I’d visited the MAstar facility many times during my five years with Bruce and learned something new each time. First, that star was not a reference to flying up where the heavenly bodies were, but an acronym for “shock, trauma, air rescue.” He’d taught me other acronyms, like LZ for “landing zone” and AGL for “above ground level.” He’d had me lie down in the back of the aircraft to see how efficiently everything was laid out, each medical supply or instrument with its own slot. I was most impressed by a field EKG system that generated a report and transmitted it to the hospital before the patient arrived.
Today was different, the first time I was here without him. It felt strange to walk by the room he shared with another pilot, knowing he was now most likely napping in his own townhouse bed. I peeked in-once I knew his roommate was outside kicking the tires on the helicopter-and checked out the row of photos on Bruce’s side of the dresser. I knew what to expect-small framed shots of the two of us on favorite outings, and a grade school picture of Melanie, his only niece, whom he adored. I felt a pang of missing him and couldn’t wait until he was off for seven days, starting Monday morning.
With classes cancelled, that meant we were both off for a stretch and might be able to get out of town for a few days. The scorcher days were perfect for a trip to a sweet Hyannis beach.
It was a nice thought, until I recalled the reason summer school had been interrupted. My gaze fell on Rachel, walking slump-shouldered between Gil and me, her pink flipflops slapping pitifully on the floor. Something told me not to get psyched for anything other than helping her until further notice. The Cape would have to wait.
We tiptoed past a bedroom with a closed door.
“Don’t worry about making noise,” Gil said. “You’d never be in this job if you needed a lot of privacy or the comforts of home. But it’s the perfect career for a family person.”
Rachel registered surprise. “I would have thought just the opposite.”
I knew better. The dynamic worked especially well when both parties had flexible schedules, as was true for Hal and Gil and for Bruce and me. Neither Bruce nor I was a Monday-to-Friday, nine-to-five kind of person, and neither were the Bartholomews, I suspected. It was the perfect combination: an EMS job offered long stretches of days off, and most college teachers, like Hal, had at least one day off a week during the regular semester, ostensibly to do research. Timmy Bartholomew, a kindergartener, was guaranteed to have one parent or the other free to drop him off or pick him up.
“Flight nurses work two twenty-four hour days in a week,” Gil told Rachel.
“Like, forty-eight hours straight?”
“Not necessarily. I came on at four o’clock yesterday, and I’ll be here until four this afternoon. But of course, we’re not usually up and working all those hours. And then”-Gil spread her fingers, palms up-“I’ll have four whole days off. Then back for twenty-four, and so on.”
Rachel seemed to be considering this trade-off. At this point in her grad school life, even one day off without homework or lab work to think about would appeal to her.
Gil helped us settle in her room, pulling in an extra chair and carrying two glasses of iced tea on a tray. Were all flight nurses this agile?
I was pleased to see a copy of the puzzle I’d handed out at the party lying on top of a stack of puzzle books from my competition. I couldn’t help sneaking a look to see how far along Gil had gotten. I ran my finger down the page. Not bad. Maybe Gil would be the one to validate this new entry of mine.
Gil caught me reviewing her work. “Don’t you dare tell me how it ends,” she said.
I zipped my lip. “Not a chance.”
“Gotta go. Mi casa…” she said, closing the door behind her.
Gil didn’t have to share this room, but the eight-by-ten space could have belonged to anyone in the crew. In fact, Bruce’s room had more homey touches, with movie posters on one side (his) and NASCAR images on the other (his roommate’s). Gil, on the other hand, had gone with the MAstar-issue dull blue bedspread, kept the walls free of decoration, and had just one photo, of herself with Hal and Timmy on Hal’s graduation day.
I wondered if Gil had been ribbed by her colleagues about changing to a more feminine look, and so had changed back. As one of the few women in the graduate mathematics program, I’d had my own minor problems; I imagined Gil would have had even bigger ones. I remembered her mentioning how she chose her nickname.
“Most Gillians use ‘Jill’ or ‘Lil,’” she’d said. “I use ‘Gil’ so when you’re reading it, you might think it’s a boy’s name, a nickname for ‘Gilbert’.” She’d emphasized the hard G in Gil and laughed. “It gives me a little head start in getting an assignment. Then I show up and, voila, I’m a girl. But I do a good job, so it’s not usually a problem from then on.”
I understood perfectly.
Once Gil had left us, it was zero hour for Rachel and me.
Rachel sat on the edge of the bed, allowing me the luxury of the folding chair Gil had dragged in. An open window onto the airfield made the room seem less cramped and stuffy. I looked longingly at a twin engine, wishing I were airborne, or anywhere but here.
It was clear that Rachel wasn’t going to start without some prodding. I could tell by the tears that started to well up in her eyes.
This was not my forte. Give me a student scared to death to take a math test or demonstrate how she evaluated a definite integral and I’ll boost her confidence and have her ready well within her timeframe. I’d also had my share of successes in getting a girl back on her feet after being dumped by a cruel boy from another school. But a murder suspect looking to me for help-that was beyond the scope of my experience. I hoped I could get up to speed in a hurry.
I plunged in.
“Rachel, tell me what happened when you brought the plate of food to Dr. Appleton yesterday.” Was it just yesterday?
Now her tears came in torrents, her sobs beating a quiet, steady rhythm. At least Gil’s room was equipped with tissues. I handed her the box.
“You have to talk to me, Rachel.”
I heard a thunderous clattering in response.
Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack.
The Bat Phone.
We covered our ears. I thought the pummeling sound would never stop.
Besides the assault from the Bat Phone, there was so much stomping and loud activity in the hallway that I was afraid to open the door.
I heard a man shout, “Four-vehicle crash on Route Three Southbound near the Sagamore.”
Then, Gil’s voice: “Code yellow, everyone.”
I’d never been here when a call came. My heart raced as if I, too, had to suit up and rush out. I took a breath and told myself no one’s life depended on me.
“Did she say code yellow?” Rachel asked. “I would have expected code red or code blue.” She shuddered.
I was quick to share my insider knowledge with Rachel. “Code yellow reminds the crew to go at a sensible pace. Too fast and they might slip up; too slow and they’ll blow their mission. Yellow means just right.”
Seconds later, Gil crashed into her room. “ ‘Scuse me,” she said.
She zipped her flight suit to the top of her very fit body, hooked a radio onto her belt, and grabbed her helmet from one corner and a backpack from another, in seamless, swift motions. Army Reserve training, I guessed, reinforced by all her jobs since. Rachel and I both went stiff, not moving a muscle, lest we interrupt the choreography. Gil dashed from the room as quickly as she’d entered, leaving the flimsy brown door to swing in its frame.
The clamor had shifted to the airfield where MAstar’s helicopter was parked. Rachel and I turned to look out the window. A pilot-the PIC, pilot in command, as the in-group knew-was already in his seat. The tall, lanky guy next to the pilot in the front was one of two flight nurses that made up the group of three who responded to every call. Gil ran to the back of the aircraft and climbed in and they were up in a flash, maybe five minutes total from the call to liftoff.