The Runaway Midwife Read online

  Jed looks at me, his blue eyes thoughtful. “That’s what I was thinking. Probably a compression fracture. There’s a neurosurgeon in Windsor. The helicopter will be here in thirty minutes. I’ve got to call the hospital and have the surgeon and radiologist on standby, but I’ll get Dolman to start looking for the parents, then I’ll start the IV.” He hurries to the front office to call the regional transport team and give the report. Five minutes later, the outside door opens and the cop comes in.

  “That was quick,” I say under my breath, wishing the guy wouldn’t hover so close.

  “My office is just down the way,” Dolman answers looking at the boy’s face. “Don’t think I’ve seen him before. Jed says you found him in a ditch. Good thing you were walking by. I’m going to go back and get his bike. Maybe I’ll recognize it or maybe it will have something on it that will help with identification.”

  “Can you get my cat too? He’s tied to a bush next to the bike, back on Sunset just before the cider farm and his name is Tiger.”

  “You carried the boy all the way from down there?” Dolman asks, and I can tell he’s impressed.

  “It was hard.”

  What happened next was harder.

  Seizure

  While the clinic’s nurse practitioner makes phone calls and Dolman is off getting my cat and the kid’s bike, the injured boy begins to seize. His eyes, which were closed, suddenly open and roll back in his head so that only the whites show. His legs stiffen. His arms shake. He takes a deep gasp for air and stops breathing. Shit. My adrenaline shoots up to ten and I break out in a cold sweat.

  “Jed!” I yell. “Seizure!” But he’s still in the front office and must not be able to hear me. I bend over the child who’s moaning and shaking all over. Foam comes from his mouth and his face turns blue. I know what to do for a seizure. Give a sedative, but I can’t hold the kid down on the exam table, run for Jed, start an IV and find a vial of Valium all at the same time. “Jed,” I scream louder.

  “What the hell?” He runs into the room. “I should have been prepared for this. I should have started the IV right away!”

  “That’s okay, I can inject a sedative into the vein, just get me a vial of Valium. Do you have a pediatric airway and some oxygen?”

  “Valium’s in the lockbox. There’s an airway in there too. I’ll get the oxygen set up.” He runs out of the room, returns with an orange container that looks like a fishing tackle box but is filled with meds and, when the boy stops jerking around for a second, I slip the small plastic device in his mouth.

  “Do you know the pediatric dose for Valium?” Jed asks. “I think it goes by milligrams per kilogram of the child’s weight. What do you figure he weighs? Thirty-six kilograms? I have the dosage and weights here somewhere . . .” He begins to search through a textbook.

  “We can’t wait, Jed.” The boy on the exam table is still seizing and very blue. “We don’t know how much he weighs in pounds or kilograms! I’ll give a small dose starting with two milligrams and see how he does.” With shaking hands, I pull the clear medication into a syringe. The fact is, I have no idea how much it takes to stop a seizure in a child.

  At exactly that moment, just as I’m trying to find an accessible vein, the door bursts open and three hippies, followed by Dolman, burst into the room. The only one of three hippies I recognize is Wade.

  “My baby!” the woman screams, seeing the child’s blue face. She spies the syringe in my hand. “What are you doing to my baby?” She has a long skirt and boots, no makeup, a nose ring and a streak of blue hair, but despite her radical look, she’s as concerned and frightened as any mom would be.

  “It’s a medication to stop the seizure,” Jed says, while trying to hold the boy still. “Your son hit his head when he fell off his bike and has a concussion. We have to stop the seizure.”

  “Wade.” I look him in the eye. “Please get them out of here. We’re doing what we can to save the child’s life.”

  “I’ll handle it,” Wade says. “Come on, guys. This is like the ER. They don’t need us messing up what they are trying to do for Ziggy. I know Jed and Sara. They’re okay. Good people.” He and the cop guide the two frantic parents into the waiting room.

  Within seconds I have the vein, withdraw a little blood to be sure and slowly inject the Valium. We watch as the boy’s breathing returns to normal and the seizure stops. Then Jed begins to get vital signs again.

  “Heart rate 60. Respiration 16. Blood pressure 80/60. Temp 97,” he announces as he writes the numbers on the leg of his scrub pants. “What kind of a nurse were you, anyway?”

  “ICU,” I say as if it were true. (Lies come so effortlessly once you get started.)

  In the distance we can hear the chop, chop, chop of the helicopter from Windsor. Jed is frantically trying to finish his notes, so I call the parents into the exam room and explain what happened. I give them reassurance that there’s an excellent neurosurgeon in Windsor, if Ziggy should need one, then I step back while they go to their son.

  Wade comes over and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Thanks,” he says, and his hand stays there, warm and reassuring until the medics, a man and woman in full flight uniform arrive, competent and kind. At that point, I back out to the waiting room.

  “I HAVE SOME bad news,” Dolman says, standing to hand me Tiger’s leash. “Your cat was gone when I got there. I’m sorry. I called and called for him, but I knew my priority was finding the boy’s parents. Can I give you a ride home? We can look for Tiger as we drive.”

  “You couldn’t find him?” I say numbly as I climb in the squad car and shrink into the passenger door. “It took me so long to tame him.”

  “Maybe he’ll come back,” the cop commiserates. “That often happens.”

  All the way home we drive slowly with the windows rolled down. “Tiger!” I call. “Kitty! Kitty!” But there’s no answer.

  CHAPTER 23

  Nightwatch

  Tiger is gone and I am alone again. For five days I wait, hoping he will come home. As before, I put out lunchmeat and milk in a saucer each night, but when I get up it’s still sitting there. I’ve walked up and down the beach. I’ve even gone into the swamp and my mood is as dark as the overgrown forest.

  Then this morning the food is gone and I decide that tonight I’ll sit up as I did weeks ago and watch at the picture window, but this time I’m going to do a Hansel and Gretel trick.

  Around ten, I go out to say goodnight to the stars and am surprised to hear a night bird singing. What could this be? The song varies from the voice of one bird to another, first a cardinal, then a chickadee, then a wren. Could there be several birds up in the cottonwoods at this hour? But no, cardinals and wrens and chickadees never come out at night. It’s some new nocturnal species.

  I shake my head in wonder. What a world we live in where there can be stars and singing birds in the dark trees and the smell of grass and the cool air on our skin!

  When the bird flies away, I put milk in the bowl, crack the door open and leave a trail of dime-sized salami treats on the wood floor that leads inside to another bowl of cat food.

  Then, with Pachelbel’s Canon, the second free tune on my cell phone, playing softly, I turn off the lights and prepare for my vigil with a cup of strong tea. As I sit there I call to Jessie in my mind. I am here. I am alive, I tell her. I love you.

  At exactly 3:00 A.M. by the clock on the mantel, I see what I’m waiting for, a silent shadow moving over the breakwall. It jumps from one giant slab of limestone to the next. It disappears and reappears a little closer and then in one leap lands on the deck. It’s Tiger!

  He approaches cautiously, sniffs the food, looks around and begins to lap up the milk. When he finishes, he steps into the crack of the open door. (Here I hold my breath.) Innocently, Tiger licks a dime-sized piece of lunchmeat with his rough kitty tongue. He takes another step forward and devours the next piece. So far he hasn’t noticed my presence.

  For ten minutes I watch
as he moves further into my lair. I am the hunter and he is my prey! Two more pieces of meat and he’s Mine! Mine! Mine! I cackle in my head, like the bad witch in The Wizard of Oz.

  Finally I hear him munching the kitty food and I make my move, but when I stand the chair creaks. Damn! The cat looks up and heads for the door, but I move faster. I slide across the hardwood floor and bump the door closed with my butt. Ow! Not a smart move! I twisted my ankle again, but I smile anyway. It was worth it. Tiger is back.

  NORTHERN MOCKINGBIRD

  A medium-sized gray-brown songbird, more slender than a thrush

  Thin bill with a hint of a downward curve and long legs

  Sings over ten other species’ bird songs at a time,

  sometimes even at night!

  Diet: Eats insects

  Aggressive about its territory

  Southern Canada to Central America

  Landline

  Eating my breakfast of oatmeal and local maple syrup at the kitchen table, I startle when I hear heavy footsteps on the porch. “Hello,” calls a man.

  What’s this? When I open the door, I’m dismayed to find the cop again. What’s he doing here, snooping around? And where’s his squad car? Did he come on foot so he could sneak up on me? Then I notice a black ten-speed bike leaning against a pine.

  “Yes?”

  “I wonder if could come in?” If he pulls out a little notebook and starts asking me questions, I’ll know I’m in trouble.

  “I’ve been thinking about you, Miss Livingston.” (Miss Livingston! That doesn’t sound good. I feel like I’m in trouble back in Catholic school.)

  I lead him into the kitchen, my limbs like branches covered with ice, waiting for him to start firing questions. “When did you land on Seagull Island? Where did you come from? How did you get here? Why doesn’t Customs have a record of your arrival?” But if that’s on his mind, it’s not where he begins.

  “I know you won’t think it’s my business, but every time I come out here I think about how isolated you are. I don’t like you living all by yourself without a phone. Your nearest neighbor is a half a mile away and the next nearest a mile. You already sprained your ankle once. What if you were seriously injured or got ill? What if you had unwelcome visitors, how would you deal with those things here alone?”

  This takes me aback and for a minute I just stare at him. He’s wearing a warm-weather uniform, khaki cargo shorts, a navy T-shirt with a patch on the shoulder that says Seagull Island Police and a navy baseball hat with the same insignia. He’s a big guy, with a strong chin, someone you wouldn’t want to mess with and he must suspect something because he keeps showing up.

  “I’ll get to the point. I’m in charge of public safety on the island. A telephone line runs right to this cottage. Wanda and Lloyd used to have a phone here and I’d like you to get one. The guy from Bell Canada is on the island today and could do the installation. If you don’t have the money, I’ll lend you the deposit.”

  “Okay . . . but I’ll take care of the deposit.”

  Dolman raises his eyebrows. “I thought you’d be a harder sell. I thought you were trying to go off the grid like the hippies.”

  “No, not me. I’m not that radical. Actually, I’m not even a little bit radical, I just didn’t think about getting a landline. Where I came from we all used our cells.”

  “Where did you come from? I mean lately. You said you grew up in Oklahoma, but I don’t think you spent your whole life there. You have no accent.” I feel my heart quicken.

  “I thought I mentioned it. Last place was San Francisco.”

  “Were you a nurse there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which hospital?”

  “I’m a traveling nurse, so I moved around. Or I was a traveling nurse.”

  “And now you’re a writer.”

  This is starting to feel like I’m being interrogated under the lights, so to keep Dolman from observing the sweat under my arms, I stand up and move toward the door. “How do I find this phone man, anyway? I need to get back to my novel.”

  “I’ll chase him down. I’d hate for anything to happen to you. Bad things have happened to women on Seagull Island before.”

  Reaching Out

  Now that I have a telephone here in the cottage, I’m excited to use it, but who can I call? Just for a lark, I decide to try Lenny. The phone rings three times and then I hang up. What was I going to say anyway?

  I consider calling Jessie in Australia and close my eyes yearning to hear the sound of her voice, but there’s too big a chance my number would be traced and my whereabouts revealed to the police back in Torrington.

  Frustrated, I resolve to take a nap, but not even the nap works. Tiger wants to play, so I roll on my side with my hand under the quilt and move it around like a mouse. Over and over he pounces on it. This makes me laugh and I forget to be lonely.

  An hour later, I jump when the phone rings.

  “Hello,” says a man when I pick up the receiver, and my first thought is, it’s Dolman, but how could he get my new number?

  “Hi,” I answer cautiously.

  “Who’s this? I saw your number as a missed call on my cell.”

  I smile with relief, now recognizing the voice. “Who do you think?”

  “Someone in Canada. I can tell by the area code. Is this Rainbow? What’s up, girl?” This takes me aback. Lenny, from Lorain, Ohio, knows Rainbow?

  “No, Lenny. It’s Sara. Remember me? The night ride over to Seagull Island on the snowmobile last February? I just thought I’d call and let you know I’m still alive.”

  “Oh hey, Sara! Yeah, I wondered how you were doing. Pretty strange place over there, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I kind of like it. A little lonely at times, but I’m meeting people like Rainbow. How do you know her?”

  “I’m friends with Wade and I’ve done some work for their farm.”

  Now I feel awkward. “Well, I just wanted to say hi. Take care of yourself.”

  “Sure, whatever. If you need anything, just give me a ring.” He laughs and the line goes dead.

  I stare at the receiver. How could Rainbow and Lenny be associated? What work could the man do for New Day? He seems like an outlaw of sorts and apparently specializes in illegal transport . . . I can only think of one thing . . . drugs. Maybe the New Day Farm is growing marijuana in the greenhouse or maybe they deal heroin or cocaine. Picturing the wholesome group around the tables in the communal kitchen, it seems unlikely, but then I’m naïve. Richard has often told me that.

  A Friend

  A few days later the phone rings again. “Hey, Sara. It’s Jed. Molly Lou gave me your new phone number. I have a patient coming in with vaginal bleeding this afternoon. I’m really bad at this stuff. Since you’re an RN, want to be a friend and give me a hand?”

  “You trying to butter me up with that ‘friend’ line?” I smile into the phone. “What’s the story?”

  “I’ll tell you when I pick you up. If you want, I can take you to lunch and then we’ll see the patient, but later if a lot of sick people come in, I can’t take you home . . . Maybe Peter Dolman would do it. I heard you hurt your ankle. You doing okay?”

  I tell him I’m fine, though, in truth, I’m still limping.

  At five minutes to twelve, there’s a beep in the drive. It’s Jed in his yellow Jeep. We park at the clinic and walk over to the Black Sheep Pub, where I notice again the shiny white convertible backing out of the parking lot.

  “Whose car is that?” I ask Jed. “I’ve seen it around before. It doesn’t look dirty and dusty like the rest of the island cars.”

  “Couple of real estate agents from the US. They have a home in the fancy part of the island, the Estates. With the recession and the low property prices, they’ve been buying up houses like crazy. You might know them, they’re related to the owners of your cottage.”

  “Nope. Never met ’em . . . What’s up with the billboard?” I shift my gaze to a
new sign on the side of the road.

  ENJOY SEAGULL ISLAND. IT GETS BETTER AND BETTER

  10TH ANNUAL SEAGULL ISLAND BIRDING CELEBRATION, JUNE 15

  CANADA DAY PARADE AND FIREWORKS, JULY 1

  5TH ANNUAL WILD AND WOOLY SHEEP FESTIVAL, JULY 14

  BLUE WATER FOLK CONCERT, AUGUST 14

  ANNUAL ESSEX COUNTY SHEEPDOG TRIALS, OCT 22

  “Yeah,” Jed says. “The township is really working on getting more tourists to come here. Seagull Island is smaller and less well known than Pelee and the other Erie islands. Two of the big draws are the dog trials and the sheep-shearing contests. Brings in contestants from all over the Midwest and Ontario, some of them national winners.

  “We used to have the Monarch Celebration when they still migrated en masse across Lake Erie. It was something to see when I was a kid. Seagull Island, Pelee Island and Point Pelee on the mainland were covered in butterflies, but about 900 million have vanished and now since they’re practically on the endangered species list we had to drop the event. That’s why we started the Folk Fest. To bring in more tourists. It was great last year. Had about ten bands. All the tickets sold out.”

  “What happened to the monarchs?” I’m surprised when, as we walk along, Jed takes my hand. It’s big and warm and feels safe.

  “No one knows. It could be this global-warming thing or loss of habitat. Factory farms in Ontario and the US have destroyed the monarchs’ habitat and the only food they eat is the milkweed plant that grows in wild places.”

  “The waves are bigger on this side of the island,” I note, looking out beyond the sign at the whitecaps, “but I see the ferry is still running.” The little white boat is just coming in.