Page 43 of Girl Between

Mortal existence cruelly demanded balance.

“It’s a lot,” George said, unaware Dana’s uncomfortableness was from more than just their surroundings.

His voice was more somber than she’d ever heard it, drawing her back to the present.

“I knew it was bad,” she admitted. “But I had no idea how much rebuilding remained.”

He nodded. “Sometimes it’s hard for me to wrap my head around. I cut my teeth in this neighborhood. It used to be I couldn’t drive down this street without tripping over family or friends. But those days are gone. After Katrina, the Ninth Ward went from a population of 14,000 to 4,000.”

Dana could scarcely imagine it. That was a survival rate of 3 in 10. Numbers like that hadn’t happened in the US since its inception.

From the pain in George’s voice, it was evident that though he’d survived, the storm hadn’t spared him from loss entirely.

“We’re rebuilding, but the emotional damage here has made it hard,” George said. He gestured toward a scarred brick building in the distance. “That’s my old high school. I help with the renovation on my days off, but it’s still nowhere near where it needs to be to reopen. As it is, only one of the four schools here is operational.”

Dana regarded the small three-story building. “Is that enough to serve the community?”

George sucked his teeth. “That’s a loaded question. City commission says we need population growth in order to get funding to renovate, but without incentives like good school systems, there’s no rush for people to return here.”

“Catch-22,” Dana murmured.

“Mm-hmm,” George agreed. “That could very well be Nawlin’s motto.”

“So where are we headed?” she asked.

“New Mission Clinic. A good friend of mine started it after Katrina to provide free healthcare for those who can’t afford it. Everyone in the community pitches in as much as we can to help. NOPD hosts a collection for first aid items. I make the delivery each month.”

George turned onto Prieur Street and pulled up to a small brown and white shotgun home next to a church. “Here we are,” he announced, parking his truck along the street.

Dana followed him out of the truck and up to the busy building. Inside, Dana surveyed the makeshift clinic. The front room, perhaps once the living room, had been converted into a waiting room with folding chairs. A check-in desk and rows of mismatched file cabinets added to the cramped space. A window air conditioning unit hummed along with the jazz whining from the old radio in the full room.

George was greeted enthusiastically as soon as he set foot inside.Patients and staff alike all made a point to welcome him with handshakes, hugs, and praise. Despite the desolate condition of the clinic, Dana couldn’t help the immediate warmth that filled her watching George’s interactions with staff and patients.

Within a few minutes, she’d been introduced to them as well. Then everyone who was able-bodied followed Dana and George out to his truck to unload the much-needed supplies.

On Dana’s second trip with an arm full of gauze and bandages, she was greeted by a white-haired, bushy-eyebrowed man with sad blue eyes, reminiscent of a Basset Hound. He wore a lab coat with the name Dr. Richard Landry embroidered in gold thread next to the crisp white lapel. The lab coat was easily the cleanest thing in the clinic.

“Bless you,” the old doctor said, eagerly extending a helping hand to take some of the supplies from Dana.

“Dr. Landry, this is Dr. Dana Gray,” George said, coming up beside them with his share of supplies.

Once they’d set down the supplies, Dr. Landry turned to shake Dana’s hand. “Any friend of George’s is a friend of mine,” he greeted. “Thank you so much for helping out.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Dana replied.

“Sorry we don’t have more this time,” George said, looking around at the bags and boxes of supplies that now covered the countertops of the kitchen.

Dana took in the cluttered room. It seemed to be an office, supply room and treatment center based on the intravenous equipment set up near the worn leather recliner in the corner. Next to it was a small desk, decorated with framed photographs. The wood paneled walls were adorned with gold framed medical degrees. Xaivier and Tulane announced the doctor’s prestige—a drastic juxtaposition to the modest surroundings.

“We’re grateful for it all the same,” Landry said with a slow southern drawl. “Can I offer you some water?” he asked, pointing to the stacks of cases in the corner.

“Nah, you keep those. We can fend for ourselves,” George said.His gaze moved to the empty recliner in the corner. “Where’s Amelia today?”

The old physician’s forlorn eyes troubled further. “She was craving the salt air, so I sent her to my sister’s.” He sighed. “Lord knows I don’t have the heart to deny her, especially while she has her strength.”

“Time at the beach is good for the soul,” George added.

“Let’s hope so,” Landry replied.