Blink Of An Eye

CHAPTER 3

My apartment was relatively unscathed, just one broken window in the kitchen. I found the culprit: a roofing slate shattered in the sink. A young pecan tree in the next yard leaned against the house, blocking my bathroom window. But other than that, I was very fortunate.

Yet my house still felt dead. Lifeless. There was no whir from the air conditioner, no hum from the refrigerator. No chronic drip from the kitchen faucet. And boy, was it hot.

I opened all the windows. Then poured a bowl of water for Lucky from the stash I’d brought. I was home, such as it was. Now what? It had only been one week since Katrina hit, but from what I’d seen, the city would be years recovering.

Depressed anew, I decided to go to bed. It was only one-thirty, but two Tylenol PM took care of that. When I woke up it was weirdly dark and weirdly quiet, as if I was in some Twilight Zone city. I should have been used to it by now, but I wasn’t.

I took Lucky outside to relieve himself, but I carried a flashlight and a gun that had belonged to my ex. So much for my fear of guns. It wasn’t loaded, though. I didn’t even own any ammunition for it. But it was big, shiny and very scary looking. When I got back inside, I fed the dog, took three Tylenol PM and crawled back into my sweaty bed.

I wished I had something stronger: Valium, Xanax, Dilaudid. But after my spectacular crash and burn seven years ago, due to the overuse of said pharmaceuticals, I’d confined my substance abusing to alcohol in all its various incarnations. And unfortunately I’d finished off pretty much everything I had prior to the storm.

So I slept another eight hours and woke up the next morning, wet with sweat and excruciatingly conscious that if not for Lucky, I’d have been dead for well over a week by now.

I’d been a nurse for a long time, so I knew a little bit about death and dying. How the body deteriorates and falls apart. But I’d always heard that floaters were different. By now I would have been a bloated carcass, discolored and distended. Maybe nibbled on by enough fish to be indistinguishable as either a man or a woman.

“Ugh.” I didn’t like the thought of being mistaken for a guy, even in death. I sat up. Lucky was still beside my bed. He’d become amazingly loyal to me.

Since the water wasn’t working, which meant no flushing, I went into the yard with the dog. That’s when I noticed that the fence had collapsed between my yard and the one behind me. The one with the swimming pool. So I got a bucket, a towel and a bar of soap, and in short order I was bathed, my hair was clean, and I had two big buckets of water sitting next to my toilet, ready for action.

Now what?

I knew there were some people still around. I’d heard voices this morning, and the sound of a truck engine. But I’d lain low. That’s because I’d also heard gunshots last night, and whether it was the good guys or the bad guys, I didn’t want to be a part of it. So I sat in my front window and peeped through the blinds, not sure what to do with myself until I saw old Mr. French open his shutters and lean out his door to peer up and down the street.

I yanked up my mini-blinds and waved to him. He shrank back at first, then waved when he recognized me. “You okay?” I yelled.

“Yeah. But there’s no water to flush the toilet.”

“I’ll be right over.”

I brought him my pail, then took two buckets he gave me and filled them from the pool. It turned out that he and I, plus the hippie couple on the corner, were the only ones still in our block. I knocked on their door and told them about the swimming pool. In turn they told me that Washington Square Park in the Marigny had become a sort of Rescue Central. There wasn’t a lot of food and water, but what there was, people were sharing. Despite the panic and looting during the first few days after the storm, things were calmer now, and the vibe in the park was good.

“What about the evacuation order?” I asked.

Enoch, skinny and dreadlocked but with a baby face, grinned. “As long as you have ID with a valid address and a dog, they don’t hassle you. They don’t know what to do with the dogs, so most of the time, unless you’re homeless, they just look the other way. The National Guard dudes are cooler than NOPD, though. The cops are, like, totally wigged out.”

“That could be because they’ve been on duty a lot longer,” I said. “Plus a lot of them probably lost their homes, too. With the phones down, they might not even know where their families are. The National Guard soldiers don’t have to worry about any of that.”

“True,” his girlfriend, Sarah, said. “But the cops are still out there, and every one of them is ready to snap. So avoid them whenever you can. Stick to the streets that cars can’t drive down.”

“We’re heading down to the park in a little while,” Enoch said. “Want to come with us?”

So I got Lucky and we went.

There’s something strangely disconcerting about seeing mega-armed soldiers patrolling your neighborhood, especially with helicopters buzzing overhead like ominous mosquitoes. We zigzagged through lower Marigny, trading our storm stories.

“It was supremely hairy,” Enoch said. “People streaming through our neighborhood, coming up from St. Bernard and the Lower Ninth Ward. They were, like, totally freaked. Terrified.”

“It was awful,” Sarah added. “Some of them had seen their own relatives and neighbors drown. That’s how fast the water came up down there.”

“We gave them stuff to drink, but most of them kept going.”

“To the Superdome,” Sarah said with a shudder. “And then to the Convention Center.”

“Man, that was one bad scene.”

“Have you had any trouble with looters?” I asked. “Stuff like that?”

“It was pretty scary at first,” Enoch said. “Gangs with guns just roaming around.”

“My friend, Katya, lives in the Quarter,” Sarah said. “She told me that when some radio station announced that there was no more 911, that the cops couldn’t come to help you, right away people passed the word, shouting down the streets like telegraphs or something.”

“Yeah,” Enoch said, gesturing with his hands. “The scumbags passed the word. ‘There’s no 911. The cops won’t come.’ That’s when the serious looting started. Not food and water, but stereos and TVs, cell phones and computers.”

“And liquor and drugs and guns,” Sarah added, her brow creased.

Enoch nodded. “For a while there it was like the Wild West. We heard some serious gun battles.”

“Between gangs?” I asked.

“Yeah. And between cops and thugs, too. But in the last couple of days the shooting has eased up,” he added.

“That’s good,” I murmured. “I guess I was lucky to be in a flooded area. Everybody was worried more about not drowning than about looting their neighbors.” Except, of course, for me. I had wanted to drown. But not anymore. At least not at the moment.

Finally we reached the wide neutral ground on Elysian Fields and crossed to Washington Square. I’d been in the park many times, but not this Washington Square. The calm, shaded green space was littered with live-oak branches. At least the iron fence around it had survived without much damage. But the gates were padlocked shut around its green devastation. A lot of the branches had been cleared away. But no one was in the square. Instead, a series of impromptu tents, tarps, tables and chairs had sprung up on the sidewalks around it wherever there was shade. A big Red Cross flag marked a first-aid station, and a military truck filled with water jugs had a line in front of it.

The main thing, though, was the smell of coffee. Coffee!

We agreed to meet in an hour or so and walk back home together. While they headed for a circle where a trio of guys were playing drums, Lucky and I followed our noses to the food tent. There a tattooed guy and a nun were serving up coffee and sympathy. The guy poured a saucer of water for Lucky. “He’s a happy fella.”

“Yes. Considering that he almost drowned, he’s doing pretty well.”

“And how about you?” the nun asked.

“I’ll be better once this coffee gets inside me. Thanks.”

“What about food?” she asked. “Are you eating enough? We still have grits and oatmeal left, and there’ll be red beans and rice in another hour or so.”

I shrugged. “I haven’t been too hungry lately.” In fact, my pants were getting pretty loose on me. “But I have a small stash of food at home, so save your stuff for someone who really needs it.”

I stood there a while, sipping my coffee—strong but with no milk—and getting the lay of the land. It reminded me of Jackson Square, where artists gather alongside the fence. This was an odd mix of people, locals and military. But after my several days alone in Sherry and Bradley’s house, it felt good to be around other folks.

“Say,” the tattooed guy said. “If you’re not doing anything, you want to help out?”

“Sure. What do you need?”

He thrust a tray full of coffee cups at me. “Take this over to the medical tent. We try to keep them supplied. Then if they need water, go stand in line at the water truck.”

It felt good to have something to do. Lucky was an angel, sticking close to me in the shifting crowds, and I didn’t spill a drop. The medical personnel, distinguished by red sashes tied on their arms, descended on the coffee like vultures. “Do y’all need water?” I asked.

“We always need water,” a tall, lanky guy said.

Fifteen minutes later, Lucky and I were back with a case of bottled water. A cheerful-looking woman with a head of wiry gray hair shoved a clipboard in my hand and said, “Can you keep track of who comes in for what? Just names and symptoms.”

“Sure.”

“I’m Tess,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Jane.”

“Great. I’ve been here since midnight and I need to sleep. When you get tired, just draft somebody else.” And with that, she was gone.

For a minute I was at a loss. Then a young guy came up with a cut on his thigh, and a woman hurried up with a crying baby, and I was off to the races.

It didn’t take long to figure out the system, sort of a triage. A couple of doctors and nurses worked on the patients—I couldn’t tell who was who. But it didn’t matter until a woman about my age rushed up screaming. “Help! Please! I think my husband’s had a heart attack. I gave him aspirin, but—”

In less than an instant the lanky guy took charge.

I’d been a nurse for seventeen years and I’d worked with a lot of doctors in a lot of different situations. Even though I’d been out of the profession for seven years, the pleasure of seeing a good doctor in action hadn’t dimmed. He was calm and authoritative, and though it didn’t seem as if he were rushing, he worked fast.

“Transfer him to that table. Get him started on oxygen. Okay, let’s take a listen.” He bent over him with a stethoscope.

While he and three others worked over the man, I made the wife sit down. “Does he have a history of heart trouble?” Yes. “Anything else? Diabetes?” No.

“High blood pressure?” Yes. She gave me a rundown on his medications. “What about family history of heart disease?”

I relayed the information to the team working on him in the tent, then went back to my post. This was bad. Very bad. I hadn’t thought about the destruction of the city’s medical resources, though of course I’d heard on the radio that Charity Hospital, the VA Hospital and Tulane Hospital were all flooded and out of commission. And if the whole city had flooded, then Mercy, Baptist and Methodist couldn’t be operational either. As for the hospitals in Jefferson Parish and St. Bernard…

A shiver ran down my spine. I didn’t want to think about it, but it was a real problem. How were you supposed to treat a heart-attack victim under these circumstances?

The answer was helicopters. Within thirty minutes, the guy was medevaced from a make-do landing pad on the neutral ground. And that fast, our temporary emergency-room team went back to treating cuts, sprains, rashes and overdoses.

Eventually someone showed up with plates of red beans, and we all ate. Only later did the good doctor come out front for a break and to stretch out his back.

“Thanks for the history you gathered on the heart-attack victim,” he said, giving me a grateful smile. “I gather you’ve worked in the field before.”

“Yes, but…it’s been a while.”

He chuckled. “Some things you never forget. I’m Ben Comeaux.” He extended his hand.

“Jane Falgoust. You’re a good Cajun, judging by your name.” And that typical Cajun coloring, dark hair, midnight eyes and a winning smile.

“You got it. A bayou boy transplanted to the big city. So what did you do?”

“Do? Oh, you mean in nursing. Neonatal, surgical, emergency room.”

“Damn. So why are you out here checking patients in? We need you in the exam room.”

I shook my head. “I don’t do that anymore. Besides, I haven’t kept my license current.”

“You think anyone here cares? Come on.” And just like that I was back doing what I never thought I’d be able to do again: working in an emergency room, swabbing wounds, giving shots and handling drugs the licensing board had decided I had no business handling.

But the temptation I feared never raised its ugly head. For one thing, we were all working under one crowded canvas roof, talking back and forth, lending a helping hand to one another. Even Lucky pitched in, entertaining two little girls who were deathly afraid of needles, while I gave them tetanus shots. For another thing, they didn’t have a very big selection of drugs on hand. Mainly tetanus vaccines, blood thinners and coagulants, antibiotics—both oral and intravenous—and some moderate-level pain pills.

Regardless though, I wasn’t into prescription medicines anymore. I hadn’t been for seven years. As easy as my access to them had been on the job in hospitals, in some ways they’d been even easier to get in a bar. People—especially drunk and wasted people—offer bartenders all kinds of stuff. I could have made a bundle buying and selling drugs on the side. But I hadn’t. Why would I want to help anyone ruin their life with drugs? I was a perfect example of how easily drug abuse could ruin your life. I hadn’t died from it, but my career had been killed and it had been downhill ever since.

But I was back in nursing again, if only temporarily, and I was going to make the most of it. I used to be a damned good nurse. I would prove I could be a good one again, even if I was the only one who’d ever know.

After lunch we kept on. Enoch and Sarah came by and stayed, helping out any way they could. A fresh team of doctors came by a few hours later, and suddenly I realized that the whole day was gone. I’d been so busy I hadn’t noticed.

Lucky lay asleep underneath the cot, but the minute I stepped out of the tent, he was there with me.

“Great dog.” It was Dr. Comeaux. “You two went through the storm together?”

“We sure did.” I fondled the goofy mutt’s floppy ears.

“How long have you had him?”

“Would you believe only about a week? I promised to take care of him for his real owner.”

We stood outside the tent, neither of us going anywhere. Finally he said, “Can we count on your help tomorrow?”

“Sure.” I stared up at him. He was good-looking in this shaggy, unselfconscious way. Probably younger than me, but not too much. “How did this all get started?”

He looked back at the makeshift ER and shook his head. “Three of us work with Doctors International On Call. We got here this past Saturday and set up with help from the Red Cross. The military isn’t too happy we’re here, but they are reluctantly providing security. As for the others, they’re mostly like you, good folks who didn’t evacuate and now want to help their fellow man. So, why didn’t you evacuate?”

“I’m not sure anymore. So, where are you guys staying?” I asked, wanting to head off any questions about myself.

He pointed to a building across Frenchman Street from the park. “A guy opened his apartment to us. How about you?”

“I have an apartment on Dauphine not far from here.”

“You’re not walking back by yourself, are you? Because I can walk you home.”

“No, I’m fine. I came with two of my neighbors. And of course I have Lucky to protect me.”

He studied me a moment. “I don’t know why you left the medical field, Jane. But I think you ought to reconsider.” Then he grinned. “See you tomorrow?”

I nodded. “See you tomorrow.”

I smiled to myself as I walked home with Enoch and Sarah, filled with this warm glow of pleasure, all due to what he’d said. Ben Comeaux was a good doctor, so that made his compliment even sweeter. Too bad I couldn’t just snap my fingers, straighten out my life and resume my lost career.

For now, though, I vowed to enjoy my newfound work. Who knew how long it would be before I’d ever have another job again?

CHAPTER 4

The next day I brought my cell phone with me. There was a guy with a generator at the park, and in exchange for gasoline, he was letting people charge up their phones. I figured that whoever had left the 1972 Chrysler that was half-hidden by a downed crepe myrtle tree wouldn’t begrudge me a gallon or so.

Enoch and I siphoned the gas, and by the time we returned home that night, we both had working phones. Make that charged-up phones. Unfortunately they didn’t work thanks to the network being laid to ruin by the storm. But I learned from Ben that text messages could get through. It turns out they’re a lot less of a drain on the system.

The problem was, the only number I wanted to call was the place Clark had been evacuated to. But that was a landline, so text messaging wouldn’t work.

I know, I know. A major American city with no working phone system is inconceivable. Throw in no running water, no electricity, no gas, no television and only one radio station, and you get a nightmare no one can imagine. You have to live it to believe it. And we were living it.

But I tried hard not to focus on anything more than whatever problem was immediately in front of me. The next patient. My next meal. A charged-up phone.

Anyway, I spent the whole evening trying to get a call through, to no avail. In between calls, I refilled Mr. French’s buckets from the pool. I’d brought him a meal and two bottles of water. In return he shared his bleach with me so I could decontaminate some pool water for washing up.

It was a surreal existence. By day, the streets around the park were a constant ebb and flow of humanity, and I was too busy at the medical tent to think about the future. I was mainly taking vitals, giving shots, swabbing and stitching every kind of wound imaginable. For the crazies—and there were too many of them—we couldn’t do too much. Some were crazy from drug use; others were crazy due to a loss of their regular meds. We tried to help, but psychiatric medicines don’t usually give instant results. Plus we didn’t have anybody’s medical records and had to go by what they told us—not always an accurate system. For the most part we had to revert to antianxiety medications like Xanax. But it was just a stopgap measure, and we knew it.

A few days later we finally received an influx of new medications. Of course we were also under orders to evacuate the city. Like that was going to happen. Although the city was crawling with army types, they still didn’t have the manpower to drag everyone away. And besides, where would they take them? To the edge of town? Every edge of New Orleans is water.

The irony was not lost on any of us. Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink. Actually the city water had come back on. But we were cautioned not to drink it or bathe in it because of the strong chemicals put in it to disinfect the system. At least we could flush the toilets.

But I digress. Where could they possibly put people? It was one thing to pluck a terrified family from the roof of their flooded house in Oak Island or Chalmette or Pontchartrain Park, and put them on a plane to Dallas or Atlanta or Salt Lake City. It was another thing to take a bunch of uncooperative New Orleans hardliners who wanted to stay in their unflooded homes to protect them from lootings. It got so bad for a while that the locals didn’t trust anyone in military garb.

I escaped most of the military-hassle factor, thanks to Ben. He gave me a medical pass that identified me as a nurse and part of their team. Enoch and Sarah somehow managed to fly under the radar. As for Mr. French, he stayed inside with his front shutters closed. It must have been hot as hell during the day, but he was a stubborn old coot. He’d spent a lifetime collecting an impressive number of antiques, and he was determined not to lose a single item.