Page 7 of The Fault Between Us
chapter 4:BRIDGET
Willmar, Minnesota
Bridget made one last notation on the patient chart and thanked the Lord her shift was over. Her feet hurt, her shoulders ached, and she was hungry. All she wanted was a big serving of Flo’s Wednesday night meatloaf, then she’d take off her girdle and settle into bed with her book.
“The heart attack in four didn’t make it,” Bridget informed the junior nurse at the desk as she signed off the floor. The middle-aged man had come in by ambulance to Willmar General last night. “Notify his family, please, Harmon.”
“Oh, please, Reilly,” the junior nurse said with a catch in her voice. “Can’t someone else do it?”
“Harmon,” Bridget said firmly, “getting weepy won’t help anyone.” Bridget hadn’t become the youngest supervising nurse at Willmar General by getting emotional about her patients. She was duty bound to be a good example to the junior nurses—at least until her last shift tomorrow.
Bridget said goodbye and pushed through the double doors into the humid August dusk. Most summer evenings, it was a pleasure towalk the six blocks home after work, but with the way her feet felt tonight she wished she’d learned how to drive. Her regret doubled when she saw Chuck Reed lurking under the streetlight.
“Bridget.” Chuck stepped forward with a hopeful expression on his handsome face. “Can I give you a ride home?”
Bridget mustered a polite smile. “No, thank you. I enjoy the walk.” Chuck fell into step beside her. She stopped with a sigh and looked up at him. “Really, Chuck. I meant what I said.” They’d met when Chuck brought his mother in with a broken ankle, and Bridget had enjoyed his company on a few dates... until he started to get serious. She’d broken things off in the usual way, but Chuck didn’t get the memo.
“Is this about you going to Yellowstone?” Chuck said. “Because I’ll wait.”
“Goodness no.” Bridget’s gaze met his brown eyes. This wasn’t about Yellowstone, and she didn’t need a lovesick man waiting for her. She wasn’t like Claire, ready to rush to the altar with someone she hardly knew. “Like I said, Chuck, I’m just not interested.” She brushed past him, ignoring the crushed expression on his face. Of course she felt bad for him, but it had to be done.
Ten minutes later, Bridget quietly let herself in the front door of the three-story house where she’d lived all her life. She hoped she could sneak in, get the plate Flo had left in the warming oven, and get upstairs before she saw either her father or Frannie. She’d taken one careful step on the polished wood floor of the foyer when her hopes went out the window.
“I’m not a child!” Frannie’s voice came from the kitchen.
“Then stop acting like one.” Dad sounded fed up.
Good grief. They were at it again.
Bridget peeked around the doorway. The kitchen with its polished Kenmore stove and buttercup-yellow refrigerator was spotless, but the air brimmed with tension. Dad stood beside the kitchen table, his arms crossed and looking exhausted. He was only in his fifties, but his hair had gone white earlier than most men. Raising three girls onhis own would do that, he was known to say with a laugh. Dad wasn’t laughing now.
Frannie faced Dad like a boxer ready for the bell, wearing her standard getup of rolled denim jeans, an oversized men’s shirt, and sneakers. She was more petite than either Bridget or Claire, but what she lacked in size, she made up for in fight. “I can make my own decisions, thank you very much.”
“Like the one that got you kicked out of summer school?” Dad shot back. “And how are you going to get into teachers’ college with that on your permanent record?”
“I’m not going to that stupid college,” Frannie spit out.
“This is about that juvenile delinquent, isn’t it?” Dad asked, and Bridget stifled a groan.
Frannie’s voice increased like someone had dialed up her volume knob. “Jonny’s not a delinquent.”
“He got you arrested,” Dad snapped back.
Frannie stamped her foot. “We were having fun.”
“No daughter of mine is going to go around with a bunch of lunatics.”
“What about my rights?” Frannie’s voice peaked on a high note of indignation.
“Your rights?” Dad scoffed. “What a bunch of baloney.”
Bridget stepped into the kitchen. This needed to stop before Frannie got herself grounded for life.
“I hate it here and I hate you!” Frannie bolted from the kitchen, pushing past Bridget and pounding up the stairs. The door to her room slammed and muffled sobs filtered through the heating vent on the ceiling.
Dad sank into a kitchen chair and rubbed a hand down his face. “Her rights,” he muttered, then looked up at Bridget. “What am I going to do with her?”
Bridget didn’t have an answer. Frannie had been a handful since she turned sixteen, as if the magic number had released a monster.When Claire was here, at least they’d been able to reason with her. “I’ll go talk to her.”
