Trauma Plan (14 page)

“When?”

Vesta was touched by the genuine concern in Riley’s blue eyes. It compelled her to be truthful, despite the pain. “Two years ago,” she whispered, her voice thick.
I haven’t left this house in two years. Except for the day I met you—and Dr. Travis.
Vesta made herself smile. “So now I have my birds.”

Riley was quiet for a few seconds. “You’re quite a bird lover, then.”

“Yes.” Vesta glanced toward the window, feeling a dizzy rush of relief at the turn in the conversation. Familiar, comfortable ground. “Woodpeckers, cardinals, bluebirds . . . and soon, painted buntings. Beautiful. Do you know of them?” She sought Riley’s eyes, confidence building.

“No. I’m afraid the only thing I know about birds is not to park my car under a tree filled with grackles.” Riley grimaced. “My mother keeps birds, though. Finches, I think—in an aviary in the sunroom. She prefers them inside.”

“I like them . . . free.” Unexpected tears stung Vesta’s eyes and she hurried on to keep them from giving away more than she was prepared to reveal. “I go out and fill their feeders.” She lifted her chin a little. “And lately I’ve been taking some walks around the yard.”

Riley leaned forward. “How does that feel?”

“It . . . feels . . .” There was no way to stop the tears.

Riley dropped to her knees beside Vesta’s chair, took hold of her hand.

“I’m so ashamed,” Vesta said, dabbing at her eyes with a napkin. “I’ve climbed to the top of Half Dome, sailed across so many oceans, but now—” a sob escaped her lips—“it takes all my courage to walk in a circle around that yard. As soon as I leave the porch, I can’t get enough air. I’m dizzy and so certain it isn’t safe. I know that something . . . completely horrible . . .” She gripped Riley’s fingers, hard, and stared toward the window. “That fire . . . at the clinic . . . The man who was burned . . .”

“Slow breath,” Riley instructed, rising to slip an arm around Vesta’s shoulders. “Are you concerned about the parking lot fire?”

“The police said it wasn’t arson . . . not related to those fires in New Braunfels.” Vesta took a shallower breath, blew it out slowly, trying to keep the panic from rising. “Do you think that’s true?”

“Yes, absolutely.” Riley gave her shoulder a reassuring pat.

Vesta attempted a smile. “Sometimes my imagination runs away with me. I thought perhaps the police didn’t give it their full attention.”

“They’re convinced that the victim—who is doing much better now—fell asleep with a cigarette burning. It was corroborated by the doctor who initially treated the man and knows his past history.” Riley nodded. “You know him, Dr. Travis, from—”

Vesta choked, gulped for air, helpless to stop the trembling.

“Slow breath, Vesta. Take some sips of tea. I think we should check your blood sugar.”

* * *

In fifteen minutes, Vesta was calm, talkative, and Riley had obtained a relatively normal blood sugar reading of 115. Vesta shared several photos of the painted buntings that visited her yard and an old snapshot of her much-beloved terrier, Corky. And then received the promised phone call confirming that her hairdresser was on her way. Riley helped put the groceries away, found a bud vase for Gordy’s daisy, but asked no more questions. She made the offer of a prayer, as she did on most chaplaincy visits—and because she’d seen the prominent cross on the living room wall. But Vesta deferred, saying, “Another time perhaps.” She changed the subject and walked with Riley to the foyer.

“You have the card with my number,” Riley reminded her. “Call me anytime. And with your permission, I’ll ask one of our social services staff to come by. Coordinating with your doctor, of course. I can arrange for a home-visit diabetes nurse, too.”

“All right. But I’d like to have
you
come back. If you would.”

Riley smiled. “I will. Next Thursday?”

“I’ll be here.” Vesta gave a comic shrug, relief quite visible in her eyes. “And in the meantime, please arrange to get your extra car here.”

“My—?”

“I have an empty garage and you need space. No argument—you can compensate me in birdseed.”

Riley walked back along the crushed-granite path toward her car, feeling the goose-bumpy rush of gratitude that always came when she was able to connect with someone on a soul-deep level. Really help them. Or in the case of Vesta Calder, begin to help. It was obvious that whatever fears trapped the lovely woman inside that house and threatened panic if she strayed too far away ran very deep. They had some powerful triggers. Like those fires, both at the clinic and in the neighboring city. And . . .
Jack Travis?

Riley frowned. Had she read that correctly? Vesta’s reaction to the doctor’s name had been immediate and visceral. It was quite similar to the terror she’d displayed at Alamo Grace. Riley stopped at the curb, pulled the Honda’s keys from her purse. Was it possible that Vesta’s panic at the hospital was caused more by encountering Jack than it was by leaving her house? Why was that? Was The Bluffs’ campaign against him that effective?

Riley slid behind the steering wheel without a clue about how to answer any of those questions. She was only certain of two things: she now had a place to store the TYGRR-mobile Mercedes, and she had fewer locks on her door than Vesta Calder did. There was unexpected comfort in both. Somehow it helped to balance the newest looming unknown: how she’d survive her first day of work at Jack’s clinic. Tomorrow.

11

Riley parked at the back of the clinic near Bandy’s camper truck, in the space next to the one assigned to the physician on duty—Jack today, though his Hummer wasn’t there yet. Riley was relieved; she was barely more prepared for that encounter than she had been to find Jane Doe lying unconscious on the porch.

“Bandy?” She tapped the doorframe before poking her head in. “I know I’m early . . .” She smiled at Hobo’s welcoming bark.

“C’mon in. We’re in the kitchen, tending to a bit of a problem.”

Problem?
Riley walked in, praying she wouldn’t be doing CPR on that speckled linoleum.

Bandy was at the table with a cup of coffee and a pair of needle-nose pliers. Hobo sat, cartless, on the floor at his feet. The little dog wriggled with excitement when he saw Riley, making futile swimming movements with his back legs in a struggle to clamber forward. She hurried to close the gap and stooped to pet him.

“Cart shaft came loose,” Bandy explained. “Amazing what can be done with scraps of copper pipe and electrical conduit. Me ’n’ Home Depot are on a first-name basis now.” He grinned at her. “Grab yourself a cup of coffee. I’ll only be a minute; Hobo still thinks of himself as a watchdog, so bein’ mobile is mighty important.”

Riley smoothed a tuft of fur. “I understand.”

“Figured you might.”

Riley glanced toward the exam rooms. “May I poke around a little in the clinic? I know another nurse will be with me to start, but I learn best when I get my hands on things.”

“Sure. When I’m done here, I’ll show you what needs to be done with the lab and medical equipment before each shift—quality control checks. But right now Hobo needs me to quality check this hitch in his get-along.”

Riley smiled. “Is there a clinic policy and procedure manual?”

“Doc’s office. Shelf above the desk. Help yourself.”

Riley made a tour of the rooms, holding her breath as she peered out toward the waiting room. It was scrubbed clean, homey and welcoming once again. She sipped her coffee, hoping it would quell the butterflies in her stomach. She sighed, then headed into Jack’s office to find the manual.

Whoa . . .
Riley stopped, staring at the photo wall behind Jack’s desk. Her gaze moved slowly across the audacious display, mouth sagging open.
Rambo . . . the pictorial perspective.

Some of the photos were black-and-white, most in color, a scant few framed, but the majority attached to the wall with simple pushpins. Almost all featured Jack as the lone subject. It was a random and haphazard collection with no connecting thread . . . other than the way each depicted a man embracing breathtaking risks. Jack in desert battle fatigues, standing beside a dusty Humvee, rifle over his shoulder and stethoscope around his neck. Jack holding a paddle, his kayak shooting through white-water rapids. Jack tucking low on skis, racing down a slope with his shoulder nearly touching the snow. Bouncing down a rocky trail on a mountain bike, and . . . Riley’s breath sucked inward, her stomach dropping at the next one. Skydiving . . . a shot of Jack giving the cameraman a confident thumbs-up. Parachutes dotted the sky below him.

The photo next to it, faded with curling edges, was of Jack at a much younger age, running with a crowd of people down a dusty, walled street, surrounded by . . . bulls? Was that Pamplona?

“Quite a collection, isn’t it?” Bandy asked, arriving beside her. Wheels squeaked across the floor as Hobo joined them.

“I didn’t mean to snoop.” Riley felt her face flush.

“Hard not to notice something like that. I tease Doc that it’s his Buckle Wall.” He chuckled at the look on her face. “When I was on the rodeo circuit, I won so many buckles that I nearly wore my truck tires bald cartin’ them around. But nobody was gonna stop me from chasing better ones.” He clucked his tongue. “A big buckle doesn’t make a big man. Took me a long time to learn that.”

Riley glanced again at the faded photo of Jack running in the crowd. “Is that . . . ?”

“A young fool teasing an animal that’s a whole lot smarter than him?” Bandy shook his head. “Yep. Doc and I have that one in common. Both had our moments running with the bulls—him in Spain, me in every town between here and Reno. And both of us liquored up to the eyeballs doing it.” Bandy sighed. “My beer-for-breakfast years. I did my best to test the Lord’s patience.” His smile crinkled the edges of his eyes. “Pull down that policy manual. You’ve got time to look it over before the patients start signing in. I already stocked the rooms and did most of the quality checks before you got here. Plus put together at least sixteen PB and J’s.”

“PB . . . ?”

“Sandwiches. Peanut butter and jelly. Or sometimes tuna, when donations are up—they aren’t now. Some of our patients haven’t had a meal all day. Harder to heal when you’re hungry. So I open jars and cans. I fix the sandwiches and stuff them in ziplock bags. Doesn’t take that long to stack ’em up. Doc writes a medication script for our patients; I hand them a sandwich. Teamwork.” He shrugged. “And maybe, if this old thumb’s green enough, I’ll have some vegetables to give out too.”

Riley smiled, thinking of the woman who had willed this house to the city. “Loaves and fishes. You’re still making that happen. But gardening, sandwiches . . . all of your duties, and you’re the reception clerk too? How much extra time do you spend here, Bandy?”

“Not extra.” He pointed across the room, where a pair of worn slippers poked out from beneath the sofa. “I live here. Sofa couch, nice sheets. Reading lamp. CD player, kitchen, bathtub . . . and now Hobo has wheels. I don’t want for anything.” Bandy met her gaze. “The truth is, I was living in my truck the first day I climbed these clinic steps. I don’t mind telling you that I was a sorry son of a gun all round. If it weren’t for Doc Travis and the grace of God . . . let’s just say that man who caught fire out in our parking lot could’ve been
me
.” He nodded. “I’m grateful. And helping other folks feels good. Sometimes it’s sorta like I’m spreadin’ hope, not peanut butter.” His graying brows drew together. “Speaking of that, how’re that poor young lady and her baby doing?”

* * *

Baby Girl Doe.

Kate peered through the viewing glass of the NICU at the helpless infant lying beneath a network of wires and tubing. Peanut-tiny, with a knit cap and no full-term chubbiness, she looked like a frail old woman. Her wrinkled forehead made her appear painfully worried. As if she knew that she was never going to . . .
know her mother.

Oh, please . . . it was so long ago. Let me get past it.

Kate hugged her arms against her scrub jacket as the familiar wave of pain and guilt returned. She thought she had finally put it behind her. But she’d been caught off guard by the gut punch of feelings that came when the battered teenager rolled through the doors of the ER. A runaway with a baby.

She touched her fingertips to the window, watching the infant’s tiny lips pucker in her sleep. An arrangement had been made with Mothers’ Milk Bank in Austin, and tomorrow the nurses would start a first trial feeding. Kate’s throat tightened. First milk from a stranger, first home in foster care. Then adoption, unless additional family was located.

Jane Doe’s condition hadn’t changed—drug-induced coma, full life support, a portion of her skull removed to allow for brain swelling. The sedatives were lightened at regular intervals to test the girl’s responsiveness and ability to follow commands; at this point, she had shown none. Several of the neurosurgical ICU staff were having a rough time dealing with it. Apparently a veteran night nurse, the grandmother of a preteen, broke down in tears at the sight of the Tinker Bell tattoo.

Riley had teamed with social services to begin some one-on-one counseling, watching staff carefully for signs of critical stress burnout. She’d visited the OR, NICU, neuro intensive care, and the ER with information designed to bolster coping skills. In addition, she was planning a “staff support and fellowship” gathering in the hospital chapel. Kate smiled grimly. Maybe it was a good thing that she’d procrastinated with her packing—not an optimal time to share living space with a woman who was on a first-name basis with God himself. It wouldn’t take Rah-lee long to catch on to the fact that . . .
God’s tossed me away. The same way I abandoned my baby.