Who Is My Shelter? by Neta Jackson

Author:Neta Jackson [Jackson, Neta]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General, ebook, Christian, book, Fiction
ISBN: 9781401685478
Google: _oEVIS3841gC
Amazon: B006CDKEV4
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 2011-03-01T10:26:31+00:00

We didn’t have to call an ambulance to get Lucy to the clinic, but it did take Mabel and me and Estelle, and even Tina Torres and a few of the other shelter residents, to convince her on Monday morning that she needed to see a doctor. I’d brought Dandy to work with me and that cheered Lucy some, and finally she let several of us help her out the door and into Moby Van. It meant missing staff meeting, but Mabel told me to just go!

Unfortunately, a visit to the walk-in clinic at Stroger Hospital, Cook County’s state-of-the-art new hospital, still meant waiting. I found a machine that dispensed coffee and snacks, and finally Lucy’s name was called around two o’clock.

I insisted on going with her while she was processed.

“What is your full name, ma’am?” The intake staffer was politely professional.

“It’s ‘miss,’ not ‘ma’am,’ ” Lucy sniffed. “I ain’t married.”

“All right. Your full name?”

“Lucinda Tucker.”

“Age?”

Lucy frowned. “Kinda lost track.”

“Well, your birthdate then.”

Lucy pursed her lips. Finally she said, “November three, nineteen hunnerd an’ twenty-something . . . um, slips my mind right now. Twenty-six, I think.” My ears perked up. Did she actually give a birth date? I quickly figured in my head. If Lucy hadn’t just pulled a date out of the air, that made her eighty years old. Or would, on November third, which was . . .

Oh my goodness! Lucy’s birthday is next Friday!

I was so amazed at this bit of information that I didn’t pay much attention to the rest of the intake process—blood pressure, temp, and more questions about her general health, raising Lucy’s aggravation—though they didn’t try to put her on the scale because of her injured foot. But I stuck with her when they took her for x-rays, then we waited in the small examining room for the results.

My cell phone rang as the minutes ticked by. Estelle Williams. She knew I was at the clinic with Lucy—was something wrong? I went out into the hallway to take the call.

“Thought you’d want to know,” Estelle said. “Just got a call from Harry. The jury came back with a verdict. Guilty! Matty Fagan’s goin’ away for a long time.”

“Oh, Estelle! That’s such good news. I want to hear all about it—but I just saw one of the radiologists go into Lucy’s room. Talk to you later!”

I closed the phone. Hallelujah! Couldn’t wait to tell Philip. But I hustled back into the small room in time to hear the youngish doctor say, “. . . a severe sprain.” A week on crutches, six weeks with an air cast, and maybe six months for the ankle to fully heal. “Too bad you didn’t break it,” he joked. “Might’ve healed faster.”

Oh great. Real funny.

Lucy’s foot was expertly wrapped and she was given a prescription for pain meds and a pair of crutches to be returned when she came back in a week. We practiced with the crutches down one of the hospital’s wide hallways, though Lucy

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