Storm Rescue (5 page)

“I will.” I smile at her as reassuringly as I can. It's amazing. When I first started volunteering at the clinic almost six months ago, my parents hardly ever let me do anything on my own. I think working with Dr. Mac might have convinced them that I can handle more responsibility than they thought. And if Mother can make it to work today, so can I.

I brace myself and head out the door. As I cross the street and walk down the block, it starts to rain harder. Then a gust of wind whips the hood of my raincoat right off my head. “Ugh,” I say, grabbing it and squinting against the rain blowing into my eyes. There's no traffic in sight—unless you count the empty trash can spinning crazily down the street toward me. I jump aside to avoid it.

Lucy needs me. Lucy needs me.
I repeat the thought over and over, timing the words to my steps. It helps to keep me going as I trudge toward Willow Street. I don't pass a single pedestrian, and only a few cars go by, their tires throwing up sheets of water from the puddles on the road. Quite a lot of tree branches blew down overnight, and leaves and stray bits of paper are blowing around everywhere.

Finally I reach Willow Street. The little patch of grass in front of Mrs. Clark's old-fashioned one-story brick house is submerged under a giant puddle. The water looks deep enough to slosh over the edges of my boots, but I try not to think about it.

Mrs. Clark opens the door before I can knock. “Sunita!” she says, looking happy to see me. “I wasn't sure you'd make it.”

“Here I am,” I reply. “How's Lucy? Is her splint okay? Is she eating normally? The storm isn't bothering her too much, is it?”

Mrs. Clark chuckles. “J.J. is training you well, Sunita,” she says. “You're starting to sound just like her.”

I blush. “So Lucy's all right?”

“She's just fine. But why don't you come on in, dry off, and see for yourself.” Mrs. Clark gestures around her. “Sorry it's a bit stuffy. The wind was gusting so much that I had to close all the windows.”

I follow Mrs. Clark down a narrow hallway toward the kitchen at the back of the house. “Whew!” I say as I carefully unzip my raincoat, trying not to get myself or Mrs. Clark's kitchen floor any wetter. “What a storm.”

Mrs. Clark waves one hand dismissively. “This?” she says. “This is nothing. Why, in my day we wouldn't have even bothered to bring in the laundry for a little rainstorm like this.”

I suspect that she's exaggerating, but I don't say so. It feels safe and warm inside the cozy kitchen. Mrs. Clark's house is pretty old, and the walls creak and groan as the wind attacks from outside. But the sound of the rain is muffled as it whips against the window above the sink. “It looks like your yard is flooded,” I say.

“Oh, that happens every time there's a light shower.” Mrs. Clark doesn't seem worried at all. “It's just poor drainage. Nothing to panic about.”

Just then Lucy wanders into the room, moving pretty well despite her splint. “Mrrwowrr!” she greets me cheerfully.

“Lucy!” I kneel down on the floor to say hello. “You look just like your old self again. Well, almost.”

“She's a tough cookie.” Mrs. Clark smiles fondly at her cat. “She's getting around fine—everywhere but on the stairs. That reminds me. I wonder if you could do me a favor?”

“Sure,” I say. “What is it?”

“Lucy's litter box is in the basement, but she's not too good at the stairs with that cast on.” Mrs. Clark waves at a door across the room. “I tried to bring it up, but it's too heavy for my bad back. Could you get it for me?”

“No problem.” I stand up and head for the basement door. “I'll get it right now.”

The basement steps are quite steep, so I'm extra glad now that I braved the hurricane and came over. Otherwise Lucy could have ended up with a second broken leg!

The light in the basement is pretty dim, but I've been down there before to change the kitty litter while cat-sitting. I head straight for the litter box. Splash! My foot lands in a puddle.

“Yikes,” I murmur, peering down. I notice that there are several shallow puddles on the concrete floor. My heart starts pounding faster as I remember what my parents said about Willow Street.

I hoist the litter box in both arms. It's heavy and kind of smelly, but I just hold my breath and move as fast as I can. Maybe I'm not such a wimp after all.

When I reach the kitchen, I set the box in the corner where Mrs. Clark directs me. As soon as it's in place, Lucy comes over to sniff at it. She wants to make sure it's hers.

I tell Mrs. Clark about the puddles in the basement. “Maybe you and Lucy should think about going to stay with friends or something,” I suggest. “Just until the storm passes.”

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Clark chuckles. “A little water in the basement doesn't mean a thing. Besides, I rode out many a hurricane in my day back in South Carolina. A lot bigger ones than this, too. Lucy and I will be fine right here at home.”

I bite my lip. For a second I'm tempted to argue. But I remember how Mrs. Clark despised using a cat carrier until yesterday. If Dr. Mac couldn't change Mrs. Clark's mind about something like that, what chance do I have to convince her about this? Besides, she's been through lots of hurricanes. This is my first one. What do I know? I'm probably worrying too much.

From Mrs. Clark's kitchen window, I see that the sky is even darker than it was when I came in. “I'd better get going,” I say. “Dr. Mac probably needs my help at the clinic.”

“All right, dear. Thank you for stopping by.” Mrs. Clark picks up Lucy, and the two of them walk me to the door.

I plunge out into the rain, which seems to be coming down harder than when I left the house this morning. The wind takes my breath away at first, and I have to squint to see as the rain stings my face. I pause, wondering if I should just head home. Dr. Mac told David and me that we shouldn't come in if the weather was too bad. David ... he'll think I'm a scaredy-cat if I don't show up.

The clinic is just a few blocks away. I cross Mrs. Clark's yard with my head down against the wind, but I catch a glimpse of that puddle in the corner of the yard as I pass by. Is it a little bigger than when I got there? Or is it just my imagination? There's no way to be sure.

 
 
I'm still thinking about that puddle in the yard—and the ones in the basement—when I get back to the clinic. The phone is ringing when I walk in. There's nobody else in the reception area, so I throw my body against the door to push it closed against the howling wind, then rush over to pick up the phone.

“Hello, Dr. Mac's Place,” I say. “Can I help you?”

“It's an emergency!” a breathless, panicky voice answers. “My little Precious girl won't eat her food and she keeps shivering, and a tree fell over so I can't get the car out of my driveway to bring her in, and I just know she's sick—”

“Um, hold on a second, please,” I interrupt. “I'll get Dr. Mac.”

I've already recognized the woman's voice. I hurry back to the recovery room, where I find Dr. Mac changing the gauze bandage on a corgi with a torn toenail. “It's Mrs. Creighton,” I tell her. “She says Precious is shivering and not eating, and she can't get her car out of the driveway to come over.” Mrs. Creighton is one of our most frequent visitors to the clinic. She has two tiny Yorkshire terriers, and she gets hysterical if one of them sneezes or coughs or looks at her funny.

Dr. Mac sighs. “Oh, dear,” she says, looking harried. “Precious is probably just anxious because of the weather. But she's so nervous, even missing a meal or two could stress her enough to upset her stomach again. I suppose I'd better get over there and check on her. She may need a dextrose injection.”

I help her return the corgi to his cage. Then, as Dr. Mac hurries toward the phone, I wander into the kennel area, where the other volunteers are doing chores.

When I tell them about the phone call, Zoe rolls her eyes. “Mrs. Creighton is a nut,” she comments. “Precious is probably on a hunger strike to try to get herself a new owner.”

I expect Maggie to argue with her—maybe launch into some long speech about dextrose injections. But she just nods. “Mrs. Creighton worries too much,” she says. “And those little dogs know it, so they walk all over her. Precious probably decided she doesn't like her brand of dog food.”

As Maggie talks, she's letting a dog I've never seen before out of one of the wire kennels. He looks like a small collie or sheltie mix. “Who's that?” I ask.

“His name's Otis.” Brenna reaches down to scratch the dog behind the ears. “Someone found him wandering around and brought him here for safekeeping.”

Maggie nods. “Dr. Mac called his owners—the number's on his tags—but their phone doesn't seem to be working, probably because of good old Felix. She's keeping an eye on him here until we can get in touch with them.”

“Good thing he's wearing his tags.” I watch the little dog cheerfully follow Maggie toward the back door. It would be terrible to lose your pet in a storm and not know how to find him. It makes me glad that Mittens is safe and sound inside my house.

I wander back toward the front. Dr. Mac is just hanging up the phone. She pulls on her raincoat and grabs her keys from the desk. “Dr. Gabe just called to say he was leaving the Jenkins farm—their llama decided she just had to give birth during this hurricane. He should be back shortly.”

“Okay,” I say. I can't help but feel a twinge of worry. What if we have a real emergency while both vets are out?

I don't think about that for long. There are chores to do. The first hour passes quickly. We clean the exam rooms, wash and refill the water dishes in all the occupied kennel cages, and bring the files and calendar up to date. Then we start to run out of things to do. The five of us keep as busy as we can doing whatever we can think of to do. By the time another half hour passes, the entire clinic is spotless. Every surface and piece of equipment shines. Every item, from penicillin to paper clip, is stowed in its proper place. Every dog has been fed, and all the kenneled cats have clean, fresh litter boxes.

I'm in the reception area thinking about calling Mom at the hospital when the phone rings. I cross my fingers and check my watch as I pick it up. Dr. Mac left almost an hour ago, but Mrs. Creighton and Precious live all the way across town. Maybe Dr. Mac is calling to say that she's on her way back. “Hello?” I say. “Dr. Mac's Place.”

“Hi, Sunita,” a familiar voice responds. “It's Dr. Gabe.”

“Dr. Gabe!” I exclaim. “Where are you? Dr. Mac thought you'd be back here by now.”

He laughs. “So did I. But Hurricane Felix had other ideas. The wind knocked down an oak tree on the road right in front of the Jenkins farm, and it's blocking my path. They're hooking a truck up to it to pull it out of the way, but it could be a while.”

He sounds tired. “So you'll be back as soon as that's done?” I ask.

“I hope so,” Dr. Gabe replies. “But it's been raining pretty hard since I got here, and a lot of the roads were starting to flood even on my way over. I just hope I can find a way around the worst spots. How are things at the clinic?”

“Fine.” I don't tell him that Dr. Mac is out. There's nothing he can do about it anyway, and it might make him worry. “Really quiet, actually.”

“Good. Let J.J. know I'll be there when I can.”

“I will.”
As soon as she gets back,
I add silently. “Drive carefully.”

“Thanks. Stay dry, Sunita!”

“Okay. Bye.” As I hang up the phone, I bite my lip and glance at my watch, wondering when Dr. Mac will be back.

“Who was that?” Maggie asks.

I tell her about Dr. Gabe's problem. “He's not sure when he'll be able to get through.”

“Figures,” Maggie says with a grimace. “Well, we'd better just hope that—”

Zoe rushes in, interrupting. “I just saw a news report on TV,” she reports breathlessly. “They've started evacuating part of town because of major flooding!”

Chapter Seven

F
looding? Are you sure?” I ask Zoe. The image of the giant puddle in Mrs. Clark's front yard pops into my mind. “Is it actually flooding? Maybe they're just evacuating people to be safe. You know, as a precaution.”

“I don't think so.” Zoe shrugs. “They said it's flooding. Come see for yourself—they're not showing anything else on TV except the hurricane.”

We all follow Zoe back through the door from the clinic to the house and crowd into the kitchen, almost tripping over Sneakers, who follows us and whimpers anxiously at all the commotion. Jacqueline Jermaine is on the TV, reporting from right here in Ambler. She's standing in the parking lot of the Acme supermarket, the wind whipping her usually neat hair into a wild mess.

“Jacqueline Jermaine, reporting live!” she shouts into the wind. “As you can see, we're feeling the effects of Hurricane Felix here in Ambler. Residents of Montgomery and Bucks counties are being urged to remain indoors and stay tuned for storm updates and evacuation information. People in low-lying areas should prepare for evacuation.”

Brenna frowns, patting Sneakers, who has settled down on top of her feet. “I don't get it. Why would they need to evacuate here? We're not near the ocean.”

“That's why.” David points at the TV screen. “Look!”

The picture has switched to show a row of homes. At least I guess they're homes. All we can see are their roofs—the rest is underwater.

“That's Oakwood!” Maggie exclaims. “I recognize that gas station sign. But that's right outside of town! I can't believe it's so flooded there!”