Forbidden Falls (Virgin River #9)(33)

“Pretty much. I grew up in a suburb of Columbus and went to college and seminary in Seattle.”

“Where I came from, working in an urban trauma center, when we treated indigents or vagrants, we called social services and just handed them off. I never had to worry about what had become of them after that transfer. The doctors called it ‘buff ’em and turf ’em.’ Treat the patients as well as you can for your specialty, then hand them off to another service—someone else’s turf—and then it’s their problem. Things are very different around here—except for the larger cities, there aren’t facilities for dealing with poverty and homeless people. Virgin River doesn’t have anything to offer, and neither do the surrounding small mountain towns.”

“You have homeless here?” he asked. He knew that except for the successful ranches, farms and vineyards, most of the community lived a lower-middle-class existence, but he hadn’t seen any stark poverty or homelessness.

“Boy howdy,” she said. “I think you should see for yourself. I doubt there’s much you can do about it, Noah. They sure won’t cotton up to you bible beating them. They might torture you for that. Or just plain go to sleep. But you should know about mountain life. There are lots of poor people out in these mountains who aren’t homeless, people who homesteaded, and once they sold off their quotient of lumber, had nothing left but a mountain full of forty-foot trees and very little income. If they homesteaded, they’re probably elderly and often sickly, but they’re not real fond of doctors, either. I get a little slack, being a nurse-practitioner. We look in on them when we can.”

“I guess you have to know the area pretty well,” he said.

“More than half of our population is rural,” she said. She turned off onto what appeared to be a hidden road. Narrow, all dirt and washboard, obviously very seldom used.

“It’s not all charity work in our practice,” she said. “In fact, we’re doing better all the time—there are more insured and paying patients every year around here, but there are still people in need who don’t have the means. It’s all part of the territory, Noah. I get a lot of food at the clinic as patient fees. After Cameron and I go through it and see what we can use, most of the really good stuff goes over to Jack’s. Preacher cooks it, bakes it, freezes it, cans it…and they always serve people who serve the town—”

“He’s been real good to me that way,” Noah said. “I won’t take advantage, but I’ll take the occasional piece of pie off his hands….”

“Well, it all shakes out even in the end. There’s always stuff left at the clinic—milk and juice real close to going bad, cheese with a few moldy spots I can cut off and, depending on the season, there might be some produce. And then there are the casseroles that are half eaten. Stuff that can’t be used at Jack’s but can fill a belly. The boxes in the back have food in them. There’s just one problem….”

“What’s that?”

“Jack has absolutely forbidden me to do this. As Doc Mullins did before him. So, I’m trusting you.”

“Oh, great. Secrets between husband and wife.”

“I don’t see it that way,” she said. “They are confidences kept by a medical practitioner in this town. You can rest assured that when you come to me with a medical problem that you might find personal and perhaps embarrassing, Jack will never know about it.”

“Well, there’s a comfort,” he said. Like when would that happen? When he finally had constipation? The drip?

“Well, Jesus, Noah—would you tell about my spiritual struggles?”

“You have some?” he asked almost hopefully.

“Not that I recall,” she said with a shrug. “We’re almost there. I’d like you to please stay in the car. You’re new around here. They don’t know you. It might make them skittish.”

“Who?”

But before Mel answered, she pulled into a clearing. And there was a camp. Surrounding a bald spot within the trees were tents, a couple of old vehicles—one up on bricks without wheels and one that could be functional—one old dilapidated trailer, some furniture that looked as if it had been pilfered from a dump, some tarps stretched over the furniture to keep the moisture off. And a few men standing around who looked for all the world like hillbillies. They had a pot over a fire and that was it.

Mel jumped out, opened the back of the Humvee and hauled out a box. She put it onto the hood of the Hummer and waited. An old man with a gray beard that reached down to his chest ambled forward. He was skin and bones and real shaky. He nodded a little as Mel spoke to him. She reached inside the box and pulled out a large white plastic jar and held up one finger. She shook the jar and held up that one finger again, in emphasis, and the man nodded.

Noah watched in fascination. And then, although he had been told to wait in the car, he got out. Mel glared at him briefly, but didn’t say anything. Noah stayed beside the passenger door, minding his own business. Then, braving her reproach, he went to the back of the Hummer and got the second box, bringing it slowly and cautiously around to the front of the vehicle.

“Anyone sick or hurt?” Mel asked the man.

He shook his head and she handed him the box.

“That’s good to hear. You know where I am if you need anything medically.”