Going Home (The Green Bayou Novels Book 1) Read online

  Going

  Home

  Rhonda R. Dennis

  Going Home 2nd ed. Copyright © 2015 Rhonda R. Dennis

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, Rhonda R. Dennis, www.rhondadennis.net, except where permitted by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  1st edition copyright 2011

  DEDICATION

  New, and hopefully improved, for all the readers who couldn’t get enough of Emily and gang. Your support means the world to me.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Huge thanks to the following:

  Cover: Yummy by Design

  Editing by Donette Jumonville Freeman

  The Babes, you inspire me more than you’ll ever know. Thank you for all you do. Love y’all!

  1

  “Seriously, what’s wrong with these idiots?” I ask with a huff.

  It’s hard enough navigating the narrow streets of the French Quarter, but add in the gobs of drunken tourists, and it becomes a nightmare. Since the flashing lights and occasional blip-blip of the siren don’t seem to catch their attention, I angrily lay on the air horn with the hopes of getting the large group to disperse. Most of them startle, grab their ears, and immediately jump onto the curb. However, as usual, there is one fool hell-bent on showing his ass—literally.

  This time, it’s a thin guy in his early twenties who happens to be sporting a military haircut, a Suck ‘da heads, Pinch ‘da tails t-shirt, basketball shorts, and no shoes. Though it’s only mid-morning, he carries an extra-large red drink in one hand and an equally large electric-green drink in the other. My stomach churns thinking of all that sloshing around in his belly. Without a doubt, his day won’t be ending well. I flash my biggest smile in his direction and gesture with my hand that he should join his friends on the sidewalk. He sees it as a challenge. Still standing directly in front of the ambulance, he nods his head and points back at me while giving an exaggerated wink.

  Without missing a beat, I shake my head in a very obvious “no” gesture while pointing up at the flashing lights. He passes his drinks off to one of his friends, and instead of moving out of the way, raises his shirt to expose his chest. His face contorted in mock ecstasy, he pantomimes fondling a pair of large breasts.

  “Oh, Lord. Why do you insist on messing with these people?” my paramedic partner of two years, Brad Dautrieve, mutters his first words since leaving the station. He rolls down his window and yells, “Get the hell out of the way, douchebag!”

  Brad is close to my age of twenty-seven, has dark circles that hang deeply under his pale green eyes, and dons the most unnatural shade of black hair I’ve ever seen on a human. His extremely pallid skin takes on a purplish tint, so I often think of him as a vampire wannabe. My attention shifts from Brad back to the tourist, who is now climbing onto the front bumper of the rig.

  I grab the mic to talk into the PA system. “Sir, please get off of the ambulance. We’re trying to get to an emergency,” I say in monotone.

  The rowdy tourist kneels on the hood and fumbles with his zipper. “Ass or junk?” I quickly quiz Brad.

  “Ass.”

  “I say junk.” Just as the young man exposes his male anatomy and urinates on the windshield, two uniformed police officers emerge from the now parted crowd. They yank him off the hood and take him down to the ground next to the passenger door. Brad looks out of the window and winces.

  “Thank you, guys,” I say, giving them the courtesy of pulling away some before dousing the windshield with fluid and turning on the wipers. “You owe me five bucks. I called it.”

  “Whatever,” Brad says, sounding aggravated.

  “Don’t get upset. It’s just another day in NOLA. We only lost a few seconds. We can cancel the bet if you want to.” He just shrugs.

  We’re moving along pretty steadily when Brad breaks the silence. “I’m riding this call, Emily.” He speaks quickly, and his voice is stern.

  I give him a confused look. “Fine by me, Mr. Attitude. You’re the one who hasn’t wanted to ride calls lately. It isn’t like I’ve been keeping them from you,” I say, a little offended.

  “Sorry.” His tone is much more subtle now. “You’re right. I’ll ride this one because it’s time for me to get back into the swing of things. It’s not fair for you to do all the work.” I give him a half-hearted smile.

  For over a month, I’ve noticed an attitude change in Brad, but whenever I question him about it, his answers are short and evasive. We have recently had a string of seriously traumatic calls, some involving kids, so I think maybe the stress of the job is getting to him. To make matters worse, he has messed up his documentation from time to time. I read over the reports before we hand them in, so I am able to fix them before anyone else notices.

  I consider going to our supervisor, but loyalty to my partner, as well as the looming tension between me and the supervisor, keeps me from reporting Brad. Randall Gautreaux has a huge ego and an even bigger attitude. His grudge began when I refused to date him and continued after I reported him to human resources because I’d had enough of his playing grab ass. He has been counseled and warned that another offense might cost him his job, but he doesn’t really care. Typically, I do my best to avoid Randall, so instead of discussing Brad’s situation with him, I assume all patient care and leave Brad to simply drive.

  The extra strain from Brad’s inadequacies has interfered with my personal life. I’m drained all the time and find myself growing tired of a city I adore.

  We arrive at the call, and when I jump from the ambulance, my breath is instantly cut by smoke billowing from the building, as well as the extreme mugginess consistent with South Louisiana.

  Fortunately, we only have one patient, an elderly male with extensive second degree burns on the right side of his body. We load him up easily enough, and instinctively I climb into the back of the unit. Brad puts his hand on my shoulder and yanks me down.

  “I told you I got this!” he insists.

  “Yeah, I know. I’m going to help you get him set for the trip,” I explain.

  “I don’t need help. I’ve got it.”

  “Right,” I say, staring him down before closing the doors.

  I walk around to the front of the unit and settle into the driver’s seat. Just when I raise the mic to inform dispatch I’m en route to the nearest hospital, I remember the patient’s medication list is stuffed in my pocket. In all the chaos, his niece had handed it to me. Brad can’t ask the patient which meds he takes since he’s disoriented due to the extremely painful burns. I rush out of the cab and pull open the side door. Wide-eyed, Brad sits with a syringe full of morphine hanging from his arm.

  “Get out!” he growls.

  I throw the paper at him and slam the door. My heart races, and my mind desperately tries to make sense of what I witnessed. I arrive at the hospital in record time, partly because I’m worried about the patient and partly because I’m worried about Brad. He remains silent even after we release the patient into the care of the nursing staff.

  “What in the hell is wrong with you!” I demand while cleaning up used wrappers from the back of the ambulance. “Are you freaking insane?”

  “What are you talking about?” Brad asks, trying to play dumb as
he puts a fresh disposable sheet onto the stretcher. “And keep your voice down.”

  “I’m talking about you depriving that man of his morphine and shooting it into yourself, you jackass,” I say in a slightly lower volume. I snap off the disposable gloves I’m wearing and deposit them into a biohazard bag.

  “You never saw that!” he growls, his gaze meeting mine. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Emily? You saw nothing.” His pale, green eyes squint in a way meant to intimidate me.

  “Brad, there’s no way I can pretend I didn’t see that. You need help in a bad way. I’ve noticed some things the past few weeks, and I’ve kept my mouth shut. Brad, this is major,” I nearly whisper while putting my hand on his forearm. “You’re going to kill a patient or yourself, and if I do nothing to stop you, then I’m just as guilty.”

  He draws back quickly. “You will keep your damn mouth shut. You hear me, bitch?”

  It’s as if he’s slapped me in the face. In the two years Brad and I have worked together, we’ve never argued. My silence isn’t from fear but from the harshness of his words. I climb into the driver’s seat, confused and hurt. It’s the last shift Brad and I work together.

  I think long and hard about what I should do, and when I get off shift the next morning, I find Randall sitting in his office. He’s a plump man with a slight mustache and eyes such a deep shade of brown they appear black. In his mid-forties, he’s been married four times and maintained as many girlfriends with each marriage. In addition to his oversized ego, he runs hot and cold like no one I’ve ever met. I desperately hope that today is one of his “good” days.

  “Emily! Come on in!” he says happily enough.

  His eyes leave my face and make their way south; I feel a pang of nausea. I can handle looks, but leers creep me out. Blonde haired and blue eyed at five foot nine, I’m slightly taller than the average woman. Plus, I have a little meat on my bones, so I’m not overly shocked that his gaze falls on my breasts. It’s disturbing when his eyes lock there, however.

  “What can I do for you?” he asks, licking his lips as he kicks the chair opposite him. He gestures for me to sit.

  I like having a head start if I decide to bolt from his office, so I look warily at the chair. Sighing, I reluctantly accept the offered seat, and Randall softly strokes his moustache.

  “So, business or pleasure?” The way he says the last word makes bile rise into my throat.

  “Business. All it will ever be between us is business, Randall.” I cut straight to the point, and the smile fades from his face.

  “Fine. Proceed,” he urges as he abandons the chair beside me to claim the one behind his desk.

  I nervously twist the ends of my hair while telling him the whole story. He sits in silence for a minute, and I happily give him time to digest the information. He rocks back and forth in his office chair, his index fingers pressed to his lips. Eventually the rocking stops, and he jumps up to stand before me. Leaning forward, his hands rest on the arms of my chair, and his lips are mere inches from mine when I feel my stomach flip.

  “I think you should leave,” he whispers. A smug smile curls on his lips.

  “What do you mean, Randall? Like go home?” I ask, utterly confused.

  “Oh, no. More than that; you should pack your things and find another job. I’ll never be able to partner you up once word gets around that you’re a snitch. You should cut your losses and move on, unless you feel the overwhelming desire to REPORT me. How’d that work out for you last time?” He sits behind the desk again. “You know I only say this because I worry about your well-being, right?” His false sincerity rings in my ears.

  “Randall, I…” He holds his hand up to stop me.

  “Tell you what, if you leave now, and you do it quietly, I’ll give you a glowing letter of recommendation. Use it as a fresh start with a new company. Cause any trouble, or let any bit of this conversation get leaked, and I’ll make sure you never work in this state again. Am I clear?” He continues to grin. I’ve finally given him the ammunition he needs to get rid of me—one less pain in Randall Gautreaux’s ass.

  I don’t have the heart to argue with him. I’ve witnessed Randall ruin the careers of some really good medics over petty things, and I certainly don’t want to be next on his list. I’m sad that I’m being forced out but determined he won’t see me cry. I don’t say a word to him on the way out. Head held high, I nod, clean out my locker, and make my way to Decatur Street. The only thing that’s going make me feel better at this point is comfort food.

  Once I’ve picked up an assortment of goodies, I make my way home. Skulking into my bedroom, I shut the door and pop the top off a beer. Unwrapping the white, waxed paper enclosing my muffaletta sandwich, I consume one of the four large bread wedges stuffed with meat, cheese, and olive salad. Two more wedges down, and not only am I so stuffed that I can hardly breathe, but that’s when the tears decide to fall. Self-pity is terrible; however, the more alcohol I consume, the less I want to cry. After the fourth beer, I finally get a brilliant idea. Randall told me to go home, so that’s what I’ll do. As much as I love New Orleans, I want to go home. My heart yearns for the sleepy, little town of Green Bayou, the place I was born and raised.

  2

  I spend nearly a week packing and pondering options. What do I do when I get back to Green Bayou? Should I change careers? Go back to school? Why should I stop doing what I love because of a rotten supervisor? What if my new partner has issues similar to Brad? What if my new partner is a part-time model who saves lives when he’s not showing off his six-pack in sexy underwear? It’s possible, right?

  I scroll through the contacts in my phone until I find the number I’m searching for. Grant is who I need to talk to for guidance, especially since he’s the person who steered me into the EMS field in the first place. I was a teenager when Grant suggested I become a medic. He mentored me while I went through the entire process, and even though he was sad when I moved to New Orleans, he made me promise I’d keep in touch. He answers his phone after the second ring, and my confidence boosts when he sounds happy to hear my voice.

  “I hear you’re doing good things in New Orleans, kiddo,” he says. “That’s what happens when you learn from the best.”

  I roll my eyes and quickly change the subject to explain my plan to move back to Green Bayou. Finally, I get to the point and ask if there are any openings in his area. Grant, being a supervisor for Evangeline South Medical Response, a company whose territory stretches over four parishes in South Louisiana, would know if something is available for me.

  “I don’t have anything in Green Bayou right now, but I do have an opening in Bienville. I’m having a hard time keeping medics out there. Maybe putting someone with your experience in the slot will be a good thing. You won’t leave after a couple of months like the snot-nosed newbies, will you? You’d really be doing me a huge favor if you accept. Have I convinced you yet?” I hear the hopefulness in his gravelly voice.

  “Wait. What do you mean the medics leave after a few months? Why? Is Bienville a place I want to work?” I ask cautiously.

  “They’re just wussies. You’ll be fine,” he explains. “You’ve been doing this long enough to know what to expect. The ones who quit were mainly inexperienced morons. They’d come in, have one bad call, and out they’d go. Hell, one couple even ran off together. He got her pregnant or something; I don’t know. Typical soap opera crap.”

  “Jeez, Grant! What’s going on out there?” I ask.

  “Beats me. Maybe it’s something in the water. Look, if you’re intimidated, maybe I can put you in DeSoto or something. It’s a further away, but you could work out of headquarters with me.”

  “No,” I interrupt. “I’ll take the slot in Bienville. I’m not intimidated in the least. It’s only twenty minutes from Green Bayou, and I’m moving into Mom and Dad’s place. It’s just sitting there empty since they moved to Maine. They use it maybe a couple of weeks out of the year, so they’ll be thri
lled to have me to house sit. Plus, they hate that I live in New Orleans, and it’s something they don’t bother keeping to themselves. When do you want me there?”

  “When can you be here?” Grant asks.

  “Give me a week to settle in, and I’ll be ready to go,” I answer. I’m awestruck by how easy it is to slide into a new position. I almost feel disappointed that I didn’t think of it sooner.

  “Good deal, Emily. Give me a call when you get into town. We’ll get something to eat and get started on the paperwork to make all of this official. Sound okay, kiddo?”

  “Grant, thanks for this.” I hope he hears the sincerity in my voice.

  “Anytime, my girl. Let me know if you need any help settling in.”

  “Hey Grant, one last quick question.”

  “Yeah. Whatcha got?”

  “Any chance some of the guys on staff make extra money by modeling?”

  He laughs. “Not that I know of. If they do, it’s probably just modeling for dentures or something.”

  “Oh well, it was worth a shot. I’ll be in touch soon.”

  He’s still laughing when we say our goodbyes. I flop onto my bed, and a smile creeps across my face. I’m getting really excited about this move. Sure, I’ll miss New Orleans, but I can visit anytime. Yes, a change of pace is a very good thing for me right now. That’s what I keep telling myself as I look at the mountain of boxes surrounding me.

  My things are packed and ready to go the next day. I hire a moving company for the big stuff, and I follow them to Green Bayou in my car, a red ‘67 Camaro that was a graduation gift from my parents. I’d toyed with the idea of buying a newer car and keeping the Camaro garaged, but I just can’t seem to do it.

  The two and a half hour trip from New Orleans is uneventful, and when I cross the line into Atchafalaya Parish, I feel serenity wash over me. I’m home. Following Bayou Assumption as it snakes along Highway 182, I eventually turn off onto the familiar circular drive that leads to the old family home, Greenleaf Plantation. The house has been passed down over four generations, and eventually, it will become mine. The family tree is thinning, and my parents only have one child.