Chapter Twenty One

 

Marvella Jackson gave a downward adjusting tug on the starched white skirt of her nurse’s uniform as the chime sounded, signaling the elevator had arrived at the third floor. At six feet one inches tall, she towered over the two other nurses in the elevator who were also about to report for the second shift in the Intensive Care Unit. The doors separated and Marvella stepped out, turned left, and approached the nurse’s station that dominated the entrance to the ICU. The nurses seated behind the desk looked up, saw Marvella approaching, and hastily put away the magazines they were reading. They ceased their conversations, and scurried to straighten up various items on the large circular desk area and counter top.

Although in her mid-fifties, Marvella had maintained the lean muscular physique that afforded her the opportunity to play college basketball three decades prior. The seventh child and only daughter of Marvin and Bessie Jackson, her childhood had been typical of many black working class families in rural North Carolina. Her basketball scholarship allowed her to attend college—the only one of her siblings to do so—and study nursing. Widowed at thirty, she had raised three sons, all of whom had graduated from North Carolina State University.

“Afternoon Mrs. Jackson.” Michelle Wainright, supervisor of ICU nurses, greeted her.

“Afternoon.” Marvella exhibited her usual facial expression, a slight scowl, as she seated herself behind the desk to assume her duties as the supervisor for the next eight hours. “How are my people today?” Marvella took her position very seriously. When she assumed responsibility for a shift, all of the patients became “her people.”

“Mr. Manton rested comfortably through the night. His vital signs remained constant and normal. He ate most of his breakfast. He has been visiting with his attorney for the past hour.” Michelle began her briefing on the status of each of the patients in the ward.

“That means his time is up,” Marvella declared. Warren’s doctor had only recently allowed his attorney to be added to the list of immediate family members that were permitted visitation privileges. Dr. Lawrence had been very emphatic that these visits should be limited to no more than one hour.

“I’ll ask him to leave on my way out,” Michelle offered.

“Thank you, Miss Wainright.”

The atmosphere in the ICU was usually one of relaxed informal professionalism. However, when Marvella was supervising the shift, things tightened up a bit. She acquired this work ethic while playing college basketball. Her coach never called her or her teammates by their first names, nor did she refer to them collectively as players. Instead she would address them as “ladies” when speaking to the entire group:

“Ladies, we can and will do better than this on defense next week,” Coach Hightower would chastise them.

Maintaining this air of formality created a certain distance between the coach and the team that kept the players always focused on the task at hand. Marvella had seen over the years how this continuous state of heightened vigilance had allowed her team to accomplish goals well beyond what could normally have been expected of them.

As she had approached her senior year, Marvella began to compare and contrast the lessons learned from Coach Hightower to those she experienced from her parents. It was obvious to her that the coach’s work ethics were more productive, and she resolved to apply these principles to her supervision of the nurses under her charge in the ICU.

“How is Mr. Manton’s daughter progressing?” Marvella asked.

“She’s still critical but stable,” Michelle replied.

“Still no signs of regaining consciousness?” Katerina had remained comatose since the crash.

“No ma’am.”

Michelle continued her briefing as Marvella focused her attention on the medical chart of each patient. Tamika Robinson and Trudy Blount, the two nurses that had ascended to the third floor with Marvella, had hoped that they could slip by the nurse’s station unnoticed by her as she sat behind the desk with her head down reading the charts. They had purposely delayed their exit and walked the other way when the elevator stopped on the third floor. They were both new to ICU, and were still extremely intimidated by their supervisor. Marvella was aware of this. She knew over time this intimidation would turn into respect, but for now this was exactly the attitude she wanted them to have.

“Miss Robinson, Mrs. Blount. Glad you ladies decided to join me today,” Marvella commented without looking up from the charts.

“We just went to powder our noses, Mrs. Jackson,” Trudy said.

“Did you do your own, or each other’s?”

“We just—” Tamika started to respond.

“Button that top button of your uniform, Miss Robinson. This is a hospital, not a bordello. Put your purses and precious makeup in your lockers, and report back here immediately. I’ve got things for you to do,” Marvella ordered. Both women hurriedly walked behind the desk and into the adjoining nurse’s locker room.

Michelle completed her shift change briefing, said good day to Marvella, and walked down the hall to inform Mr. Manton’s attorney this his visitation time had ended. The two neophyte nurses returned to the desk and stood silently as Marvella continued to study the last of the patient’s charts. It appeared that Marvella was impervious to their presence. They knew better.

The young nurses all swore that she not only had eyes in the back of her head, but x-ray vision as well. Nothing that went on during her shift escaped her attention. No one goofed off or messed up when Mrs. Jackson was on the floor. This was just as Marvella intended. She considered every patient to be as important as one of her own family members, and ensured that all those under supervision devoted their energies to “her people’s” well being.

As the two nurses stood awaiting instructions from Marvella, the elevator once again chimed and the doors opened. A middle-aged man exited and approached the desk. Marvella glanced up over the top of her reading glasses, observed the individual, and returned her gaze to the patient charts.

“Can I help you Mr. . . .?”

“Johnston. Dirk Johnston. I’m a reporter for Channel Six TV news, and I—”

“Ah yes. I’ve seen you on TV.” Marvella slowly removed her reading glasses and looked up from her charts in a demeanor that displayed she was totally unimpressed with the man standing before her.

“Ms. Blount, go find Luttrell,” Marvella ordered, indicating she wanted to see the custodian. “This hallway floor was not cleaned properly.”

“Should I tell him he didn’t clean the floor too good?”

“No, you can tell him he didn’t clean the floor too well”, Marvella corrected. “And Miss Robinson, go find out what is taking so long for Mr. Manton’s attorney to leave. Now what can I do for you, Mr. Johnston?” Marvella turned her head to make sure that both nurses were out of hearing distance.

“Well, I . . .”

“Dirk, where you been keepin’ your bad self?” Marvella broke into a wide grin.

“Busy, Marvella, very busy.” Dirk called her by her first name.

“Whatcha up to now? Investigatin’ some new story, or just wastin’ your time trying to gain my feelings of affection for you?” she teased Dirk.

“Marvella, I’ve known from the moment that I met you that you were too much woman for me,” Dirk joked. “Actually, I’d like to have a visit with one of your patients.”

The grin disappeared from her face. “And who might that be?”

“A Mr. Warren Manton. I’m doing a story on—”

“Now hold it right there, Dirk. I’ve got strict doctor’s orders on who can see him, and you ain’t on the list.”

“Now come on, Marvella,” Dirk pleaded. “After all we’ve been through together? I’ve practically made you a medical legend in this town.”

Marvella recalled that several years ago Dirk had produced a TV news series on medical malpractice as it related to the number of patients that were harmed by improper care while staying in hospitals. Marvella just happened to be the supervisor on duty when Dirk and his camera man showed up at the Mercy Hospital ICU to file their report.

She was initially reluctant to comment on or off camera. Dirk coerced her into cooperating when he explained that her ICU had been recommended to him by an attorney as an example of one of the safest places to receive intensive hospital care. Dirk explained that he already had his footage for the report on the most dangerous hospitals in the area, and in the interest of balanced reporting, he needed to profile a health care facility where things were done correctly.

“Well, if you want to see how intensive health care is supposed to be provided, you’ve come to the right place,” he recalled Marvella emphatically informing him.

Over the next several years, Dirk had numerous occasions to return to Marvella’s ICU as he investigated all sorts of news stories that involved personal injuries. Invariably he would use file footage from their original interview revealing Marvella seated behind her desk, whenever he produced a story relating to the hospitalization of an individual.

And every time Marvella was seen on TV she got calls from folks all over the Channel 6 viewing area. Her pastor and friends from church would call. Neighbors would call. She even got a call from her former basketball coach. Each time Dirk would use the footage, he would call too.

He would also send her one of her favorite gifts, a book of poems. It didn’t matter who the author or subject was. She was passionate about poetry. It filled the lonely hours between shifts at the hospital she endured each day now that her sons were grown and gone, and her husband had long since passed away.

It was during these phone calls and discussions of the latest poem she had read that Dirk began to slowly chip away at the façade that Marvella projected at work. He began to slowly expose the soft underbelly of her spirit that was fundamentally still a lanky teenage black girl from rural North Carolina.

“You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl,” Dirk told her during one of their calls.

Initially Dirk had fostered this relationship, like so many others in his career, based on a hunch that someday she would be able to provide him with some tidbit of information that would allow him to break a news story long before any of the other reporters. But unlike most of his other sources, he grew to genuinely admire and respect Marvella for who she was, where she had come from, and where she had “gotten to.”

“You didn’t make me no legend. I already was one! You just didn’t know ’bout it yet, honey. Now as for Mistah Manton, there ain’t no way you’re gettin’ in to see him.” Marvella observed a feigned look of painful desperation on Dirk’s face. She looked down the hall and saw Michelle and Trudy semi-escorting Mr. Manton’s attorney out of his room toward the elevator. She leaned forward and whispered to Dirk before the trio could get within earshot of their conversation: “However, if I was you, I would try to use your sneaky news reporter ways to find out what that fella knows about Mistah Manton.”

“And who might he be?” Dirk softly asked.

“Now you didn’t hear this from me, but that’s his lawyer.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe I heard a word you just said.”

“Das what I’m talking about,” she said. “Now get your sorry butt out of here, and go get me another poetry book.” She smiled widely.

“I’m sorry, sir, we have no patient by that name admitted to this floor,” Marvella announced to Dirk as the trio from Mr. Manton’s room passed by the desk. “Now if you have no further business here, I’ve patients to attend to.”

Dirk surmised it was time for him to leave. “You’re sure there is no Cletus Puckett on this floor? His wife shot him the other night when she found him

with . . .”

“Good day, Mr. Johnston. . . . Luttrell, what are you sweeping my floors with, some old witch’s broom? Look at all this debris along the baseboard here!” She chastised the custodian as he approached the desk, escorted by Tamika.

Tamika began to smirk.

“Miss Robinson, what are you snickering at?” Marvella demanded. “There are six trays of medicine that need to be administered to our patients. Now get to it!”

Marvella stood and watched as Luttrell scurried down the hall to the right, Tamika picked up a tray of meds and entered the first patient’s room, and Dirk retreated to the elevator a few paces behind the attorney. Everyone was moving as directed, when directed. Just like on the basketball court.

“Now das what I’m talking about,” she thought as she sat down at her desk.