Absolute Power (Southern Justice #1 (6 page)

“Pardon me, Ma’am.”

She didn’t look familiar, so I assumed she was new. She shook her head twice and then mumbled a quick, “Excuse me, Sir.”

She was running down the hall again before I could blink.

Weirdest thing happened as I watched her retreating form, my heart fluttered in my chest. Rubbing the center, I turned back to my still vibrating cell and answered. “Morgan,” I barked into the line.

“Dylan?” My father responded, his voice thick with emotion.

“What’s wrong, Dad?”

“I need you to come to my office, right now. It’s about your granddad.”

I’m ready to meet my maker, but whether my maker is prepared for the great ordeal of meeting me is another matter.

-Winston Churchill

“T
ime of death, 1057.”

Latex gloves snapped to my left as the air in the room stilled. Mr. Peterson’s white, frail hand lay motionless in my central line of vision. His blue veins, which once supplied the vital blood for his body, were now still beneath his flesh. Reverently, I pulled the white sheet up to cover his face. He was now free from the illness that caused him such pain.

The requested lab work confirmed what Dr. O’Leary had suspected: cancer. There was no hint of surprise on his face when Mr. Peterson was confronted with his diagnosis; it was apparent he already knew. He finally admitted he only came to the ER knowing he was living his last day and didn’t want to be alone.

We worked on him for nearly an hour, because the nurse who checked him in neglected to obtain a do not resuscitate order. Had I known the truth, I would have sat quietly beside him as he crossed over, allowing him to die peacefully, not pounding on his chest trying to revive him like I did so adamantly.

He boasted earlier, he had lived for ninety-four years with little to no regret. “Speak your mind when it’s going to mean something,” he told me as I started his IV. “Too much nonsense in the world today, don’t add to it,” his raspy yet sage voice advised.

Mr. Peterson was a postman for over forty years. His wife, Beatrice, or Bea as he fondly called her, was the love of his life. Blessing him with one son, Matthew, who died in a terrible accident several years ago. He said he was more than ready to be reunited with his son.

His eyes twinkled as he reminisced of a different era, a place which almost seemed mythical. When everyone took care of each other and kept watch over the children who played in the streets. Men sought after a woman to marry and raise a family, instead of a quick fuck and a place to crash for the night.

“Claire, can you grab a morgue kit?” Startled from my inner thoughts, I jumped slightly. Gigi would say someone was dancing on my grave. I ignored her backwater analogies and resumed the task which wouldn’t do itself.

“Here, let me help you, many hands make work light—at least that’s what my Gran always says.” Katherine, or Kitty as everyone called her, was one of the few nurses I had on my friends’ list outside of work. Too many of my co-workers shared the same agendas of snagging one of the rich doctors floating around, regardless of how they looked or lived their lives. They waited for the unsuspecting, glasses wearing, scholastically exhausted men, who were either too tired or just didn’t care to know the reason behind the attention they were receiving from these women. Their motives for the hunt wasn’t what bothered me the most. No, it was the activities they partook in as they waited for their prey to tire that got me the most. Jumping from one man’s bed to the next. Although, from the conversations I’d overheard almost daily, it was one man in particular who seemed to provide the most distraction.

“I remember when Mr. Peterson’s wife came in after she fell and broke her hip. My, how he doted on her. He made sure she was comfortable,” Kitty said, stopping her cleaning of his hand, her eyes looking up toward the ceiling, reflection on her features. “He held on to her frail hand the entire time she was here.” Kitty’s voice soft and wistful. Her big blue eyes locked with mine, the innocence of real life having not yet marred her rosy view of the world.

Kitty grew up right here in Charleston. Her mother was a teacher at one of the elementary schools, while her father worked as an attorney with one of the larger firms in town. Growing up, she had two older brothers who protected her at every turn. She presented herself as the typical girl next door. She, like me, was everyone’s little sister.

Everything about Kitty seemed faultless—from the cartoon scrubs she wore for the amusement of children, to the cookies she would make and share with everyone. Her life was an ostensible cheerfulness of happy memories she shared from time to time. Her love of helping others, the only common ground we shared. Yet, as I worked beside her daily, I found her to be more of a kindred spirit, trying to bring a little comfort into the lives of our patients.

“The way he would look at her, call her his love.” She remained lost in her mind’s eye as her hands returned to the gentle cleaning of Mr. Peterson’s extremities. “That is the type of love I want for myself.” She added, her eyes going back to watch her own hands. I looked at the way her hair moved with her gentle actions, swaying back and forth, being just as carefree as she was every day.

“I know he’s out there,” she continued without looking at me. “I sometimes sit on a bench at the mall or outside the hospital, watching as people walk by. Sometimes I even make up stories of where they’re going or who they’re meeting.” Shaking her head as she moved to Mr. Peterson’s legs, she went on. “I hope he has dark hair.” She paused for only a second, taking in a deep breath as she closed her eyes; allowing a hint of a contented smile to form. “Blue eyes, the color of the ocean and…” Her cheeks pinked slightly as a smile filled her face. “…that feeling you get when you meet the one you’re meant to be with forever, the one who finishes your sentences and leaves you breathless after every kiss, yeah I want that.” Her eyes were bright with excitement and anticipation; she truly believed the words she spoke. “But most of all, I want the feeling you get in your core when he is near, almost like the way adrenalin feels when it courses through your veins.”

I happened to agree with her, with the exception of any preference of hair and eye color. I just wanted to be adored, a feeling much more powerful and deeper than love. I wanted to be the center of his world, making every day brighter and better for him, and in turn better for me. Unlike Kitty, I wasn’t so certain my ideal man existed. As for that adrenalin feeling, well, I had those every time I heard an incoming emergency announced overhead. It had nothing to do with any man, especially the one I bumped into today. The fact I hadn’t even noticed the rush until his hands were on my shoulders, meant nothing. It was purely coincidence.

“Tell your wife I said hello, Mr. Peterson,” I whispered as I zipped up the black bag. Kitty volunteered to wheel his body down to the morgue. His family would have arranged for the funeral home to come by and take him to get ready for his service.

Joey, one of the medical assistants, worked quietly in the room, as he swept up the garbage, and bloody dressings littering the floor. He reminded me of one of my oldest brother’s friends, with his blonde hair cut short and tattoos peeking out from the sleeves of his scrub top. He seemed a nice enough guy, though rumor had it he had chased after several of the nurses, based on their track records I had no doubt. He left me alone, no flirting or longing eye glances.

“Thanks, Joey.” My politeness coming forth of its own volition, my professor would be so proud. He glanced in my direction, his typical look to let me know he heard what I said, yet nothing to admit he really cared.

No matter what happened behind these curtains and trauma doors, the nurses’ station was always the same; phones ringing, laughter and constant conversations regarding the current patients occupying the beds in the emergency department. As I pulled the curtain back to enter the station tonight, though, there was a hushed stillness. Everyone’s attention focused on the television monitor hanging in the far corner. Channel seven’s midday newscast was broadcasting breaking news announcing the death of someone important. I watched the words scrolling by on the bottom of the screen, only catching a glimpse seconds later who it was.

“Turn it up,” I demanded, crossing the remaining distance to the edge of the station desk. The blue bar hid the script as the volume increased through the speakers.

“State of South Carolina Senator, Forrest VanBuren, has died in his Mount Pleasant home. Sources indicate the Senator was in good health and there is no foul play suspected in his death. Senator VanBuren is survived by his only daughter Priscilla VanBuren-Morgan, her husband, Dean Morgan, a prominent Charleston attorney, and their three sons. No funeral details are available at this time. However, Governor Richards has ordered all state flags to be flown at half-staff.”

My heart was heavy at the news. Senator VanBuren had been a friend of my uncle Melvin’s. He was able to persuade the State Board of Nursing to allow me to test in this state, transferring my credit hours from Kentucky. Mr. Morgan was the attorney who helped me to settle my uncle’s affairs when he passed. When Gigi heard the news of her brother’s death, she wanted to know when I was going to sell the house and send her a check. Uncle Melvin had predicted this would happen and we’d spent many evenings discussing how she had not changed since she was a little girl; always out for what she could get for least amount of effort.

My uncle had been very specific about how he wanted his assets handled. His home, which was located not far from here, was to be donated to a women’s shelter where he had volunteered. He did leave me a small amount of money, enough to get an apartment and the utilities turned on until I could get on my feet. When Gigi heard about the money, she was furious and contacted Mr. Morgan. I didn’t know what was said, but she never filed any paperwork with the state contesting the will.

That was how I met Ms. Georgia, who worked as the property manager at the complex where I chose to live. She and her husband, Mr. Carson, helped me move into one of the townhouses she managed. Uncle Melvin’s furniture worked nicely in the well-kept building. I loved living there. I felt secure with the gated entrance, and with Carson being a police officer, he made sure the area was constantly patrolled.

I owed the Morgan and VanBuren families such a debt of gratitude for all their help when I got here and after my uncle died. Two days later when the funeral date and time were announced, I asked for the day off. Paying my respects to the family was the least I could offer. Ms. Georgia said she was planning to attend with her husband; seemed one of the sons had worked closely with him a few years ago. It struck me as odd to come from a family of upper class professionals, but none of their sons became a doctor or lawyer. Having such privilege and wealth, it seemed the sons should have been predisposed to a more prestigious career. Then, as I ironed my dress for the funeral, I chastised myself for such stereotypical thought. If I truly believed the preconceived notions of society that offspring followed the footsteps of their ancestors, I would be a five dollar whore with twelve kids, just like my mother and sister. If anything was ever clearly apparent, I was living proof we could all choose whatever future we desired and how we wanted to spend the time we had here on Earth.

After getting ready, I met Ms. Georgia and Mr. Carson outside, and prepared to leave for the somber ceremony to commemorate the life of the good Senator from South Carolina.