Blue Like Elvis (3 page)

Chapter 2

I made my way to
the hostess office on the first floor of the Madison wing. Mrs. Baker was
seated at her desk in the small outer office.

“Welcome, Shelby! How
nice to see you again. Are you excited?” She stood up, extending her hand to
me.

I shook it firmly
as Daddy had always taught me to do. “I sure am. A little nervous, but very
excited. Thank you so much for hiring me, Mrs. Baker.”

“My pleasure. Now
come on back and let me introduce you to the other girls. You’ll be heading to
orientation this afternoon, but I want you to get your feet wet this morning.”

Feet wet?
Whoa. I thought I’d have more time to learn the ropes.

“Girls, I want to
introduce you to our newest hostess. This is Shelby Colter. Shelby’s a graduate
of Samford University, raised in Birmingham, but she was born right here in
Memphis. You girls introduce yourselves and make her welcome. Shelby, after you
say hello, you and I will go have coffee and chat for awhile.”

“Sounds good.
Thanks, Mrs. Baker.”

“Girls, be nice to
her.” With that she sashayed back to her desk.

I couldn’t believe
how small the back room was. How on earth could it accommodate a dozen
hostesses? Two vinyl sofas lined the walls with a corner end table between
them. The girls were crammed on the sofas, on the arms of the sofas, on the
floor, with several of them standing in front of a full length mirror putting
final touches on their make-up.

“Hey, Shelby. I’m Sarah
Beth McCracken. I’ve been here the longest so I’ll introduce everyone.”

 Sometimes you can
size up a person in the first few seconds you meet them. I had Sarah Beth
pegged before the first introduction was made. Type A personality.
Self-appointed queen of the hostesses. Brunette, attractive, in a business sort
of way. Perfectly groomed, right down to her polished nails and immaculately
coiffed hair. Not a hair out of place.

She went around
the room, telling me names I knew I’d forget along with their assigned floors.

 Debra, who had
maybe the bluest eyes I’d ever seen, worked the Urology floor. “Or the
waterworks floor, as we like to call it,” she said with a friendly wink. “Hi,
Shelby.”

Debra. Blue,
blue eyes. Ash blonde. Friendly,
I said to myself, trying to make mental
notes.

Mindy worked the obstetrics
floor. “That’s on Five. I’m also in charge of the newborn pictures, so I have
my own office up there in the prayer room.” She leaned closer to me. “It’s also
where we hang out when we need a break from Mrs. B. Come on up anytime.” Her
eyebrows danced along with her smile.

Mindy. Long
blonde hair. Tall and slender. Confident. Obstetrics.
How would I ever
remember all their names?

“Leila works the
pediatric floor,” Sarah Beth continued, “but you won’t see much of her. They
keep her running.”

Leila, gave me a
quick wave as she rounded the corner. “Nice to meet you. We’ll talk later,
okay? Gotta run.”

Leila. Another
short one. Sable brown chin-length hair. Pediatrics. Cute girl.

“Chelsea works on
Twelve with our neuro patients. But don’t assume that makes her any smarter
than the rest of us,” Sarah Beth quipped.

Chelsea smiled. “Ah,
but I
am.
It’s all that extra brain fluid flowing up there. Sticky
stuff, but it does tend to make you smart.”

“Gross!” one of
the girls said. “Did you have to say that? I’m eating my yogurt here.”

And on and on it
went. Two of the girls weren’t in the office, already up on their floors.
Another was home sick. Twelve hostesses in all, all beautiful and dressed in
gorgeous rust-colored suits. I noticed they all wore hose and heels. It had
been a long time since I’d stepped into anything but running shoes, but I’d
adjust. Their pin-striped blouses had matching ties attached, which were tied
in the latest style to form a classic bow at the neck.

Just then, a door in
the corner of the office opened. Out walked a drop dead gorgeous brunette from
the small restroom. I wasn’t sure how she’d kept a tan like that this early in
spring, but I was sure it was from some recent tropical vacation and not a
bottle of Coppertone. Her blue eyes sparkled beneath thick black lashes, her
smile radiant with the whitest teeth I’d ever seen. “Well, hey! You must be
Shelby, my replacement. I’m Pamela Smythe.” Suddenly I was engulfed in a hug
and dizzy from a cloud of Chanel No. 5.

“Nice to meet you,
Pamela.”

“Babe? You ready?”

We all turned
toward the door which was now filled by a god. Okay, not a god. But maybe the
most handsome man I’d ever seen in person. His white lab coat contrasted with a
tan that matched Pamela’s exactly, a navy silk tie knotted under his heavily
starched blue oxford cloth shirt. His full name was embroidered on the left
pocket.
Franklin Warrick, M.D.

“Oh hey, honey. I’m
ready. But I want you to meet Shelby. She’s taking my place up on Nine. Shelby,
this is Franklin, my fiancé.”

Thankfully, he
didn’t try to hug me. Though even a handshake away, I caught a whiff of his
Aramis cologne. It made my knees go weak. “Shelby. Nice to meet you,” he said,
taking my hand.

Pamela peeked at
the mirror one more time, touching a manicured pinky to the edge of her lips.
Then she turned, placing a hand on my arm. That’s when I glimpsed the rock on
her finger. A marquis, easily two carats. I tried not to let my jaw drop, but I’m
fairly sure it did.

“I’m going to grab
a quick bite of breakfast with Franklin, then I’ll meet you back here and we’ll
head up to Nine. Cardiology! You’ll love it up there. We call it ‘the floor
with heart.’”

A round of moans
followed her out the door. “That’s because she hooked that big delicious heart
throb up there,” said the short Puerto Rican whose name I recalled was Sandra.
They all laughed and made a few playful digs about the striking beauty and her
doctor—all in good taste, of course.

“Shelby?” Now it
was Mrs. Baker filling the door. “Let’s go for coffee, shall we? Girls, get up
to your floors. Time’s a wasting.”

We took our seats
in the dining room that overlooked Madison Avenue. Linen tablecloths, fine
china, and silver. A far cry from the usual hospital cafeteria.

As if she’d read
my mind, Mrs. Baker took a seat and motioned for me to do the same. “This is
our more formal dining room. Many of the doctors and administrators eat here,
as well as visiting pastors and other guests. There’s also a large cafeteria on
the Union side where most of the employees dine. I prefer it here. Much more
quiet.”

She ordered two
coffees for us and I studied her as she began telling me all about the
hospital. She was actually very pretty, with a head full of thick white hair,
obviously teased into the “do” common to women her age. I’d guessed she was
somewhere in the neighborhood of 60 or so. Not exactly lean, but not plump
either. Friendly gray-blue eyes with a slight hint of mystery, but overtly
authoritarian. No question there.

Suddenly I
realized she was no longer talking about the hospital but about her latest
golfing trip to Florida. “When spring comes, I try to take off early a couple
days a week to work on my game. Do you play, Shelby?”

“Me? Oh, no, ma’am.
I’ve never played. My brother’s pretty good. He and Dad play a lot, but I never
learned to play.”

“That’s a shame. I’ve
tried to interest some of the other girls in learning, but so far I’ve had no
takers. Such a wonderful game.”

I realized her
eyes were lit up like a Macy’s Christmas tree. She continued telling me about
some of her better shots, which of the doctors at the hospital belonged to her
country club, and the locations of her favorite courses around the country.

Note to self:
sign up for golf lessons.

Half an hour
later, she signed the tab and we headed back to the office. So much for my
introduction to Baptist Hospital.

As we rounded the
final corner to the office, she said, “Be sure to be at orientation by 1:00
sharp. I’ll have Pamela take you to the conference room . . . well,
speak of the devil.”

Tucked in a dark hall
corner closest to the office, the good doctor and his stunning fiancée were
sharing a rather tender moment just as we passed.

“Dr. Warrick, I’ll
thank you to part lips with Miss Smythe and let her get back to work. Time’s a
wasting, you two.”

I felt like a
pimple-faced school girl in tow behind the principal watching the cool kids
make out. I had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last time I felt that way.

Pamela caught up
to me as I entered the back office. “Ready to rock and roll? Oh! I almost
forgot.” She jumped into the back room where half a dozen other hostesses still
lingered. “Did you all hear Elvis checked out this morning?”

“About time!” the
feisty Puerto Rican chimed in. “He’s been here almost two weeks this time.
Think he’s dried out yet?”

“Sandra, bite your
lip!” Pamela scolded with a laugh. “You know Elvis doesn’t drink.”

“Who said anything
about booze?”

A tiny wisp of a
thing, Sandra was no more than 5’2” with a head full of black curls, a perfect
olive complexion, and a ready smile. I could tell immediately Sandra held
nothing back and liked to have a good time. I had a feeling we’d get along
great. Especially if I remembered to pronounce her name correctly—Sandra, as in
“Sahndra” not Sandra as in Sandra Dee.

“Sandra, let it
go,” Mrs. Baker warned from the outer office. “You represent this hospital, so
watch your tongue, young lady.”

Sandra made a face
which our boss couldn’t see, but I kind of loved her for it. No offense to Mrs.
Baker, but I wasn’t a big Elvis fan, as you know. I chuckled quietly. Sandra
smiled as if we were co-conspirators.

“Miss Garcia, why
aren’t you on your floor yet?”

“Oh, I’ve already
been up there. I ran out of my cards. I was just leaving.” She made another
wild expression then headed out the door. “¡Adios, amigas!”

“That reminds me,
Shelby,” Mrs. Baker continued from the outer office. “I’ve ordered your cards
and your name tag. They should be ready in the next couple of days, and I’ll
call Casual Corner this afternoon and order your uniforms.”

“Great,” I answered.
I’d noticed the gold name tags pinned to the other girls’ jacket lapels, but hadn’t
noticed the small handful of business cards the girls kept tucked onto their
clipboards.

“We give these
along with our brochures to each of the new patients.” Pamela showed me her
card with her name and the office extension below the title,
Hostess,
and
handed me one of the small brochures. More like a pamphlet actually. It had a
picture of the front of the hospital on the cover with the words “At Your
Service” across the bottom. “That’s how they contact us. They put a call into
the office, then Mrs. B. or whoever’s here calls it in to paging. You’ll get
used to hearing your name all the time. ‘Miss Colter, Miss Shelby Colter,’” she
mimicked, “then you just pick up the nearest phone, call paging, and they give
you the message.”

“Do you get a lot
of pages?”

She laughed out
loud. “Oh, girlfriend, you have no idea. You’ll start hearing them in your
sleep. Well, let’s do this. You ready?”

“Sure,” I lied,
following her out the door.

As we rode the
elevator up to the Ninth floor on the Madison wing, Pamela asked, “So have you
ever met him?”

“Who him?”

“Elvis! You know,
we all go a little crazy when he’s here. I’ve met him several times. Mostly at
social events I’ve attended with Franklin. Franklin and Dr. Nick are good
friends.”

“Who’s Dr. Nick?”

“George
Nichopoulos. Elvis’s doctor. Would you believe every time I’ve been around
Elvis, he’s asked for my number? Of course, I always refuse to give it to him.”

Why am I not
surprised. Pamela certainly had the looks to attract a king.

“Why didn’t you
give it to him?” I asked, curious.

“Because I’m
engaged, silly!” she scoffed, looking at me like I’d sprouted horns on my head.
“Besides, everybody knows Elvis likes lots and lots of girls. That’s just not
me. Oh, no no no.”

“So what’s he
like?”

“Once you get
passed the flirting, he’s the nicest guy. He really is. Not at all like the
wild stallion everyone makes him out to be. He’s very generous, very kind. The
last time I saw him, he didn’t look well. But then, that’s why he comes here
when he’s sick or needs to . . . get better.
 Of
course, you can’t just go walking up there on his floor. He’s got quite an
entourage surrounding him every time he comes in. And then there’s Marian.”

“Marian?”

“Marian Cocke.
Elvis’s nurse. Let’s just say she’s extremely ‘protective’, but then who can
blame her? That’s quite a responsibility. She’s got her hands full when he’s
here. Plus she just adores him. Like a mother hen, you know? I really respect
her for the way she looks out for his best interests while he’s here. And he
absolutely loves her in return.”

The elevator door
opened. We threaded our way through a throng of doctors, orderlies, and
visitors, finally making our way to the nurses’ station on Madison Nine. I
noticed a group of nurses, a medical records clerk, several orderlies, and
others working around the station.

And then the
former beauty queen (yes, I’d already found out she was Miss University of
Mississippi just a few short years ago), looking every bit the radiant glamour
queen that she was, introduced the plain peasant girl from Birmingham who’d
come to take her place.

“Hey kids! Who
wants to meet the new kid in town?”

Chapter 3

I’m pretty sure my
head was spinning and would topple off any moment. Pamela was wonderful,
showing me around the floor, introducing me to everyone I’d be working with.
But it was a lot to take in all at once. Especially after meeting all the girls
in the hostess office. Mostly I shadowed Pamela, observing as she visited all
the patients on her floor. She showed me the computer printed cards for each
new patient admitted in the last 24 hours. The cards gave all kinds of
information, more than we probably needed to know—name, age, address, phone
number, person to contact, insurance carrier, social security number—that sort
of thing.

Loaded with all
these cards, Pamela would visit the new patients first, then later start making
rounds to all the others. Most of the people were very pleased to hear of our
service. A few weren’t terribly cordial, but that was to be expected. This was the
cardiology floor, after all. Many times they’d be asleep or out of the room
having tests run. Pamela would just leave the hostess brochure and her card on
the tray table.

“Remember,” she
told me, “the best visit is in and out. At least on the initial visit. You don’t
want to take too much of their time. They’re usually overwhelmed to be here in
the first place, so it’s best just to let them know who you are and how to
reach you.”

And that’s what
we did. Well, most of the time, anyway. Occasionally we’d encounter a chatty
patient or family member who wanted to share their entire life story and that
of everyone they’ve ever known.

“In those cases,
unless you’re already done with your rounds and you just want to visit, you’ve
got to learn some tricks. Listen and learn.”

She tapped
lightly on the door of a patient who’d been on the floor for almost a week. “Good
morning, Mr. McKinley. How are you today?”

The elderly man
launched into a tirade about his good-for-nothing son, the blankety-blank
nurses, and President Carter’s latest gaffe. How the man carried on such long
diatribes was a medical wonder, as sick as he was. After a few minutes, Pamela
stepped closer to his bed, patted his hand, and said, “I know exactly what you
mean. But right now I’ve got to run some errands for some of the other patients
on the floor. How about I check in on you later?”

And before he
could answer she was halfway out the door. “You take care, Mr. McKinley, and
get some rest now.” As the door silently whooshed behind us, she added, “And
that, my dear, is how it’s done.”

How would I ever
remember all her tips and suggestions? I’d brought along a steno pad and made
as many notes as I could, but I didn’t want to appear rude to the patients. I
wasn’t kidding when I said my head was spinning.

Pamela looked at
her watch, a dainty Rolex, its face surrounded by tiny diamonds.
No doubt a
gift from Dr. Warrick.
“Hey, are you about ready for some lunch?”

“Yes!”

“I know. It’s a
lot to take in,” she said, herding me down the hall. “But it’s really no big
deal. You’ll get the hang of it. After a day or two, you’ll come up with your
own words, your own presentation, and they’ll be eating out of your hands. I
promise.” We’d arrived at the elevators and she pushed the down button. “Would
you like to have lunch with Franklin and me? We’d be happy for you to join us.”

“Oh, well . . .”
I couldn’t see it. I just couldn’t. A third wheel on the Love Boat. “Actually,
I was hoping to get to know some of the other girls in the office. Would that
be okay?”

“Oh, sure,
Shelby. That’s probably a better idea anyway. You’re gonna love the girls. I
do. I’m going to miss them so much!”

The door opened
and we joined the busy main hall of the first floor. “So when is the big day?
Your wedding,” I asked.

“Three weeks
from Saturday. I can hardly stand it, I’m so excited! Franklin has accepted a
position at a hospital in Hawaii, so we decided to just have the ceremony
there.”

Thus, the
tans. No doubt a house-hunting trip or two.

“Hawaii! Wow,
that must be beautiful. I’ve never been to Hawaii.”

She grabbed my
arm. I realized it was something she often did to whoever she was talking to. “Oh,
Shelby, you just have to go! You and the girls need to come over and visit
sometime. It’s so gorgeous, you can’t even imagine.”

She was right. I
couldn’t. Not even close.

“Anyway, my last
day will be—”

“Moonpie?”

I stopped dead
in my tracks. I knew the voice. At least I thought I did. There were only two
people on the planet that called me by that name: my brother, who was currently
overseas; and his ornery childhood friend, Tucker Thompson. A thousand memories
flashed through my mind, taking me back to my childhood before we left Memphis.
My brother Jimmy and his annoying friend Tucker, forever aggravating the life
out of me just for the fun of it. Sneaking up on me and scaring me so bad I’d
wet my pants. Prank-calling me, pretending to be my crush from school. Putting
worms in my Spaghetti-O’s and vinegar in my Kool-Aid.

“Moonpie, is
that really you?”

By now, Pamela had
turned around and was enjoying a good laugh. I closed my eyes, wishing I could
just fall through the floor and avoid this little reunion altogether. I blew
out my breath as I turned around to see the little creep—

Only he wasn’t.

He was tall and
all grown up and . . . oh my goodness, so incredibly handsome.

Tucker
Thompson? Handsome?

“Tucker?” I
said, having trouble finding my voice.

“I can’t believe
it! It
is
you! How in the world are you, Moonpie!” He grabbed me into a
bear hug, squeezing what little breath I had left. At this rate, I was pretty
sure I’d be passed out on the floor soon.

“Hi, Dr.
Thompson.” Pamela gave a little wave, smiling from ear to ear.

“Hey, Pamela.
Nice to see you.”

“Okay, somebody
tell me,” Pamela began. “How on earth did you
ever
come up with the name
‘Moonpie’?”

Tucker stood
back, holding me at arm’s length. “You wanna tell her or do I?” he asked, as if
we were about to share the world’s best kept secret.

 I covered my
eyes with my hand. “No, by all means. You go right ahead.”

“Well, let’s
just say Shelby here had a real passion for Moonpies when she was growing up.
Mrs. Colter used to buy them by the case for her little Shelby. She was the
cutest little thing you ever saw. Those dark raven curls dancing all over her
head, her eyes all narrowed just daring us not to bug her. But you would never,
and I mean
never
find little Miss RC here without a Moon Pie mustache.
Right there on those pouty little lips.” He drew an imaginary mustache just inches
from my face. If he’d touched me, I might have smacked him.

“Tuck, do we
have to—”

“Wait,
wait—’RC’?” Pamela asked, clearly enjoying this way too much. “Are those
initials or some kind of nickname?”

“Those are my initials,” I explained. “My real name is Rayce
Catherine—that’s Rayce, spelled R-a-y-c-e. Dad preferred ‘RC’ to avoid some
unfortunate misunderstandings, which you might expect back in the early ‘60s . . .”

“Ah,” Pamela said, figuring out the connection. “‘RC Cola and a Moonpie.
Got it. Every Southern kid’s favorite snack.”

“Her brother
Jimmy was my best friend,” Tucker continued, unfortunately.

Then again, it
did give me an opportunity to look him over. He still had the same chocolate
brown hair, still a shaggy mess. I’d forgotten the unusual color of his
eyes—almost a smoky caramel—now warmed with a permanent smile. But my oh my, he
was so tall! Had to be 6’3” or more? It felt so strange looking up to him. In
more ways than one.

 “ . . .
and Jimmy and I, we were inseparable. I practically lived at their house half
the time. And it was our sacred purpose in life to aggravate his kid sister
here as much as we could. And let me tell you, we were
bad.
”

“The stories I
could tell,” I moaned, still trying as best I could to avoid eye contact with
him.

“Oh, the stories
we
could tell!” He laughed again with the same contagious laughter I
remembered all too well. I hated “Chubby Tucker,” which I’d called him for
years until it dawned on me it didn’t bother him a bit. But I could never stay
mad because he always made me laugh.

“So, Moonpie,
what are you doing here? I thought you still lived in Birmingham?” He stepped
back, taking a good long look at me from head to toe. “And I must say, the
years have been kind to you. I can’t get over it! Jimmy’s scrawny little
sister, all grown up and beautiful.”

“Hey, if you two
will excuse me,” Pamela said, squeezing my arm, “I’m sure you have lots of
catching up to do. See you after lunch, Shelby?”

“Sure thing.
Thanks, Pamela.”

“Bye, Pamela,”
Tucker added.

“Bye, Dr. Thompson.”

“Pretty girl,”
he whispered as she walked away.

“Ya think?” I answered,
turning back to look at him. I still couldn’t believe it. It simply would not
compute in my mind that the obnoxious kid I put up with all those years was
standing right here in front of me . . . looking like
this
?
His hair was still curly, and a handful of freckles still splashed across his
nose. The years had been more
than kind to Tucker Thompson, if the
gentle laugh lines crinkling around his eyes were any indication.

I suddenly
realized he was wearing a white lab coat. With his name embroidered on the
pocket. “Tuck, are you a
doctor
?”

“Well, thanks
for that bold vote of confidence. But yes, I’m a doctor. This is my first year
of residency.”

“But how did you
end up here? Didn’t I hear you went to Vanderbilt?”

“Yeah, I did my
undergraduate work there, then lucked into my internship there at the
Vanderbilt Hospital. But what about you? What are you doing here? Last I heard
you were at Samford.”

I had to take
another deep breath. “Oh, well, I graduated last spring. Actually, today is my
first day on the job.”

“Really? Here at
Baptist?” Same goofy smile. But somehow, it looked downright mesmerizing now.

“Yeah, I’m going
to be working in the hostess department. We visit patients and—”

“Oh, I know all
about the hostesses. Everybody does. Great program. The patients all love them.
Doctors do too,” he smirked, doing a bad Groucho imitation with an imaginary
cigar.

He just stood
there smiling at me. I felt all woozy inside. Which only made me mad, of
course.
Woozy? Over Chubby Tucker Thompson?

“Listen, Moon—”

“Tucker, you’ve got
to stop calling me that. I’m working here, okay?”

“Fine, sure. No
problem. So
Shelby,
do you have plans for lunch? Wanna join me in the
cafeteria?”

Oh dear.
By this point, I was on brain and emotion overload. I could almost hear the fog
horn blasting through my mind.
Aoogah! Aoogah!
Wasn’t that the warning
signal heard on submarines?
Submarines? Where did that come from?
Oh,
for the love of Pete. I had to get a hold of myself.
Grow up, Shelby. It
isn’t Robert Redford. It’s Tucker Thompson.

I scratched my
eyebrow. “Lunch? Um, well . . . yeah, I guess.”

His smile faded.
“Gee, don’t sound so excited. I don’t want to put you out or anything.”

“No!” I reached
out and touched his arm. I pulled it back, as if it had done the deed on its
own. “No, Tucker, it’s not that. I . . . I’d like that. I would.
But can you give me just a minute to check by the office first?”

His face
relaxed. “Sure. I’ll just wait right here. Take your time.”

Remember when I
said it felt like my head was about to spin off? It did. Right then and there,
toppling off down the hall.

Good heavens.