Blink Of An Eye. Rexanne Becnel

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