Page 190

She didn’t have to fabricate a story, make a call to another hospital—something she also took care of in private or quiet spaces.
The full medical would be in Marlowe’s files.
Clara typed in the doctor’s name, her ID number, all the patient information she had into the electronic health record system.
And pulled the flash drive from her pocket, bypassed into data backup.
She waited, one eye on the door—though she’d locked it—her other eye on the computer.
She saw no reason Dr. Marlowe would check the patient’s file, note the access, the backup.
She’d used this system before successfully. Just as she’d used those fabricated stories to gain a transfer of patient records.
It worried her now because the woman worried her. She needed to pee; she wanted a sugary snack. Why was the transfer taking so long!
She needed a vacation, just a few days, she thought. It didn’t have to be Aruba. They couldn’t afford that so close to the other trip there.
But maybe a drive down to the Carolina beaches. Three or four days down there, without worry or work.
Next month, she promised herself. This time she’d surprise Sam and get them a house on the beach. Maybe with a pool or a hot tub.
Maybe both!
The idea cheered her up, cleared the headache that had started at the base of her skull.
The second the transfer finished, she snatched the flash drive out, closed down the records.
Relief flooded as she walked to the door, unlocked it. It flew open, jolting her, before she could open it herself.
On the gurney, the man was bloody and barely conscious, and the doctor already snapping orders.
Without missing a beat, Clara put on her metaphorical nurse’s cap and got to work.
Since she hadn’t made a decent meal for Sam in nearly a week—just too worried and distracted—Clara stopped at the grocery store on her way home.
She’d put in long hours that day, done solid work, and much of it on her feet, but a good woman took care of her good man. She picked up pork chops and potatoes—she’d make the salted ones he liked so much—butter beans she’d pan-fry like her granny’s, some Parker House rolls, and add a half gallon of rocky road for dessert.
Since she’d made the stop, she picked up what she thought would do them for a week.
Then shook her head at the cost of everything. A body could work herself to the bone and barely get by!
Living off the land had been good enough for her grandparents. A cow for milking, chickens for eggs or frying up, deer and rabbit and squirrel to hunt, fish to hook out of the stream. And jars of vegetables, jams, jellies put by from their own harvest.
At times like these she wondered if nursing had taken her away from that sturdy independence.
But she’d been called to it, and had heeded the call.
The first in her line to go all the way through to college, and that was a proud thing to be.
Her daddy had worked the land, too—or under it in the mines. And that had killed him before he’d reached forty. And her mama had just faded off from the grief.
She’d had a brother, but he’d lit out and joined the army.
And that had killed him.
She had an uncle, a couple of aunts, some cousins somewhere or another. But they’d lost touch long ago.
Clara considered herself the last of her line, and based that on why she’d received another calling.