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What was I doing wrong? Did the magical world smell the stink of desperation on me? Generations before me had found the Elements. But they’d searched as pilgrims, with open, curious hearts. Was I so slow to progress because I was too businesslike in the approach? Or should I be even less sentimental? Approach the issue like one of those crime procedural programs with spreadsheets and forensics and such?
Early one evening, after I cleared the block, I turned right and slowed my pace. The light was warm and pleasant. And the fresh, book-dust-free outdoors was a definite plus. I couldn’t say I was comfortable with the neighborhood, all darkened storefronts and abandoned streets, but I was wearing sturdy shoes and jeans. I could outrun a bloody cheetah if startled properly.
It was interesting to see how the dividing line of commercial success ended at Paxton Avenue. On the opposite side of the intersection, I could see a prosperous town square, with restaurants and quaint little shops. But in this area, there was little bustling besides Jane’s shop. The consignment shop on Prescott was flanked by a defunct comic-book store and an empty barber shop. The one business with lights blazing was a corner store that looked as if it had once been an eyewear shop. It now displayed a sign advertising “Half-Moon Hollow Community Walk-In Clinic. Services Free.”
I walked closer to the door, where a small yellowed sign read, “Help Wanted,” in bold red letters. I pushed the door open to find . . . complete feckin’ chaos. I was bombarded by the sensations of nausea and chills rolling off of the crowded waiting room. There were women lined up five deep at the registration desk, with no nurse to check them in. Children sat slumped against chairs lining the walls, listless and pale, scratching halfheartedly at reddish spots on their arms and legs. One boy had stuffed his head into the wastebasket and was puking for all he was worth. It took me a minute of deep breathing to keep myself from rushing to the wastebasket and tossing my own breakfast.
It was after eight P.M. Every single child in this room had chicken pox. Everybody was talking at once, demanding answers, demanding that someone come out and help them. And no one seemed to be in charge.
Finally, a situation I was prepared for.
“Right.” I rolled up my sleeves and slipped in past the door marked “Staff Only.”
Down the hall, I could hear an older man’s voice as he told a Mrs. Loomis to keep Tyler hydrated and covered in calamine lotion and to give him a cool bath if his fever spiked. I assumed this was the doctor, so at least we had that going for us. I rummaged through the mess of papers until I found a sign-in sheet. At the sight of someone who seemed to know what was happening, the would-be patients and their mothers surged forward, surrounding me like something out of an itchy zombie movie.
“Excuse me,” I called over the din of questions and complaints. “Excuse me, if everybody would please just—” No one was listening to me. They were too busy attempting to storm the registration desk. Finally, I yelled, “Oy!” over the noise. “Oy! If everybody would just shut it for a moment and line up like good boys and girls, we will be able to get everybody signed up to see the doctor as quickly as possible. Now, if you haven’t filled out an intake form, I suggest you do so right now.”
For a moment, everybody just stared at me as if I were speaking Greek.
And then one mother handed her son off to a woman I assumed was his grandmother, marched over to a desk behind me, and found some clipboards. Two more mothers searched through their enormous purses until they found ink pens and distributed them to the others. Eventually, a single-file line was formed, and I managed to determine which kids were worst off. Every time a patient emerged from the doctor’s office, I sent another kid down the hall.
This was a different, more frustrating experience than working in my clinic. Despite cousin Ralph’s illegal efforts, I wasn’t licensed in the state of Kentucky and couldn’t practice there. I wasn’t covered by the clinic’s malpractice insurance. So I could not ethically make any sort of judgment calls regarding patients. I couldn’t so much as slap a Band-Aid on a boo-boo. I could, however, place my hands over some of the lesser cases’ foreheads when their parents registered them, and if their fevers happened to drop before they went back to the exam room, what a wonderful coincidence that would be.
Eventually, the waiting-room crowd dwindled to a half-dozen children. A frazzled-looking elderly man in a white coat wandered behind the registration desk. Well, his coat was white once upon a time. There was a distinct orangey splash across the breast pocket, almost obscuring the swirly embroidery that read, “R. Hackett, MD.”
The good doctor was what Penny would have called a silver fox, or he would have been, if he’d had a full head of hair. He had a perfectly trimmed salt-and-pepper Van Dyke and a head as bald as an egg. He was wrinkled and wizened but cute as a button, with steely-gray eyes and a tanned face with distinct laugh lines.
Dr. Hackett’s eyes narrowed when he saw me sitting behind the desk, sorting the various reports into piles. “Who the hell are you?”
Maybe those weren’t laugh lines.
“Nola,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand. “Leary. I am a nurse practitioner, and I run a small family clinic in my hometown. I’m here on an extended visit. But I know how to move people through a waiting room. You were drowning. I threw you a lifeline. You’re welcome.”
Dr. Hackett cast a glance around the desk and scowled. “Did you move things?”
“Yes,” I said, looking around at the neat stacks of files and papers. “Lots of them.”
He frowned at me. “Are you mentally unstable, a drug user, a gossip, or looking for a senior-citizen sugar daddy to keep you in spray tanning and designer purses?”
“No, to all of those,” I said, shaking my head.
“We haven’t been open this late in ten years, but one of the local day cares had a chicken-pox outbreak like a biblical plague. I’ve been on my feet for sixteen hours, and I’m too damn old for that, let me tell you. We normally open at eight A.M. and close at five P.M. Does that work for you?”
“Uh, sure.”
“I’ll pay you. It won’t be much. We’re funded through donations from different civic groups, but the budget does provide a small stipend for clerical support. In the future, try not to move things without asking first,” he griped, and called for his next patient.
Did he just hire me? Did I even want to work here? Would I treat patients, or would I stick to administrative work? What would my hours be? Would it interfere with my search for the Elements? Exactly how much was not much in terms of payment?
“Don’t you want to see some references?” I asked as he moved down the hall. “Some identification? Anything?”
“We’ll get to it later,” he said, waving me off.
I sat back in the half-padded office chair, which was apparently mine now.
“First, Jane falls into her job at the bookshop, and now, this,” I muttered. “Doesn’t anyone do job interviews in this town?”
7
