A Sad Soul Can Kill You Part 7

Tia took a sip of coffee. "Wow. That's two codes in one day."

"Yeah," Janelle said. "I heard about the patient across the hall."

"Uh-huh," Tia said. "It happened as soon as I started my shift. You know, they say these patients are stable enough to be moved up here, but it doesn't seem like it for some of them, does it?"

"No, it doesn't."

"So what was it with Ms. Woodard?" Tia asked. "A heart attack?"

"You guessed it."

Tia shook her head. "Her vitals were stable all day on my shift. Her lungs were a little congested, and her heartbeat was irregular, but that was nothing new according to her records."

"I know," Janelle agreed. "She came up that way. And it looked like she was getting better. But I guess she took a turn for the worse."

"That's too bad," Tia said, "She seemed a little sad too. When I was in her room, I asked her if she was ready to go home, and she didn't answer." Tia stared off into s.p.a.ce remembering the conversation. "I thought that was a little strange. You know, most people can't wait to get back home."

"I know. Wasn't she married?"

"I don't think so." Tia stood up and clipped her papers to her clipboard.

"Well, she must not have any family at all because there weren't any emergency contact numbers in her records," Janelle said.

Tia walked toward the door. "I guess that's not too surprising," she remarked. "I remember her telling me that she had a son she hadn't seen in a while." She put her hand on the doork.n.o.b, then stopped. A fleeting memory of the length of time she'd been separated from her own mother came to her mind. "I hope she and her son reconcile before it's too late," she said softly as she opened the door and walked out.

Chapter Thirteen.

It really didn't matter that it was Thursday. For Homer, all of his days-Monday to Friday-were the same. Every morning between 8:30 and 8:45 a.m., he arrived at his accounting job.

He limped down the hallway, pa.s.sing a mult.i.tude of tight and sterile smiles similar to his before entering the 1,200 square foot office that he shared with nine other employees. To make matters worse, the supervisor insisted on keeping the door closed, forcing Homer to endure a stifling and perfumed-filled modern-day tomb.

"Good morning," Leslie, his coworker, said with a fake smile pasted on her face.

Homer barely moved his lips. "Morning," he said as he pa.s.sed by.

He sat down at his desk and turned on his computer. Didn't she know he could see through that fake smile of hers? He saw right through it just like he'd been able to see through the smiles of the girls he'd gone to high school and college with. Back then, when he'd asked a girl out on a date, they would politely turn him down with a smile on their face just like hers.

He unlocked his desk drawer and pulled out a stack of papers he'd partially completed the night before. He thought about the rest of his coworkers and their tight expressions. It was difficult enough for him to open his mouth and say h.e.l.lo, and he wondered how they managed to do it. Not that he wanted them to. He would have been quite happy if they had remained silent. But they never did.

When Natalie, their supervisor arrived, the tightlipped women transformed themselves into a group of hyenas, laughing at the silly story Natalie was telling them about her two-year-old son's attempt to put his right shoe on his left foot. This created such a wave of laughter that Homer, thinking about his own deformed left foot, almost got up and left the office.

The cackles dwindled down to snickers, and Homer looked up to see Natalie's amazon-like frame standing in front of his desk. Whatever comments she'd made after talking about her two-year-old's fiasco, he hadn't heard. But even if he had, he would not have laughed. He never laughed at anything she said.

He was not there to be entertained by Natalie. Besides, not only were the things she said humorless, some of them weren't lady-like either. But what could he expect? She was just like his mother who, in his opinion, was also not a lady, but a failing imitation of one. He stood up. With her shoes on, Natalie towered over Homer's six foot frame.

"Good morning, Homer," she said. Her silver hair tumbled gently across her face as she reached for a stack of papers on his desk. "Are these the statistics for me?" She began flipping through the papers, and then handed them back to him.

"Yes," Homer said, looking at the sheets. His chest rose up and down heavily as he noticed the faint red marks from her fingernail polish staining the corners of each sheet. He couldn't stand it when she did that. Wasn't it enough that the polish was on her nails? Did she have to put some of it on his papers as well?

"Natalie," he spoke her name as if it were a command. "Do you think you can stop leaving all these red marks from your fingernail polish on my papers?"

She stared at him for a few seconds before she spoke. "This is just a copy, right?"

"No. It's my original."

"Oh, well then you better start making copies," she said. "Then you won't have to worry about that." She turned and walked briskly away from his desk.

And you better watch how you speak to me, Homer thought as he stared at the back of her bouncing hair. Had she been like some of the girls he met online or almost twenty years younger, like his neighbor, she might have been his next quest. He wasn't in high school or college anymore. Homer had been studying women, and he'd learned how to play the game-deformed foot and all. As a matter of fact, if the women in his department knew that he was now a conqueror, all of them would watch how they spoke to him.

He heard someone snickering behind him. When he turned to look, everyone's head was down. He wasn't a fool. He knew they were just pretending to be writing or typing or doing anything other than what they had really been doing, which was listening to what the boss had just said to him.

He turned his attention back to the stained papers. He sat down and began vigorously rubbing at the red marks left behind from her fingernails. They remained just as he knew they would. He opened his drawer and pulled out a bottle of liquid paper. That was females for you, he thought, young and old-always playing games.

Just like the little fish he'd met online, pretending to be grown but who was really just a kid trying to play on both sides of the fence. He would be meeting her real soon, and he'd show her what being a grown-up was all about. She was like a fish out of water and she didn't even know it. He'd show her.

He began applying tiny droplets of the white liquid fluid to every red mark he saw on his papers until there were no longer any stains visible to the human eye.

Chapter Fourteen.

Shari kissed Tony good-bye, and then headed for her job at a nonprofit community resource agency. The Thursday morning commute had been backed up, and when she finally pulled her brown Pontiac into the parking lot of her job the time on the dashboard in her car read 8:05 a.m.

She was already five minutes late as she began her ritual of driving up and down the twelve rows of parking s.p.a.ces on the lot. She was hoping to s.n.a.t.c.h a parking spot close enough to the building so she would not have to park in the parking structure and walk what felt like half a mile just to get to work.

She knew some employees coveted the parking structure because it protected their cars from the elements. Since it was only February, it was still pretty cold outside, and more snow could not be excluded from the coming days. But Shari didn't care about that. By the time she got off at four-thirty, daylight would be just about gone, and her preference was to not have to walk a mile in semi-darkness just to get to a clean car.

She found a parking s.p.a.ce in the second row on the lot and shouted, "Thank you, Lord!" She grabbed her purse and her coffee mug, and got out of the older model vehicle. She walked through the front door of the maroon-colored brick building and showed her ID badge to the security guard on duty. Then she headed for the elevator that would take her to the second floor where her department was located.

Her job was to provide information and referrals for various types of resources to people in low-income communities, and the majority of her day was spent listening and problem solving in order to determine which referral numbers would best benefit the person calling.

She had accepted this position four years ago because it gave her the opportunity to do what she liked most-helping other people. And the bonus had been that she could get paid while doing it.

At the time, it seemed like the perfect job, the best of both worlds. But for the last year or so, it seemed as though she was getting the worst of what the world had to offer.

The demeanor of the people she provided services to was changing. They were getting meaner, their att.i.tudes uglier. Often, she would get calls from clients who would become hostile if they could not get whatever resource information they needed. And the negative comments she received from them-the very ones she was trying to help-never ceased to amaze her.

She prayed to G.o.d for strength and inner peace every morning before she left her house. Sometimes she had to pray to Him several times during her shift, asking Him to guide her heart and, most importantly, her tongue.

Her shift was just about over when a woman called the agency looking for a food pantry. Shari had gotten a rash of last-minute calls for open food pantries and had checked the computer so many times that she had stopped bothering to check because she already knew there would be none still open.

"I'm sorry," Shari said to the woman on the other end of the phone, "all of the pantries are closed for the evening. They're usually only open for a few hours during the day. The latest site closed at one o'clock," she continued. "But I can give you information for one that'll be open tomorrow."

"I don't need one tomorrow!" the woman yelled into the telephone receiver. "I need one today!"

Shari closed her eyes. Today is not the day. She took a deep breath. "I understand that, ma'am, and I'm here to help you," she said in her softest voice. "You don't need to yell at me." But before she could open her eyes and give the woman an address to a meal site location where she could get a hot meal for the night, the woman started calling her every cuss word imaginable.

"Ma'am," Shari's heartbeat quickened, "as I stated, I'm trying to help you."

"You know what you can do with your help, don't you?" the woman yelled. "You can stick it up your-!"

Shari disconnected the call. "Lord, give me strength," she whispered to the silent receiver. The phone rang again. She inhaled deeply before answering. "First Stop Central. This is Shari. How can I help you?"

"Hey, girl." It was Tia on the other end.

Shari let out a sigh.

"Can you help me get a new husband?" Tia asked. "I am so frustrated with Lorenzo. Last night we-"

"Tia," Shari interrupted. "I'm at work. You know I don't like to talk about personal stuff on my work phone."

"Oh yeah, I forgot. Well, I'm on my break, but what are you doing when you get off?"

"Going home."

"Wanna meet me for coffee after work?" Tia asked.

Shari stopped shuffling the papers on her desk. She thought she heard a sense of urgency in Tia's voice. "Is everything okay, Tia?"

"Yep."

Shari hesitated. "The usual spot?" she asked.

"Uh-huh."

"Okay," Shari said. "I gotta go. My other line's ringing." She disconnected her call with Tia, and pressed the flashing square light on the telephone.

"First Stop Central. This is Shari. How can I help you?"

"h.e.l.lo?" the harsh male voice on the other end of the line yelled.

"This is Shari. How can I help you?"

"Um, yeah. My lights got turned off. And I need to get them back on."

"Have you spoken to someone from the electric company?" Shari asked.

"No, I haven't."

"Well, you'll need to call them and see what kind of payment arrangements you can make to get your lights turned back on."

"Somebody told me I could call this number and y'all would be able to help me," the man said impatiently.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you have to first make a payment arrangement with the electric company, then once a payment has been made we may be able to a.s.sist you with future payments."

"Future payments?" The man's tone was escalating. "How does that help me? I need my lights on now!"

Shari hesitated, hoping the momentary silence would diffuse the situation. "I understand sir, but what I'm trying to tell you is-"

"No, you don't understand!" he interrupted her. "Are your lights turned off?"

Not yet, Shari thought, and I pray to G.o.d they won't be.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"I'm here, sir," she answered. "And again, you'll have to contact the utility company first before we can help you."

There was a loud click on the other end of the line, and then silence. Shari looked at the a.n.a.log clock on the wall in front of her. It was 4:25 p.m. That was her last call for the day. "Thank you, Lord," she whispered.

She switched her phone to answer with an automated voice message that informed callers the office was now closed and to call back at eight o'clock the next morning. She began tidying up her desk as she called Tony.

"Hey, babe," she said lightly. "How's it going?"

"Not bad," he said yawning. "I applied for a couple of jobs today."

"What kind?"

"One is for a full-time AODA counselor, but it's in Waukegan."

"Oooh." Shari flicked the top of the Bic pen she was holding up and down. "That's almost an hour's commute one way," she said.

"And that's if there's no traffic," Tony added.

"What's the other one you applied for?"

"Hold on," Tony said.

Shari heard the rustling sound of papers, and then Tony returned to the phone.

"The second one I applied for is in Maywood."

"Oh, that's not too bad."

"But," he added, "it's only part-time. So that means I would have to try to juggle both jobs."

"Well, with your experience, somebody should be calling you soon."

"I hope you're right, babe."