Blink Of An Eye

As busy and chaotic as the days were, the nights couldn’t have been more different. I would lie in my bed, hot and sweaty despite the open windows, alone in the vast darkness and eerie silence. You’d think after my lonely days at Sherry’s house I’d be used to it, but I wasn’t. Those hours between sundown and sunrise were the hardest hours of my day, with way too much time to think.

What did the future hold? Not tomorrow. I knew what I was doing tomorrow and for every day as long as the medical tent was functioning. But after that? I didn’t know.

Why are you worrying about this? You don’t care about the future. A few weeks ago you were going to kill yourself. You can still do it anytime you want to.

All true and all very logical. Yet these days I wasn’t really depressed enough to go through with the deed.

It was all so perverse. If my life had been in the toilet before, it was even more so now. But I wasn’t depressed in that heavy, lethargic way of the past. I wasn’t overwhelmed with sadness or even hopelessness.

Beside me, Lucky heaved a great sigh and I smiled into the dark. Maybe all I’d ever needed was a pet, something to take care of, to spoil and coddle. I used to do that with Clark when he was little. Some of the neighborhood kids used to make fun of him, until I pounded it out of them. Yeah, I’d taken as good a care of Clark as I could. But when he was eighteen, Mom had placed him in a group home where he’d lived ever since.

I’d tried to take care of lots of other people since then, and of course, I’d tried every which way to get pregnant, with no success. But Lucky was easy to care for, and he appreciated everything.

I rolled to my side and patted the bed. “Come on, Lucky. Come on.” In an instant he was up on the bed, stepping on me, turning in a circle as he picked his spot. I smiled into the dark and rolled over. Even with his hot body adding to the sweltering night, I slept better.

Until my cell phone trilled.

It was such an unlikely sound that at first I was totally confused. I nearly killed myself getting to it. “Hello? Hello?”

“Janie! Damn, girl!” It was Hank. “I been tryin’ to reach you for a week. Where the hell are you?”

I lay back on my pillow, vaguely disappointed. “I’m at home, Hank. Where else? And you?”

“Shit. I’m in a hotel in Macon, working eighteen hour shifts for the energy company.”

“Well that’s good, isn’t it?”

“Eighteen-hour shifts?” He snorted. “And there’s not a beer anywhere in this whole damned state. How ’bout you? I bet Robbie’s got the bar open already. Am I right?”

“I don’t know.” I pushed up from the bed and walked to the open window. Anything to catch a breeze. “I haven’t gone down to Bourbon Street.”

“Then what’re you doing down there if you’re not workin’?”

“I’m helping out at a makeshift first-aid station.”

He grunted. “And not gettin’ paid a dime, I bet. I hear the Red Cross is down there feeding folks.”

“Now they are. But other regular people are pitching in, too.”

“Yeah. Wow. So, you gonna stay? I heard they’re trying to evacuate the whole damn city. Even the dry parts. How screwed up is that?”

“They’re trying. But I’m staying as long as I can.”

“How come?”

I didn’t know how to answer that. Why was I staying? Because…there was no other place I wanted to be. Because I’d promised Bradley that I’d take care of his dog. Because after only a couple of days working at the medical tent, I felt better than I had in years.

“Because I want to,” I finally answered.

“Man, you ought to see how bad it is down on the coast.” He talked for a while, about his work and his demolished truck and his frustration with the no-liquor situation.

It’s funny, because I didn’t really miss drinking. I’d been so overwhelmed by all that had happened that any withdrawals I might have had must have blended in with all the other stresses of the past weeks. Or else it had been suppressed by my near-constant adrenaline high.

“Look, Hank,” I said, breaking into this monologue. “It’s hard to get a phone charged up around here, so I have to conserve its use.”

“Yeah. Okay. Look, I’ll try to get reassigned to a crew working New Orleans. I bet Molly’s is still open. And Johnny White’s. They never close. Anyway, I just wanted to be sure I had a place to stay.”

Now why did the thought of him showing up at my house repulse me? “There’s no electricity here,” I said.

“No duh.”

“And you can’t drink the water.”

He laughed. “Yeah, but you can drink the beer. At least the Saints won,” he added. “Ain’t that something? I’ll see you one of these days, babe. You can count on it.”

After we hung up, I couldn’t go back to sleep. I didn’t want Hank here. Not in my apartment, not in Washington Square Park, not in my life. It wasn’t his fault. He was the same man he’d always been. But I’d changed. Don’t ask me why or how, but I knew I had.

Since the phone lines seemed partially open, I decided to call the group home where Clark had been taken. It took five tries to get through, and the phone rang a long time before someone picked up. It was, after all, two in the morning.

“Bethany Group Home,” a drowsy voice answered. “This better be important.”

“It is. It is. I’m calling from New Orleans, and I’m sorry to wake you, but I haven’t been able to get through during the day.”

“That’s okay. That’s all right,” the woman said. “You have family with us?”

“Yes. My brother Clark evacuated with Community Homes. Clark Falgoust. Is he still there? Is he okay?”

“Clark, Clark. Oh, yes. Down syndrome, very sweet disposition?”

“That’s him. How’s he doing?”

“He’s doing fine. Very well. And you are?”

“Jane Falgoust, his sister.”

“Hi, Jane. I’m Alma Charles, assistant director at Bethany. So you’re calling from New Orleans. Did you stay through the storm?”

I gave her the short version. She filled me in on Clark’s adjustment. Like all the evacuated group-home residents, he’d had his difficult moments. He liked his routine and got upset when it was disrupted. But he wasn’t as difficult as the autistic residents. All Clark usually needed was a little extra attention and coddling. Then he’d attach himself to a couple of aides and be a happy camper once more.

“He’s a real sweetheart,” Alma said. “Everybody at Bethany just loves him.”

“Does that mean he’ll be staying there a while?”

“That I can’t say. But if he does get transferred, we’ll know where and when. I take it you can’t keep him with you.”

I laughed. “No drinking water, no electricity and the military powers that be are trying to kick all of us diehards out of town.” Diehard. Now that was an ironic choice of words. It described me perfectly, though not precisely as intended.

“I see. Any idea how the Community Homes facility fared?” she asked.

“It was in Gentilly, so probably not too well.”

“Lord almighty.” Then she sighed. “Well, don’t you worry, sugar. Your brother’s going to be just fine wherever he lands. Give me your phone number. I promise to keep track of him so you can always find him through me. Okay? And take my cell number, too.”

“Thanks, Alma. Thanks so much.”

After I hung up, I felt enormously relieved. Through the years I’d discovered that most of the people involved in long-term care for people like Clark were great. There was always the occasional bad apple. But for the most part they were good folks—massively underpaid, of course—but genuinely involved with their clients’ lives. Like Verna Jenkins, Alma Charles definitely belonged in that group, an angel who would make sure that Clark and the others from his group home were well served.

“Thank you,” I whispered into the sweltering night. Thank you to who? Alma? Verna? God?

I’m not a churchgoer. I quit after Dad left us. Mom was too depressed to force the issue, and other than a Christmas manger scene, God didn’t make much of an appearance in our household. But all the while I’d tried to talk my first boyfriend, Gary, out of being gay, I’d prayed a lot. And later when I’d tried to get pregnant, six years of heavy-duty praying.

God hadn’t listened—if there was a God. Or else he’d decided I was an opportunist who only prayed when she wanted something. That was the more likely scenario. I’d prayed briefly when Tom had gotten into trouble with the insurance fraud, but it was halfhearted, as if I knew it wasn’t going to help.

Since Tom’s conviction, I hadn’t prayed for anything. Why bother? And I hadn’t thought much about God either, not even in the height of the storm when I wasn’t sure Lucky and I would make it to that porch.

But I was thankful to God tonight, because He was taking good care of my brother. I was thankful, but I was lonesome.

How I missed Clark, his funny smile and silly giggle. My forty-two-year-old kindergarten kid. How long would it be before I saw him again?

I know it seems stupid, me getting all teary-eyed missing my brother. If I’d followed through with my suicide plan I would never have seen him again. But I wasn’t suicidal anymore. The moment had passed. That wasn’t to say it might not come again. But the impulse had subsided just as the opportunity had.

Beside me, Lucky woofed in his sleep and his feet twitched in hot pursuit of some dream squirrel or cat. I turned to face him, grateful to have him with me. If he hadn’t slammed into my windshield…

Closing my eyes, I vowed not to go there. Life was what it was. From now on I wouldn’t look back with regret. One day at a time, that was my new mantra—more stuff left over from rehab and my forced participation in AA. I’d hated every minute of it, resented being stuck in the same category as some of the really down-and-out folks who straggled into the meetings. At the same time, I’d resented the presence of the longtime sober ones who lived and breathed AA.

But as much as I hated to admit it, AA did have a few good points. Like that one-day-at-a-time thing.

A mosquito buzzed near my ear and I swatted blindly at it. One day at a time. I’d lost track of the days though. How many weeks since Hurricane Katrina had wiped out the whole damned Gulf Coast? Since I’d abandoned my suicide plan? Since I’d had a drink?

And how long since I’d met Ben—or should I say since I’d stepped back into nursing mode?

So which one was it that had me happier than I’d been in years: the teetotaling, the job or the man?

I actually smiled as I admitted to myself that I didn’t know. And I didn’t much care. I was bathing in a swimming pool and living without electricity, but I felt really good these days. Needed. And that was enough for me.

The next day we needed every helping hand we could get. Word had gotten around, as it always does, and the park was seeing a lot more people every day for food, water and medical help.

“Where’s Ben?” I asked Tess after I finished bandaging a nasty cut that needed stitches. Unfortunately the wild-eyed old guy wouldn’t let me anywhere near him with sutures.

“Ben went down to the Quarter, to that FEMA hospital set up in one of the hotels,” Tess answered. “It turns out they have lots of supplies but no patients. Everybody’s over here or going to that street clinic on St. Philip Street. He’s hoping they might share some of their supplies with us.” She rolled her eyes. “Like the feds are gonna cooperate with anybody.”

“Maybe they could move their operation down here, you know, to where the people actually are.”

She shook her head. “That’s way too logical for the organization that dithered while New Orleans drowned. They should have been here the minute the winds died down.”

She had a point. Tess hadn’t had any connection to New Orleans prior to Katrina, and had only come down to help as a favor to Ben. But already she’d attached herself to the city with a vengeance, connecting to the people and our strong sense of community. I have to add also that she was suspicious of anything that any branch of government said or did. She thought Mayor Nagin was hopeless, Governor Blanco was a waste of time and you did not want to get her started on President Bush.

I’ve never been all that political, but it was hard to remain neutral when weeks after the biggest natural disaster in American history, so little progress had been made.

No, I take that back. Jackson Square had been cleaned up beautifully for the president’s visit. It was just everywhere else that remained a wreck.

An hour or so later when Ben showed up, his expression said everything. There would be no sharing of supplies or personnel. If people wanted help from the FEMA clinic, they had to go to the FEMA clinic.

“So here’s what we do,” Ben said as we gathered around him. “Anything that requires prescriptions or anything more invasive than stitches, we send to them. We need to assemble a fleet of cars so we can ferry people down there. Do you have a car?” he asked me.

“Sorry. It drowned.”

“I’ll ask around,” Tess said. “How about we make any patient who has a car promise to give us a couple of hours of cab service as payment?”

Ben grinned at her. “Good idea. Another thing. Another group of doctors and nurses should be arriving tomorrow, assuming they don’t get turned away at the military checkpoints. Since a lot of you have indicated you’re staying for a while longer, we need to locate more places to put them up. We probably only need five or six beds.”

“I have room,” I said. “A fold-out couch and a roof that doesn’t leak.”

“Great.” He smiled at me.

Great. I smiled back. Why don’t you come stay with me?

Immediately I ducked my head. I did not need to be sending out “I’m available” vibes to this man. For all I knew the good doctor had a sweet little wife tucked away at home. And anyway, the last thing I needed right now was to get involved with some guy. Lucky was all the male I could handle these days.

Still, it was nice to know that feelings I’d assumed long dead and buried—like sexual awareness—were still alive and ticking. It made me feel alive.

I busied myself with setting up the exam area—more bandages and sterilized instruments—but I must have been smiling to myself, because Tess shot me a curious look. “You’re in a good mood.”

“Yeah. I guess I am. I talked to my brother last night.” Now why had I told her that?

“Really? He evacuated?”

“Yes. But he’s doing fine in Baton Rouge.”

“I guess he wants you to leave here, right?”

“I decide where I go, not anyone else.”

She grinned. “You go, girl. Say, what are you doing tonight? I know you always head to your place before dark, but there’s usually some cool music stuff going on around here after dark. Why don’t you stay tonight and bunk with us?”

I started to say no, but I caught myself. Why shouldn’t I stay? It wasn’t as if I had much to go home to. Lucky was already here, so…why not? “Okay. Sounds fun, and I seriously need some fun.”

“Good. Hey, Ben,” she called. “Jane’s staying at our place tonight.”

Again our eyes met and held. “Great,” he said, and I could swear that this time it was him sending out the “I’m available” vibe.

I ducked my head when my cheeks colored, then turned back to the task at hand. Ben Comeaux was a nice guy. That’s all. It was nice that he gave so freely of his time to others, and nice that he appreciated my rusty nursing skills. Beyond that, well…

Suffice it to say, I smiled all day long—until a face from my past was carried into the medical tent, whining like a three-year-old and bleeding big time from a cut on his foot.

CHAPTER 5

“Jane? Is that you?” that unexpected, yet too familiar voice asked. “Jane! Thank God!”

When I didn’t respond, Tess nudged me. “You know this guy?”

Oh, yeah, I knew him. Or at least I once thought I knew him. But back then I hadn’t known that Tom Kinkaid was a liar and a cheat and a compulsive gambler. “My ex,” I muttered.

To him I said, “When did you get out of jail?”

“Hey.” He got this hurt look on his face. “Can’t we let bygones be bygones?”

“You want me to take care of him?” Tess asked.

“No. I’ll do it. Put him there,” I told the two guys who’d carried him in. It was weird. It was obviously Tom, my husband of six years, and yet in many ways it wasn’t him at all. He’d always been a sharp dresser and meticulous in his grooming. Now he was dirty and his face was lined with weariness and pain. Added to that, one of his shoes was covered with blood.

I picked up a scalpel. “This shoe has got to go.”

“Don’t cut it off!” Tom cried. “They’re Italian leather. Besides, they’re the only shoes I have left.”

I shook my head. Italian leather. It figured. Only the best for Tom. But where did an ex-con get the money to buy expensive Italian leather shoes? I checked the sole to see if any foreign objects protruded, then started unlacing the shoe. “If you insist,” I said. “But this may hurt.”

He squealed like a frightened pig, a good analogy, but his shoe came off fine. Except for the puncture in the sole and the puddle of blood inside, it was almost as good as new.

I couldn’t say the same for him. I hadn’t seen Tom in over nine years, but he looked as if he’d aged twenty. I guess prison was hard on a body, even the so-called country-club prisons where white-collar criminals ended up.

I propped his foot up higher than his heart, cut off his sock and began the process of cleaning the wound. “How did you do this?”

He grimaced as I probed the wound. “Stepped on a nail. A big nail. Ow! Take it easy.”

“What are you doing in New Orleans anyway?” I didn’t want to ask, but I couldn’t help myself.

“Would you believe, looking for you?”

“No.” I stared him straight in the eye. “I wouldn’t.”

He shrugged, then laughed. “Okay, okay. I came here to work at the casino. But I was going to look you up. That’s not a lie. Just my luck I arrive a week before damned Katrina.”

“Why would you look me up, Tom? To talk about the good old days?” I tossed his bloody sock into a trash bin. “As far as I’m concerned, you and I didn’t have any good old days.”

“That’s not true. That’s not true! We were in love once. You gotta remember that.”

I remembered. He’d been charming and funny and attentive, the kind of man I’d never dreamed I could have. A guy who drove a BMW, dressed like a movie star and had a great job and a great future. “I’m afraid that love died when I finally saw the real you. Look, Tom. Let’s not rehash all that. You’re hurt, I’m a nurse. Let me do my job so you can get back to your life while I get on with mine.”

“What life?” he asked. “There’s no job for me in New Orleans anymore. Katrina flushed that down the toilet. And I bet you’re not getting paid to work here. Are you?”

“It’s called volunteerism. Helping people because you can, not because you’re getting paid to do it.”

He smiled. “The same old Janie. A do-gooder to the end.”

That’s when Ben walked in. “Everything okay in here?” He gave me a look that said Tess had told him who Tom was.

“It’s a puncture wound. Pretty deep. I’ve irrigated it, and still need to check for foreign objects.”

Ben shone a light into the wound. “Looks pretty clean. You had a tetanus shot in the last five years?”

Tom shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay. Give him the shot and finish cleaning him up. It doesn’t look like you’ll need more than two or three sutures. Okay?” he said to me.

“Fine. No problem.”

To Tom he said, “Stay off that foot. Keep it clean and elevated. If you stay in New Orleans, come back in ten days and we’ll remove the sutures. Otherwise find a clinic or doctor who can do it for you.”

Tom watched Ben leave, then turned to me as I laid out instruments on a tray. “Who’s he? Your boyfriend?”

I shot him a sidelong look. “Don’t I wish. But no, he’s just a first-rate doctor working miracles under really primitive conditions.”

“Yeah. Well, you always were a damned good nurse. But I’d heard you quit nursing.”

How would he know that? “I branched out for a while,” I said, carefully picking my words. “But after the storm I got drafted to work here.”

“Good thing for me. So, where are you staying?”

“With the rest of the nurses,” I lied. I knew Tom Kinkaid. He’d try to wheedle his way into my apartment if he knew it was still intact.

“I was at the Convention Center. My short stay in hell. Man, that was insane. It made prison seem like a holiday. Now I’m crashing in the back room of a bar on Decatur Street where one of my buddies—”

“This is going to sting,” I interrupted him.

“Damn!” he yelped when I gave him a shot to deaden the area.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes to suture you,” I said. Then I left.

“Your ex,” Tess said when she saw me. “What are the chances of that happening?”

“I know. But I’m kind of glad,” I added. “I’ve hated him for such a long time. But now…” I shook my head. “Now he’s just this slick, fast-talking guy I used to know. Like he’s from another time, another life.”

She grinned and nudged me with her elbow. “I believe it’s called closure.”

Closure. One of those feel-good, Dr. Phil words that I usually rolled my eyes at. But not this time. This time Tess was right. Seeing Tom, seeing how he’d aged, how pathetic he was, somehow drained away all the resentments I’d held against him. I didn’t hate him anymore. All I felt was a sort of pity, and a weird kind of sadness—mainly for myself—that I’d wasted six long years on him. The best years of my life, as they say.

Admittedly, it had all been downhill since then.

But I wasn’t going to dwell on that. One day at a time…

I guess the closure thing worked because twenty minutes later when I sent him on his way, I actually felt better, as if I’d lost this heavy weight I hadn’t even known I was lugging around.

“I’ll see you around, Jane,” he said as he limped away with his injured foot wrapped in a plastic bag—we had to improvise any way we could—and carrying his fine leather shoe in one hand. “I’m going to split for Atlanta, I think. But I’ll be back some day. No hard feelings, I hope.”

I actually managed a smile. “No hard feelings.”

I felt really good after that. Around noon, Sarah came by with Red Cross lunches for everyone and we ate in shifts. When Ben sought me out and sat beside me in a patch of shade, I felt even better.

“I’m fine,” I said before he could ask. “We were divorced years ago. And you know what? I’m glad I saw him. I’m not even angry with him anymore.”

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