Rescue Team (10 page)

-  +  -

Lauren leaned forward, attempting to make eye contact with the teenager. Not easy as the girl slouched in the triage chair, tucking her chin down to let dyed raven hair obscure her face. But Lauren had already caught a glimpse of red in the whites of her eyes and thought she smelled alcohol on her breath. “I asked your mother to step out for a minute so we could talk more easily, Olivia.”

The girl shifted in the chair, crossed her arms, and gave a soft grunt.

Lauren glanced at the monitoring equipment, the vital signs the patient had grudgingly allowed her to obtain. BP 98 over 44, pulse 56, respirations 14. Oxygen saturation 96 percent. The reason for the visit—offered by a worried mother—was
“sleeping too much, not eating.”

Depression, substance abuse . . . both?

“I need you to be truthful with me,” Lauren said. “Have you been drinking today?”

The girl shrugged. Then met Lauren’s gaze at last. Red-rimmed eyes, very slight nystagmus, pupils . . . constricted?

“Please, Nurse . . . just leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that, Olivia,” Lauren told her, not comfortable with the girl’s rapidly developing slur. She’d walked in but was looking much groggier now. “Your mother brought you here because she’s worried about you. She thinks you need help.”

“Don’t . . . need anything . . . nobody. Jus’ let . . . me be.” The girl pressed a hand against her forehead, and her long sleeve slid back, revealing rows of scarring on her forearm, some blanched with age and several freshly scabbed.

Lauren’s stomach sank. “Olivia, I need to know: have you had any alcohol, taken drugs of any kind?”

“I . . . feel . . .” The girl’s head lolled sideways; she pulled in a breath that sounded more like a snore. Then she rallied just enough to peer at Lauren with half-lidded eyes.

Lauren stood. No more questions. Olivia was meeting an ER stretcher. Now. And it would be a team effort. She hit the button under the desk, heard the alarm start to trill—just as the girl’s mother shoved open the triage door, her expression frantic.

“Look! Her brother found this in the bathroom.” She held out an empty amber bottle. “My husband’s prescription cough syrup. It was full this morning!”

“Need a gurney here,” Lauren told a tech as he peered in through the other door.

In mere moments the team converged on the triage office, lifted a weakly resisting Olivia onto a gurney, and hustled toward the resuscitation room. Lauren jogged alongside, eyes on her patient—and her heart in Houston with her sister. But she was nothing like this troubled girl. One bout of depression didn’t mean she had a serious problem. Jess was fine.

“W
HAT HAVE WE GOT?”
the physician asked as they slid Olivia’s gurney into place in the resuscitation room. Two techs began the process of coaxing her into an exam gown.

“Sixteen-year-old, ‘sleepy’ today per mother,” Lauren reported, bringing the triage screen up on the bedside computer. “No significant medical history—here you go. Weight, vital signs.” She handed him the empty bottle provided by the mother. “She didn’t admit to taking anything, but I thought I smelled alcohol. And this was apparently full this morning. Her father’s cough syrup.”

“Hydrocodone/homatropine. Thanks.” He set the bottle down, watched as the girl’s heart rhythm began to appear on the digital display screen of the monitor. Then he signaled to the assigned nurse. “Get her on two liters of oxygen and let’s have Narcan standing by. I’ll examine her now, but I’m going to want an IV
and a Foley catheter. Urine HCG, blood alcohol, full toxicology screen. We’ll lavage her. Get a chest film, EKG, and—whoops, she’s vomiting. Let’s protect that airway, folks!”

Olivia gagged again as the technician turned her head to the side and a rigid plastic tube sucked vomit from the corner of her mouth. She tried to reach toward her face, but the reflexive movement was deftly intercepted by another technician.

“Easy, Olivia, let us do what we need to do,” he told her. “We’ll explain everything, but we need your help.”

Lauren saw one of the nurses setting up the lavage—quarts of fluid to wash any pill fragments from her stomach, followed by a charcoal-and-laxative slurry to prevent further absorption of drugs into her system. All via a garden hose of a tube inserted through a bite block between her lips. Beyond obnoxious. Lauren hoped the girl cooperated and swallowed the tube down. Regardless, it would happen. Even if she had to be restrained.
You need help whether you believe it or not, little girl.

“I’ll check with the family,” Lauren told the clinical coordinator. “Tell them what to expect.” She glanced at the latest set of vital signs: BP 90 over 52. Heart rate 62, sinus rhythm. Oxygen saturation 100 percent with the two-liter flow. She caught a glimpse of Olivia’s face—color pink, eyes smudged with mascara and wide with fear. Lauren thought of the scars on her arm, wondered how long she’d hidden them from her parents. She reminded herself to ask the family about clergy and offer the hospital chaplain. Social services would be involved too. Helping this girl would take a well-rounded and compassionate team approach. Starting with the support of her family. It was clear that Olivia had tried to go it alone. And look where she’d landed. Family was oftentimes an unappreciated resource. DNA close, but not always nurtured the way it deserved to be.

It made Lauren think of Kate. And the edginess in her voice when she’d called last night about her father’s surprise visit. She wondered where her friend had finally decided to take him today.

Lauren shook her head, thinking how often Kate had teased her about Texas. Which Austin restaurant was closest to California cuisine? That’s where Kate Callison would eat tonight.

-  +  -

The air smelled like barbecue.

Kate walked alongside Duster toward the barn. All traces of the search-and-rescue demonstration, Scouts, and schoolchildren had vanished. And here, closer to the Tanner ranch house, the air was thick with the scent of mesquite smoke and slow-cooked brisket. Her traitorous stomach rumbled to mock the Shady Grove vegetable plate.

Kate’s gaze followed the sweep of pecan boughs sheltering the roomy porch and caught an inky-blue and orange swallow swooping low under a branch to careen onward toward the barn. She sneaked another whiff of barbecue, then encouraged Duster forward, enjoying the hollow clop of hooves on the dirt path. Though her inner thighs had begun to whine about their first contact with horseflesh in more than a decade.

“Is this where you live, boy?” she asked aloud, trying to recall if Wes had said to take his horse inside to unsaddle. She stopped at the entrance to the barn, noticing the letters carved in the weathered wood. Bold and childishly uneven, and . . . She traced a fingertip over the carving:
W. T.

“Wes,” a woman verified from Duster’s far side. She peered at Kate from under the gelding’s jaw. Then swept a lock of coppery hair away from her face. Her silver hoop earrings glinted in the sun.
“When he was eleven. Dulled my best paring knife.” Her warm smile crinkled her eyes. “I’m Miranda Tanner. And I’ll bet you’re Kate.”

“Yes,” Kate said, easily recognizing her from that day in the hospital chapel. She returned Miranda’s smile, trying to find some resemblance between Wes and his mother. “It’s nice to—” She groaned as Duster dipped his head, bumping the top of hers. “I’m sorry. Trying to talk under a horse’s chin is a little awkward.”

“Of course. We’ll fix that. Ah—” Miranda turned to glance down the path—“here comes the rest of the team now.”

Kate backed Duster a few steps to see that her father and Wes were headed toward the barn, leading their horses. Accompanied by the handsome man who was quite obviously Wes’s father. And the lanky adolescent Kate had also seen in the chapel, with a huge chocolate Lab still wearing a search-and-rescue vest. The four men were engaged in animated conversation. If they stayed any longer, her father would be wearing a Team Tanner jersey.

Her throat tightened unexpectedly. She had no clue why. Kate only knew that the nerve-racking day was finally winding down. And she was glad about that. Wasn’t she?

-  +  -

Kate was wearing the poker face again, at least in the glance she’d just tossed Wes’s way. Though she was all smiles as he made introductions outside the barn, Wes would bet that getting out of here as quickly as possible was her only goal. And far be it from him to meddle again.

Dylan obviously had other plans.

“Easy, pal, take a breath,” Wes told him as his brother continued the nonstop stream of facts and details related to Hershey’s training. “Let the lady get a word in. That’s good manners.”

“Uh-huh, okay,” he agreed, shaking his head several times before peering at Kate again. The eager, dog-with-a-bone look returned to his expression. “Hiding or searching?”

Kate looked from Dylan to Wes in confusion.

“Dylan’s talking about the K9 training demo today.” Wes clapped a hand affectionately on his brother’s shoulder. “‘Live find.’ Where volunteers play the roles of being lost or being a rescuer. He helped with that today. Right, buddy? Hiding and searching.”

“Oh.” Kate smiled, managed to capture Dylan’s gaze, the kindness in her expression beautifully obvious. “I wish I’d known. I would have liked to join in.”

“Cool.” Dylan grinned. “Hiding or searching?”

“I . . . don’t know.”

Hiding.
Wes knew it, even if Kate didn’t.

“Of course you’ll stay for dinner,” his mom said as his father followed Matt into the barn. She smiled at Kate. “I’m sure the main dish is fairly obvious. But there’s also ranch beans, coleslaw, and Dylan’s favorite, creamed corn.” She raised her brows. “Buttermilk pie?”

“Oh, I . . .” Kate glanced toward the barn.

“I’m sure Kate and her father have other plans,” Wes gambled, certain this one last meddle was something Kate would approve of. “In fact, I was just going to offer to unsaddle Duster and Levi so they could get going, and—”

“We’d love to stay for dinner,” Kate said, cutting him off. “Thank you, Miranda.”

-  +  -

Kate made the hasty decision to stay for dinner knowing it would spare her another uncomfortable meal alone with her father. But
she hadn’t imagined that accepting the invitation would have her bowing her head as Wes’s father, Paul, said a simple blessing at an alfresco dinner table. One of her hands had been joined with her father’s and the other with Wes’s. She felt awkward for a moment, couldn’t remember the last time she’d done such a thing. But in truth, it felt natural somehow too. A few thankful words and six lowered heads around a rustic picnic table made country elegant with bleached muslin and a tall jar filled to brimming with flowers: native purple lavender, yellow chrysanthemums, and a reckless spray of burnt-orange berries. It was a comfortable, makeshift dining room under an ancient spreading pecan tree—and a Texas sky gone van Gogh mad with pink and gold. Dining serenaded by the faint chatter of a squirrel, chirping barn swallows, and an occasional contented nicker from a horse eye-deep in sweet alfalfa. Plus the soft whine of a dog named Hershey stationed well within brisket-pitching distance.

The host’s thankful prayer was followed instantly by laughter and lively conversation, sprinkled with oohs and aahs over the plates of food, a clatter of eating utensils, and the tinkle of ice cubes in tall glasses of tea. There were distant strains of music from a CD that Kate had come to recognize as George Strait. She didn’t think she’d ever again dine anywhere so memorable.

And neither had Kate expected that a small squeeze from her father’s fingers would affect her the way it did, sending her heart and mind cartwheeling toward places and times she’d left behind long ago. She swallowed against a sudden lump in her throat, tried to push aside another flood of memories of a smaller table in Sunnyvale, her mother before the cancer, and her father before—

“Brisket?” Wes offered, holding the platter so she could select a piece of the spicy-sweet–scented beef. He cast a brotherly eye at
Dylan across the table. “Cut that meat. I know it’s tender, but you still can’t eat those slices whole, bud. There you go. Good job.”

Kate helped herself to the side dishes, noticing Miranda and Wes giving the occasional direction to Dylan, encouraging him to stay in his chair. To chew his food carefully. From what she’d observed, Kate could tell that the young man had developmental issues. Her respect for the Tanners grew, knowing the loving commitment that challenge required.

“Of course,” Paul Tanner was saying, “at Christmas, this house will be bursting at the seams. Second grandbaby due mid-December.”

“My sister,” Wes explained, holding a forkful of corn in midair. “She and her husband live outside Dallas. He’s a podiatrist, prefers bunions to well digging. More than you ever wanted to know, I’m sure.”

Kate smiled over her glass of tea.
Better than talking about my family.

“I’m hoping to have that one day,” her father said beside her. “Not bunions—I’d love to have grandchildren.”

Kate’s breath stuck in her throat. She gripped her glass, certain she’d spill it.

“Any prospects?” Paul asked, then politely amended his question. “I mean, do you have other children besides Kate?”

“No. She’s it.”

Kate tried to smile, impossible with every eye at the table on her. And the painful guilt of what she’d done making her want to leap from the table and run to the car.

“Dylan? Hey, guy . . . ,” Wes said suddenly, alarm in his voice. “Are you—?” He pushed away from the table.

“Oh, dear,” Miranda breathed, leaving her chair. “Is he choking?”

“Dylan . . .” Kate set her glass down, eyes riveted on the obviously
struggling young man across from her. She forced her voice to remain calm. “Can you talk?” she asked, hearing a faint whistle as he tried to breathe inward.

He shook his head, sucked in again in a futile attempt, his face going from red to dusky blue.

“Cough, Dylan,” Wes instructed, standing. “Try to cough.”

Hershey barked.

Dylan’s eyes grew wide as he stood, his hand circling his throat. Wes and Kate bolted around the table to his side.

“Try one more time to cough,” Wes said, his hand on Dylan’s shoulder.

“I don’t think he can,” Kate whispered, protocols tumbling in her brain. “He’s obstructed. And he’s going to lose consciousness unless—” She shot Wes a look. “You or me?”

“Got it.” Wes’s face paled a shade.

“Okay, Dylan,” Kate reassured as Wes stepped behind his brother. “We’re going to help you. Wes is going to grab on to you from behind. Let him do this. It’s okay—he’s going to help you cough that food out.”

She nodded as Wes positioned his hands under his panicking brother’s diaphragm. “Good. Thumb side under the rib cage. Quick upward thrust—good. Again.”
Oh, please, let this work.
“Another one.”

“I’ve got my cell phone,” Kate’s father offered, his voice raw with concern. “Give the word and I’ll—”

“Again, now.” Kate watched Wes’s hands and his brother’s still-conscious face. “Again, and—”

In a merciful instant, the meat dislodged, popping out like a celebratory cork. Dylan gagged, coughed, and then drew in a deep, ragged breath, his color instantly returning to normal. “I . . .
choked,” he sputtered, a tear sliding down his face. He struggled toward a sheepish smile. “I should’ve . . . chewed better. Sorry.”

“You betcha, and . . . ah, come here.” Wes pulled Dylan close, hugging him as tears welled in his own eyes.

“Oh, thank God.” His mother’s relieved cry began a barrage of grateful murmurings. “And thank you, Wes . . . Kate. Oh, thank heaven you were here.”

Wes’s eyes met Kate’s over the top of his brother’s head. His expression made her heart ache as he mouthed,
“Thank you.”