Richard Mabry - Code Blue

"No, I'm pretty sure she took an overdose. I just have no idea why she did it. And all she'll say is, 'It's all in the note.' But there's no note."

"Well, if you hear anything we should know, give me a call."

Cathy cradled the phone and tried to ignore the commotion around her. Nurses and doctors crowded into the little nursing station, snatching charts from the rack or shoving them back into their slots. The overhead pager called out sporadically. The business of the hospital went on uninterrupted while she tried to make sense of what she'd just heard.

Why had Ella Mae tried to end her life? And where was the note?

Cathy roused at the sound of the light tap on her door. It seemed as though her head had only touched the pillow a few minutes ago. Was it time to go to work? No, she always set an alarm, and it hadn't gone off. She started to roll out of bed and encountered a wall. Confused, she reached for the bedside lamp, and her fingers found only air.

There was the tap again. "What?" she croaked, her eyes still closed.

"Breakfast is ready. I thought you'd want something before we leave for church."

Cathy's sleep-deprived brain functioned like a lawnmower engine that sputters until it finally catches hold. Different room. Different house. Dora Kennedy. Then the smell of frying bacon hit her nostrils, followed closely by the scent of coffee, strong and rich.

"I'll be down in a second."

Cathy opened her eyes and found the light switch, squinting as the glare hit her dilated pupils. She padded to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. Then she wrapped herself in a robe, shoved her feet into slippers, and shuffled down the stairs. If Sunday breakfast at the parsonage was as good as Sunday lunch, there was no way she would sleep through it.

She found Matthew and Dora Kennedy at either end of the table, with Will sitting next to the place that had been laid for her. This was a far cry from Cathy's usual breakfast of a muffin and coffee. Dora had cooked scrambled eggs, bacon, and biscuits. Two different kinds of jelly, obviously homemade, sat next to a small dish of real butter. A glass of orange juice and a steaming cup of coffee had been placed next to her empty plate.

"Sorry. I overslept," she said.

"Don't worry," Pastor Kennedy said. "Will, would you say grace?"

Cathy longed for several healthy swallows of coffee, hoping it would jumpstart her brain. She silently blessed Will for the brevity of his prayer, joined in the corporate "Amen," and sipped at the wonderful brew in her cup.

"How's Ella Mae," Dora asked, as she passed the bacon.

Cathy wondered how much she could say without breaking patient confidentiality. "Her medical condition is stable."Maybe that would be enough.

"Would it be all right for us to visit her?" Pastor Kennedy asked. "I mean, is it too soon after her suicide attempt?"

Cathy decided that confidentiality was probably a moot point. Besides that, maybe Ella Mae would talk to them. Cathy sure wasn't getting anywhere.

"I believe she's stable enough to have visitors. I'm sure you've been in enough hospital rooms to know when to cut a visit short. I'll leave it to your discretion." Cathy took a bite and revised her previously held opinion that most biscuits had the taste and consistency of hockey pucks. True, Bess Elam's had been better than most, but Dora Kennedy's were like nothing Cathy had ever tasted. They were marvelously light and absolutely delicious. She savored the rich flavor of real butter. Homemade apricot jam was sweet and tart on her tongue. She washed down a bite with coffee before continuing. "I transferred her to a regular room last evening. I don't think you'll have any trouble getting in."

"Where were you all day yesterday?" Will asked.

"Long day, long story. The short version is that after making rounds yesterday morning, I was on my way out through the emergency room when a major trauma case arrived. A minivan collided with an eighteen-wheeler. Driver of the van was DOA. The mother had a ruptured spleen. John Steel was on trauma call and asked me to scrub with him. The two kids in the van were okay except for cuts and bruises. We had to contact a relative to come get them, and I volunteered to sit with them until the family arrived. When I finally got away, I grabbed a burger and ate it in the car on my way home."

"Did the mother survive?" Pastor Kennedy asked.

"She'll be fine, but I pity her and those two children, losing their husband and father."

Cathy expected a response like, "We'll pray for them," or "God will comfort them." Instead, Dora asked, "Are they local? We'll check and see if there's a way to help."

Cathy couldn't understand it. Her perception of the church had always been that it was full of pious people who quoted Scripture but didn't want to have anything to do with the rest of the world. But this family had rolled up its collective sleeves and was ready to help those around them. Had Cathy been wrong? After hearing Dora's story of the death of their baby girl, Cathy's perspective of God's role in the tragedies of the world had changed. Were these folks right when they told her to lean on God for help?

She let the others carry the conversation during breakfast. When she pushed back her chair and started upstairs to get ready for church, she wondered whether she might have been missing out on something.

Church was a different experience today.Cathy didn't sing the hymns; she listened to the words. She didn't join in the responsive reading; she let the Scripture speak to her. And when Pastor Kennedy asked the congregation to turn to Exodus 16, Cathy left her Bible closed in her lap, choosing instead to sit with her head bowed, visualizing the scene of God feeding the children of Israel in the wilderness, sending them manna every morning.

She listened as the preacher took this familiar Bible passage and made it real for her. She flashed back to a Sunday school teacher saying something about "He opened the Scriptures to them." That was Jesus, she was pretty sure, but that also seemed to be what Pastor Kennedy was doing today.

"God provides for His children," he said. "We may not like what He provides, though, because we don't see the big picture as God can. I'm sure there were Israelites who prayed for a varied menu. Can't you just hear them now? 'Manna again today?' But there were also those who remained faithful-faithful for forty years as they wandered in the wilderness waiting for the fulfillment of God's promises to them. These were the ones who awoke each morning with a smile, looked out of their tents, and said, 'Oh, look! There's manna again this morning!' "

Pastor Kennedy moved away from the pulpit and lowered his voice, but the microphone clipped to his tie carried his words to every corner of the room. "We don't always like what God sends. We forget that He sees things we can't. God wants to send us blessings, even though we may not recognize them. And when He blesses us, I hope each of us will take the time to thank Him… for the manna."

Cathy locked the outer door behind her before she picked up the folder from Jane's desk and took it to her own. She hated to leave the comfort of the Kennedys living room and the company of the family that had taken her into their home and hearts. She longed to relax this Sunday afternoon. But she needed to check her balance sheet. Monday promised to be a busy day.

On her way to the office, she had stopped at the hospital to look in on Ella Mae. There'd been no change. Physically, the woman seemed to be recovering from the effects of her overdose. Mentally, however, it was as though she'd crept into a hard shell to keep out the world. Hopefully, the psychiatrist could help her.

Cathy popped the tab on a Diet Coke and settled into the chair behind her desk. She wondered how long it would be before it was all snatched from her: the desk, the chair, the office furniture. She'd shopped with care, overwhelmed by the cost of computers, fax machines, copiers, a phone system. The seventy thousand dollars that seemed like so much when she signed the note shrank like an ice cube in the sun when she started writing checks on her newly opened practice account.