“That woman is going to heaven,” Mel said. “My idea of hell is being trapped in a school bus full of noisy, bratty kids twice a day. I don’t know how she does it.”
Mel glanced at her watch; you could set it by Molly’s bus run. Her kids were due to wake from their naps and she ambled across the street to the clinic. Her pace was leisurely; it was a perfect autumn day. When she neared the porch, she heard her children crying. In itself, that wasn’t a bad sign—they could be just waking up. But Doc would usually alert them if he knew they were nearby. Absent that, he would comfort the little ones.
Something was wrong. She knew it at once, felt it in her gut, and ten steps before Doc’s porch she broke into a dead run. Up the steps, through the door, and what she saw threw her into a panic. Doc was sprawled, facedown, on the floor. Little Emma, only five months old, was right beside him, lying on her back, her face red with pain or fear or both. David, still in his playpen in the kitchen, was screaming loudly.
She honestly didn’t know who to reach for first, Doc or Emma. Emma was crying, so she was at least conscious, while Doc was motionless. She did what her instincts seemed to always urge her to do—she turned at the opened front door and screamed, “Jaaaacccckkkk!”
He had seen her break into a run up to the porch and inside. He was already on his way. By the time she screamed for him, he was there, totally in tune with her, sensing her. When she saw him coming, she lifted Emma right into his arms. Then she went to Doc, tucking his left arm to his side so she could roll him onto his back and into a supine position. “See if Emma’s all right,” she shouted to Jack. “He might’ve dropped her as he fell.”
When she got Doc on his back, his eyes were open and sightless. She checked him quickly—no pulse, no breath. “Oh, goddamn,” she said right before starting cardiopulmonary resuscitation. She began by tilting his head back, made sure his airway was clear and blew into his lungs twice—two long breaths. Next she pressed the crossed palms of her hands on his sternum to try to get his heart started and asked Jack, “Is she okay?”
“I think so,” Jack said helplessly. “She’s pissed off but not bruised or bleeding.”
Mel covered Doc’s mouth with hers and blew into his lungs again. Then, during thirty more cardiac compressions, she asked. “Any lumps on the head?”
Jack ran a hand over Emma’s smooth, bald head. “Don’t see anything.”
Mel finished pumping and went for the respiratory inflations again. Then, breathless, she said, “Check David, and if he’s okay, call someone. Mercy Air,” she said. “I need the defibrillator. I need my bag.”
Jack bolted for the kitchen. David was standing in his playpen, screaming. The second he saw Jack his cries turned to little gasps and he reached a hand toward him. “Da!” he yelled. “Da!”
“Hang in there, buddy,” Jack said, laying Emma in her crib. He ran back to the front of the clinic, found Mel’s bag behind the reception desk and placed it beside her, open. Then he ran to the treatment room, grabbed the case that held the defibrillator and took it to her. By the time he got back, she had ripped Doc’s shirt open.
“Aw, Jesus, Doc,” she groaned, breathing into him again.
Jack was picking up the phone when he heard the sound of heavy, running footfalls and Preacher stopped short in the opened doorway. He took a quick look, assessed and ran into the clinic, kneeling opposite Mel. She was counting. “I can help,” he said, brushing her hands away to take over the chest compressions.
Mel immediately flipped open the defibrillator case and turned on the switch. The portable defibrillator was the same as the type carried on commercial air carriers with patches as opposed to paddles. She put the patches on Doc’s chest and said, “Pay attention for the shock, Preach.” The machine purred and a mechanical voice came from it. Assessing patient. Stand by. Clear for shock. “Clear!” Mel said. Preacher pulled back his hands and Mel pressed the button, delivering the jolt. She felt for a pulse. No response. “Dammit, Doc,” she muttered.
Mel dug around in her bag while Preacher pushed air into the old man’s lungs, then resumed compressions. She started an IV quickly and attached a bag of Ringer’s, holding it high. It was taken out of her hands by Jack, automatically assisting. She then examined the labels of two vials and drew two syringes. She added epinephrine to the IV. Next, the atropine.
Jack was beside her, crouched, holding the Ringer’s over his head. “Airlift’s on the way. I called Shelby to help. And June Hudson in Grace Valley.”