s the first interest he’s shown in anything outside work and his visits with Cody.”

“Good, then,” Iris said, raising her coffee cup. “I’m glad Erin’s taking a day off too.”

“Because she’s not here to ride herd on you?”

She smiled. “And because I like visiting Cody.”

“Well, then.” Hugh returned her smile. “Jonah and I think you should. Our lips are zipped. Count on it.”