Chapter 25 Bridget
“Reilly, why aren’t these follow-up calls completed?”
Bridget startled at Larkin’s sharp tone. Her eyes were gritty and her head ached. She’d tossed and turned for three solid nights—sick about Claire and furious with Frannie, not to mention the insults she’d been forced to endure from Dr. Sampson.
He drove her back to Mammoth in his mint-green Thunderbird and refused to mind his own business. First, he asked about her sisters. “What was going on back there?” He jerked his thumb behind them as he tore around a curve at an alarming speed.
“Nothing to concern you,” she’d snapped. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Sure,” he’d said, as if he were going to be a gentleman and make pleasant small talk. “So you want to work at the Mayo Clinic?” Another subject that was none of his business. “I’m sure you’ll get an excellent recommendation from the Crow.”
She frowned at his tone. He didn’t sound like he was giving her a compliment. “What do you mean by that?”
He veered around a truck camper parked on the side of the road. “She’s impressed with you, is all I’m saying.”
She bristled. “You don’t like her, I presume?”
He shrugged.
“Larkin is a superb nurse,” Bridget pointed out. And so was she. In fact, she’d wanted to be a nurse since she was eight years old, but she wasn’t going to tell that to this arrogant doctor.
He blew out a sharp sound of disagreement. “She takes care of the patients,” he said. “But she doesn’t care for them.”
Bridget felt her temperature rise. “I have no idea what you mean.”
The engine of the convertible rumbled as the infuriating man sped up on a straight stretch. “You ever hear the old saw that a caring heart is the best medicine?”
Just who did Dr. Sampson think he was? “Just because Larkin doesn’t appreciate you clowning around, doesn’t mean she doesn’t care about the patients.” Why did her defense of the Crow feel like she was defending herself?
Sampson came alarmingly close to the tailgate of the truck in front of them before he put on the brakes. “I’m just saying if you want to be a good nurse, don’t take notes from Larkin.”
“If I wanted advice, Doctor, I’d write to Ann Landers, thank you very much.” It was a terribly disrespectful thing to say to a doctor, but Bridget couldn’t help it. The rest of the drive was accomplished in absolute silence and at terrifying speed.
When she got back to Mammoth with her heart in her throat, Bridget tried calling Claire.
No answer. She tried again on Friday after working a double shift.
Claire picked up, but claimed she was busy with Jenny and couldn’t talk.
Saturday was the same story. Bridget wasn’t going to give up.
She just couldn’t stand Claire being angry at her.
When she saw Dr. Sampson on her shifts, she treated him just like any other doctor—with a professional coolness—but she didn’t stop thinking about his unwelcome advice.
On Sunday, Bridget got up early to go to Mass—at a campground, no less.
The outdoor amphitheater smelled of campfire smoke and rotten eggs, but the Mass was the same as at home.
She asked forgiveness for her argument with Claire, her simmering anger toward Frannie, and even the outrage she’d directed at Dr. Sampson.
A caring heart is the best medicine.
She looked at Jesus on the cross above the altar.
She hadn’t told Dr. Sampson the real reason she wanted to become a nurse.
As a child, she’d loved the Bible stories about Jesus healing the sick—the paralyzed man picking up his mat and walking, the blind man given his sight.
Every time she heard about Jesus healing someone who was hurting, she felt a tug at her heart.
She wanted to heal people, to ease people’s pain like Jesus.
That didn’t sound like someone who didn’t care, did it?
It was easy enough for a doctor to spout platitudes.
Doctors breezed in and out of the exam rooms, gave their opinions and wrote prescriptions.
It was nurses that did the hard work. Nurses watched their patients suffer.
They gave the families the bad news and watched the tears flow.
Bridget had seen more than one softhearted nurse give up her career because she’d let herself get too close.
A professional distance was absolutely necessary if she wanted to keep doing her job—and didn’t God want her to help people?
“Reilly?” Larkin’s voice rose as did her dark brows. “The follow-up calls?”
Bridget jerked her gaze to receive the full brunt of Larkin’s glare. “Of course,” she said, reaching for the stack of charts. “I’ll get to that immediately.”
Larkin stubbed out her cigarette. “See that you do.” The green glass ashtray showed evidence of at least half a pack of the menthol cigarettes Larkin favored.
After the supervising nurse signed off on the roster and left the floor, Bridget dumped the stubs in the trash can.
Bridget could see her recommendation going straight in the same trash can if she didn’t snap to it.
Half an hour later, she had only one call left to make.
She dialed the number on Beth Henshaw’s chart, noting that it was identical to Claire’s except for the last digit.
She held the receiver to her ear, imagining the party line ringing in Claire’s little kitchen.
“May I speak with Mrs. Henshaw?” she asked when a gruff male voice answered. “Mrs. Beth Henshaw?”
“She can’t come to the phone,” the man growled. “Who is this?”
Goodness, there was no need to be rude. “This is the nurse calling from Mammoth,” she answered. “Mrs. Henshaw needs to make a follow-up appointment.”
With a decisive click, the line went dead. “Of all the nerve!” she said, looking at the telephone receiver as if it was the culprit.
“What was that?” Dr. Sampson appeared at the desk. Today, he wore an electric-blue tie that set off his eyes and his California tan.
“Remember the pregnancy last week?”
“You mean Beth Henshaw?”
She nodded. “Livingston doesn’t have her in their records, and just now when I called to talk to her about setting up a prenatal appointment, that—that so-and-so father-in-law,” she sputtered, “he hung up on me!”
Dr. Sampson leaned a hip on the desk and frowned. “That poor girl has been through a lot, and so have her in-laws.”
“What do you mean?” Bridget sat down and looked at the chart again, but nothing struck her as unusual.
First trimester. Heat, anemia, dehydration resulting in a fainting spell.
Mrs. Henshaw had been discharged into the care of her in-laws—a bulky man with a gruff manner and his wife, a frail-looking older woman with a white streak in her hair.
“Did you speak to her when she was here last week?” Dr. Sampson asked.
“Of course I did.” Bridget talked to her about prenatal vitamins and drinking more water, and she’d very clearly told her to make an appointment in Livingston.
“Then you know that Beth’s husband died two weeks ago.”
Bridget hadn’t known. She met Dr. Sampson’s eyes, then looked away in annoyance. Was this his little lesson to her after their talk in the car? “I’m sorry for her,” she said, and she honestly was, “but she needs an examination.”
Dr. Sampson held out his hand for the telephone receiver. “Dial her again and let me talk.”
Just after lunch, Beth Henshaw walked into the hospital with the brawny older man on one side, and the gaunt woman on the other. “Mrs. Henshaw,” Bridget said, keeping her gaze upon the young woman, who looked pale and shaky. “Dr. Sampson will see you now.”
“Iris will go with her,” the older man ordered.
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Henshaw,” Bridget said crisply. “You and your wife will be quite comfortable in the waiting room.”
In the examination room, she shut the door firmly behind them. “Let’s change you into a gown.” She directed Beth to sit on the table.
Beth Henshaw remained standing, her arms crossed over her body.
Bridget had expected this. Many young women resisted such an intimate examination. “Don’t fret,” she said. “Dr. Sampson is a wonderful doctor, and I’ll be right here.”
Beth Henshaw’s face crumpled and she began to sob.
Bridget guided her to sit on the examination table and offered the girl a paper tissue.
Beth covered her face with her hands and sobbed harder.
Bridget sat down beside her, glancing at her wristwatch.
What was keeping Dr. Sampson? She patted Beth’s hand.
“There, there,” Bridget said. “What’s all this about? ”
“I—I—” Beth took a great gulping breath. “Want to go home.”
Bridget nodded with relief. “Of course you can, when we’ve finished your examination.”
“No,” the girl said with a violent shake of her head. “Home to my folks in Coeur d’Alene.”
Bridget began to help Beth into the gown as she reassured her. “As long as you take care of yourself, there’s no medical reason you can’t travel up until the seventh month of your pregnancy.”
Beth’s tears started again, this time running silently down her face. “Pete and Iris—they say my parents don’t want me.”
Bridget tied the gown at Beth’s neck and back, noting her trembling. She’d mention the patient’s anxiety to Dr. Sampson. Hysterics weren’t at all uncommon in newly pregnant women, and he most likely would prescribe a sedative. “Sit tight,” she directed. “I’ll go see what’s keeping the doctor.”
“Please”—Beth grabbed Bridget’s wrist—“don’t tell them I told you.”
Alarm prickled through Bridget at the urgency of the girl’s grip. “Of course not,” she reassured the girl. Beth was surely overreacting, and anyway, it wasn’t any of Bridget’s business. Bridget left the room with a frown and ran straight into Nurse Larkin.
“Is there a problem, Reilly?”
“Not at all,” Bridget answered. Nothing she couldn’t handle on her own.
Larkin looked at her watch. “Don’t dillydally, you have other duties to attend to.”
Bridget watched Larkin walk briskly down the hall with a prickle of unease.
Was she really as uncaring as Larkin? She checked the front desk, guessing that Dr. Sampson would be lounging there, trading jokes with Beckett or flirting with Finch.
The desk was empty and she clenched her teeth.
Could he be speaking to the Henshaws? Her rubber-soled shoes were silent as she approached the door to the waiting room.
“Iris, she’s not going to stop trying to run away.”
Bridget froze. That was Mr. Henshaw’s gruff voice.
“Please, Pete. Let’s take her to my brother’s old place.” The older woman’s voice was pleading. “Nobody would find us there.”
Bridget stepped out of the Henshaws’ sight. Were they talking about Beth?
At that moment, Dr. Sampson came out of the second exam room and opened his mouth to speak to her. Bridget put her finger to her lips with an urgent look.
“I’ve lost both my boys, Pete.” The woman’s voice rose and was choked with emotion. “I can’t lose my grandchild.”
Dr. Sampson’s brows came together. Bridget peeked around the doorframe to see Mr. Henshaw put his arms around his wife. “That’s what we’ll do then,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “We’ll take her to Wyoming until the baby is born.”
Bridget met Dr. Sampson’s surprised gaze.
“But we’ll keep the baby, Pete, won’t we?” Mrs. Henshaw choked out.
“Yes, Iris,” Mr. Henshaw said. “I just want you to be happy.”
Bridget’s gaze met Dr. Sampson’s. Beth Henshaw hadn’t been hysterical at all. Bridget hurried back toward the examination room, motioning for Dr. Sampson to follow. Outside the door, she gave him a whispered explanation of what Beth had told her.
They entered the examination room. “Beth, you remember Dr. Sampson?”
Dr. Sampson sat beside Beth and took her hand. “Tell me what’s troubling you, Beth.”
Beth swallowed and looked unsure. “Pete and Iris—they say my parents don’t—that they won’t want me. They say I have to stay with them or I won’t have anywhere to go. I don’t have any money and—with Dell gone—” She gulped a sob. “I don’t have anyone else.”
“Last week, when you came in,” Dr. Sampson asked gently, “were you trying to get home?”
She nodded. “I used the last of my pin money to get a train ticket. But Pete found me. Then I tried to hitchhike and that’s when I—” She gulped. “That’s when I fainted. Since then they haven’t let me out of their sight.”
Bridget gave Beth a tissue. From what they’d heard in the waiting room, the Henshaws had every intention of keeping her child.
“Have you tried to contact your parents?” Dr. Sampson asked.
Beth wiped her eyes and went on in a choked voice.
“My mom and dad don’t have a telephone, but I wrote to them after Dell died.
” She shook her head and clasped her hands together.
“They didn’t write back, but if I talk to them .
. . if they know about the baby . . .” She put her hand protectively over her flat stomach. “I think they’ll take me back.”
Dr. Sampson nodded. “I think so, too, Beth. And if you want to go home, we’ll help you.” Dr. Sampson looked at Bridget. “Won’t we?”
Bridget looked from the questioning gaze of the doctor to the miserable girl. This was certainly not Bridget’s business. And not the job of a physician, either. And yet, how could she refuse?
“Certainly.” Bridget nodded. “Is there someone we could call to help you get there? A friend?”
Beth shook her head and looked down at her locked hands. “I only know friends of Pete and Iris.”
A sharp rap made Bridget jump. Nurse Larkin pushed open the door and took one step in. “Dr. Sampson,” she said with a disapproving look. “The couple in the waiting room has asked how much longer you will be. Please do finish up here and allow them to take this young woman home.”
Dr. Sampson’s usual good humor was nonexistent. His jaw went hard and he responded in a firm voice. “I’ll be finished when I’m finished, Larkin.”
Larkins brows flew up and a muscle in her cheek twitched. “Of course, Doctor.”
The door closed behind Larkin and Dr. Sampson flipped the lock. Bridget glanced apprehensively at the door. Larkin wouldn’t be put off for long, and neither would Beth’s in-laws.
“Beth,” Dr. Sampson said, crouching down in front of her to meet her eyes. “Think hard. Is there anyone—anyone at all—who could help you get to your parents?”
Beth bit at her lip and looked up, her pale face unsure. “There is one person,” she said slowly. “I don’t know her very well, but she said to—to let her know if I needed anything.”
“Who?” Bridget asked hopefully. Beth needed a friend, and someone who was strong enough to stand up to Pete Henshaw.
“Her name is Claire Wilder.”