Disaster Status (15 page)

Sand.
Erin sighed. She’d had sand in her shoes when she got home last night. Had shaken them out over her grandmother’s hollyhock bed, but she was having less success shaking the confusing tumble of emotions left in the wake of her day with Scott. The Giant Dipper paled in comparison. He’d kissed her.
No,
we kissed.
It had been as mutual and unexpected as their rescue of that victim on the wharf. Her face warmed, remembering Scott’s arms around her, the soft thudding of his heart as he held her against him, and that look in his eyes the moment before he leaned down . . .

And then they’d driven that endless hour home in maddening silence. Scott watching the road, occasionally switching the jazz tracks on his iPod, Erin antsy to fill in the pauses with disconnected chatter. Anything to end the silence, quell her whispering doubts. The same anxious energy kept her awake long after midnight and then had her up early. Too early to slam the speed bag around, so she’d changed lightbulbs and pulled on cleaning gloves to scrub the shower tile.

Would Scott call?
Do I want him to?
That was the real question. Because what she’d told her grandmother was true—she and Scott were different. Except for what she’d seen of his concern for his family; she admired that. Her throat tightened, recalling the pain in his voice when he’d talked about his sister. It was the reason she moved into his arms in the first place. And his selfless need to protect his nephew was so very obvious. She felt exactly the same way about her grandmother. Erin groaned. Her grandmother who was waiting for brownies.

She opened the screen door and was greeted by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and decadent fudgy chocolate and by Annie Popp’s engaging grin. From a boom box behind the counter, a very young Elvis crooned truly vintage Southern gospel.

“Smells like heaven,” Erin said, sniffing the air.

“Someday maybe. Not ready to sign my recipes over yet.” Annie winked. “Not that the angels haven’t been twisting my arm.” She set down a piece of driftwood knotted with lengths of fishing line. “Starfish Latte extra cinnamon?”

“Yes, please. And some brownies, if you have any left. I should have come right after you made your rounds.” Erin felt a rush of warmth for the bait shop couple who carved time out of their precious Sundays to gift local nursing homes and shut-ins with fresh-baked treats. The remaining few dozen were sold first come, first served to the always-hungry beach crowd.

“For Wonder Woman? Always.”

The teasing nickname made Erin remember Scott’s hug on the wharf after they’d rescued Mattie. His whisper against her hair,
“Nice job, Wonder Woman.”
It wasn’t even a week since they’d met here to talk about the incident review . . . and battle over the critical stress counseling. It felt like so much had changed.

“Great. Four then, please,” Erin said, pushing the thoughts of Scott aside. “Nana will be thrilled.” She stepped close to the counter, regarding the weathered pieces of driftwood, spools of transparent fishing line, shells, and beautiful sea-tumbled bits of glass. She touched one with a fingertip. “I tried glasswork once. Stained glass.”

Annie reached for a Get Hooked on Our Coffee cup. “I remember.”

“You do? Did I bring it down here to show you?”

“I remember the Band-Aids,” Annie explained, her kind eyes saying much more. “Your fingers were covered in them that summer.”

Erin hated that her father’s morning e-mail came to mind. “Yes. It was really hard. Stained glass, I mean. Those sharp pieces and the hot solder. Getting it perfectly matched up, making it all fit.” She lifted a piece of the sea glass, opaque and wonderfully smooth. “This seems so different.”

Annie raised her head at the sound of belly-deep laughter outside.

Erin glanced through the screen. Arlo was on the wooden porch holding his tall, hand-carved walking stick. He stood with two of the young surfers, nodding as he listened intently. His white curls moved in the breeze, making him look almost like King Neptune, while above him a galaxy of sea glass mobiles twirled and tinkled. Annie had always said that listening was Arlo’s gift.

“And it’s easy. The mobiles, compared to the stained glass.” Annie handed a short piece of sun-bleached driftwood to her. “Do you know what I like best about them?”

“No Band-Aids?”

Annie smiled. “That too. But I think the best part is that each piece is worn smooth by the sea. By time. Sort of the way people are shaped by life experience. And by tests of faith.” She lifted her unfinished mobile from the countertop, some of the strands of fishing line still hanging loose, several shells and pieces of wood clumped awkwardly together on one side. “The trick is to get the balance right. Balance, counterbalance. It takes some trial and error. You need to find that one point of support—a fulcrum—and then it all comes together.” The breeze swept across the porch, and the mobiles tinkled again. “Then there’s the sound, of course. Silence . . . sweetened.” She reached for a pastry sack. “Now, brownies. Four fat ones.”

Erin reached into her tote for her wallet.

“Oh, by the way—” Annie filled the sack and set it down—“was that you on the Metro page today?”

“Um . . . yes. I guess it was.”

“I thought so. Arlo owes me a foot rub. And was that Scott?”

Erin hoped that her face wasn’t as red as it suddenly felt. “Yes. We were . . . It was lucky we both . . . happened to be right there on the wharf.”

Annie’s eyes twinkled. “Amazing how those things happen.”

Erin lowered her gaze, taking longer than necessary to pull the bills from her wallet. If she was this clueless and confused about Scott, no way would she try to explain it to Annie. “An incredible coincidence.”

“Well, I’m not much on coincidence,” Annie said, raising her voice as the laughter on the porch rumbled again. “To me, it’s all about balance—that all-important fulcrum. It’s a larger plan than we can know, my dear.”

“What?”

Annie chuckled, then nodded toward the doorway.

Scott.

Chapter Eighteen

Erin told herself to breathe. It was ridiculous to feel nervous and self-conscious. Even if Annie’s bemused gaze made her personal life seem as transparent as . . . Elmer Fudd in his tank.
Breathe.

“Uh, hi.” Scott smiled, glancing first at Erin, then toward the counter. He rubbed his hand over his hair. “Sea Dog black. And a tide table if you’ve got one, Annie.”

“Coming right up.”

“Tide table?” Erin asked, relieved when Annie moved toward the coffee machine. She took in his San Jose State sweatshirt, mussed hair, light beard stubble, sleepy eyes, lips . . . Her heart thudded, and she could almost feel sand in her shoes again. “You’re swimming?”

“In a few days, I hope. I’m stopping by the ER tonight to have the sutures checked. I’m hoping they can come out a couple of days early.” He shook his head. “Man, going without my workouts has been making me crazy. You know?”

Yes, I know.
She looked away, stomach sinking. He’d just explained it perfectly: temporary insanity. That impulsive, crazy kiss last night. A mistake. Which was why he hadn’t—

“I tried to call you,” Scott said, lowering his voice after a glance to where Annie still fussed with the coffee cups. “This morning around nine thirty.”

“I was at church.” Erin wasn’t sure whether she felt relieved or simply more convinced of the chasm between them.

His lips pressed together. “Right. I should’ve thought of that.”

“Not a problem.” She shrugged as casually as she could, considering that her arms suddenly felt like she was laced into weighted training gloves. It was clear from the look in his eyes that he felt as awkward as she did. More than awkward . . .
regretful.
He regretted what happened between them.
Don’t I?
She turned toward the counter, hoping her order was ready. She wanted to get out of here.

Scott cleared his throat. “I’d planned to call again, but—”

“It’s fine,” she said, cutting him off. “You don’t need to do that. Really.”

He crossed his arms, and for some reason she felt a wave of déjà vu. As if they were arguing over that disaster barricade again. She in her scrubs, he in his smoke-stained jacket. At odds with each other from day one. Why hadn’t she left it that way?

He sighed. “What I’m trying to say is . . .”

A roar of laughter from outside the screen door swallowed his words.

Then Annie called out, “Here’s your coffee. And if anyone’s interested, I’ve still got plenty of bottled water. More than enough, if those water tests keep looking good. Thank the Lord. I’ll sure be glad when things are back to usual.”

“Some things already are,” Erin mumbled as she paid for her order. Why would she think that last night had meant something to Scott? Hadn’t she learned her lesson with her father? The minute you start counting on a man, trusting him to be there, to really care . . . that’s when you’re vulnerable to a sucker punch. Erin wasn’t making that mistake again.

Annie signaled to Scott. “I’ve got to run back to Arlo’s bait counter and grab your tide table.”

He stepped up alongside Erin and her stomach fluttered. She turned to leave.

“Erin, wait.”

“Can’t. Sorry.”

“I want to explain.”

That you kissed me out of temporary insanity?
“No need,” she said, forcing a smile. “I’ve got to go. My grandmother’s waiting. But I hope you’re able to swim soon. That everything’s back to usual. Just like Annie said.”

“Uh . . . right.”

Erin walked straight out the door, under porch rafters tinkling with sea glass, and kept going until she reached the railing overlooking the beach. Then she squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled the breath she’d been holding. It would be a blessing if things were really headed back to usual. It would be. For Pacific Point, for Arlo and Annie . . . and for Scott. He was ready to go back to his swimming and to a life that didn’t include Erin. The pesticide scare might still spin some things out of control for a while, but then it would be over. Back in balance. Wasn’t that what Annie had said was so important with the mobiles?

It was the same with boxing. Being strong was nothing without balance. It was exactly what Erin’s trainer had always said: assume a proper stance, keep your feet shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent. Have someone push you relatively hard.
“If you lose your balance, you’re not solid.”

She nodded; she needed to find balance. Stay solid. Not only in boxing, in her whole life. Remain focused on the things that counted—keeping her grandmother safe and happy, doing the best she could for the ER, and growing in her faith.
Have someone push you relatively hard . . .

The fact was, she’d been pushed hard. By her father’s return, the pesticide event . . . even by that wonderfully warm and completely crazy moment with Scott last night. She couldn’t let those things throw her off. She had to keep her stance, stay strong and balanced. On her own two feet.

Scott stepped out onto the porch, and she started walking toward the road. Her grandmother was waiting. They’d have coffee and brownies. And then Erin would glove up and spend some quality time with the speed bag.
Strong, balanced . . .

She nodded at Scott’s tentative wave, then picked up her pace. She’d avoid him for the next several days; they’d both get busy with their lives, and that would be the end of it. Crazy could only lead to heartache.

+++

“It’s past reveille, Sarge. Heads up, or you’ll fall over.”

His eyes snapped open in semidarkness, hands gripping the wooden handle as he stared at the young bearded man, confused for several seconds. Navy blue scrubs, stethoscope . . . ICU nurse? Right, that new hire. Sarge groaned under his breath; he’d been mopping the vacant patient room and must have dozed off. Leaning against the wall. Working overtime onto day shift wasn’t such a great idea.

“Yeah,” he snapped, “fall over and then lie there while you stepped around me. Like I’m collateral damage in some . . . forgotten war.”

“Uh . . .” The nurse backed up. “Hey, I was just joking. Take it easy. Well, I’d better go check that ventilator. See you.”

“Yup.” Sarge snapped a half salute and then frowned as the nurse disappeared, his freshly ironed scrub pants making a swishing sound as he hurried away. Scared probably. Not that Sarge cared.

He shook his head, trying to get rid of the ugly, confusing anger that had suddenly begun choking him—gritty and suffocating as a Persian Gulf sandstorm. He didn’t like it, didn’t understand it . . . and knew it could jeopardize every good thing he was trying to do.
I’m trying to save that boy.

He groaned again, shifting his weight away from the wall and back onto the bulky prosthesis. Stupid to fall asleep. Stupider to smart off to the nursing staff. He needed this job. That nurse had done nothing to harm him. But being dressed down like that had made his gut churn, especially after what his landlord did yesterday. Let someone into his apartment. He didn’t remember asking anyone to check the heating system. It had to be an excuse, a reason to get inside his apartment for surveillance. They were on to him, had probably gone through his things—food, garbage, papers, and medicine bottles. Maybe even handled the only photograph he had of his son. He knew they’d done that, even if they hadn’t left any visible evidence.

Sarge clenched the mop handle, anger pricking his fatigue. He hadn’t slept even an hour before going to his night shift—and to watch Cody. He’d checked everything. Threw out food that might be poisoned, searched for listening devices, even dismantled the toilet with that useless pair of pliers.

He rubbed at his scabbing knuckles. They hadn’t found what they were looking for. He’d hidden the mission journal in the storeroom up on peds, zipped into the musty bag of an old vacuum cleaner behind the linen bins. The notes were his way to stay focused—harder and harder now that the VA’s medicine was out of his system and the nightmares were back. Faces. Dead eyes. The squeal of Scud missiles streaking across the night sky. The horrifyingly simple click in the vast desert silence . . . an instant before the land mine took his leg.

He reached into the pocket of his scrubs, grasping his nearly empty cigarette package with trembling fingers. He needed a smoke. He’d make it a short one, a few drags to take the edge off. His gaze moved to the ceiling. Smoke detectors, sprinkler systems everywhere. If he lit up, they’d alarm and staff would come running. Along with security and engineering and maybe even the Pacific Point Fire Department. The operator would Code Red over the PA system, and in minutes it would be completely crazy, and . . .

Sarge lifted the military Zippo from his pocket. He ran his thumb over the smooth metal surface of the lighter while looking up at the smoke detector system. Distraction was a good tool to have in a war arsenal—along with the aluminum bat tucked into the vacuum cleaner bag with his mission journal and the stash of beef jerky. The enemy might have been able to break into his apartment, but no one was going to hurt Cody. He’d see to that.

+++

“Para . . . el bebé.”
Leigh presented the knit cap to Ana Galvez’s very pregnant mother. Then she pointed at the doors of the ICU, her brain scrambling to come up with a translation. “And
espero que
Ana soon . . .
se sentirá
. . . better.” She nodded and clasped her hands over her heart, resorting to mime as her Spanish failed, but saw that Mrs. Galvez understood completely:
I hope your daughter will feel better soon.

The young mother’s eyes filled with tears and she grasped Leigh’s hand, pressing a kiss onto it.
“Usted, Doctora, es un ángel de Dios. Muchas, muchas gracias.”

I’m
an angel of God?
Leigh smiled at the irony of those words. God would hardly consider her an angel; over the past few months they hadn’t even been on speaking terms. She was more than happy to let Erin be the resident angel of the ER. But still, Leigh was trying to find encouragement in Ana’s response to the newest antibiotic. Her white blood cell count looked better, though she remained on the ventilator. But she’d opened her eyes, and that small response was enough to convince her family that their beloved child was on her way to a full recovery.

Leigh wanted to believe it, especially in light of the sad news that Charlene Bailey, the woman with the hemorrhagic stroke, had worsened. At one point yesterday, this waiting room was filled with members of both families, the Baileys trying to accept that they’d soon be saying good-bye, and the Galvezes welcoming what they believed was a miracle from God. Long and painful vigils . . . relief coming in two vastly different ways.

Leigh was relieved, too, that things were moving toward normal after the pesticide incident. People were still drinking bottled water until the water testing was completed, but no more gallbladder attacks had been blamed on poisoned fish. And panicky phone calls to the ER were dwindling. The two organophosphate victims on the telemetry unit had been discharged. Sandy’s name had been penciled in on the upcoming work schedule. Closer and closer to normal every day. It felt hopeful, safer.

Ana’s mother finally released her from a second smothering hug. Leigh said good-bye and started back down the hall toward the ER after adding,
“Sí. Gracias, gracias,”
to the woman’s animated narrative containing the words
muchos tamales
. She hoped it meant she’d be eating them in celebration of Ana’s recovery, not helping to cook them. If anything was worse than Leigh’s Spanish, it was her kitchen skills. The cooking had always been expertly handled by . . .
Nick.
The image came before she could stop it: her husband at dawn, handsome and sleepy-eyed after a night shift, puttering around the kitchen to prepare her favorite omelet.

Does he do that now for her?
Leigh’s heart cramped in that way which refused to go away. And reminded her of the biggest personal reason she was relieved things were improving in Pacific Point: the National Guard wouldn’t be needed. Her husband didn’t have an excuse to show up. She winced at the memory of his words that night at the stable. The urgency in his voice.
“I want to see you.”

He’d said they hadn’t talked. That wasn’t exactly true; he’d said plenty, leaving voice mail and text messages, sleeping outside the house in his car to try to catch her. Always attempting to somehow explain away what he’d done; Nick had been relentless—until she threatened a restraining order. He was wrong. Talking wouldn’t fix anything. Back then, and certainly not now. It would only tear the scab off the wounds she’d been trying so hard to heal with time and distance. Distance from Nick. And . . . Leigh passed the open doors of the hospital chapel, and her lips pressed tightly together. Yes. Distance from God too. Though she wasn’t sure who was most responsible for that separation—she, by slogging through prayerless weeks of depression and hopelessness; or he, by deciding she should lose a baby in addition to her husband. Either way, the result was the same. A disconnect, same as her marriage.