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Cocheta Bass
HAPPY HAVEN NURSING HOME UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA
Cocheta Bass was working two jobs these days.
During the ten months of the school year, she was employed as a school nurse at Union Springs Middle School, where she screened adolescents for illness and treated injuries of all sorts. Served up no-nonsense maternal advice, along with bandages and disinfectants and sanitary napkins.
And there was that one time. When she landed in the middle of a student’s major life crisis. Cocheta was still paying a high price for that decision.
But miraculously—it hadn’t resulted in Cocheta getting fired. Because she was hard to replace. The county was short on licensed nursing professionals. A person with her background was in demand.
So, after her divorce from her no-good, deadbeat husband, she’d taken on a second job. Cocheta worked the swing shift at the Happy Haven Nursing Home, right outside the city limits of Union Springs. Cocheta didn’t relish the sixteen-hour days. She took on the extra work because her son, Holden, had started college the year before. Holden was the first in her family line to attend college. Not a matter of importance to her ex, though. Despite all the promises that Karl Bass had made to step up and help fund their son’s education, that man never had any money to spare when tuition was due, or the housing bill came up.
She sat at the computer in the nurses’ station, recording her notes on the status of the residents on her floor. A coworker, one of the aides, walked up and leaned over the counter, watching her. Out of the blue, the young woman said to Cocheta, “You know what I think is crazy? That she wasn’t on the pill. I mean, why wasn’t she using birth control? That would’ve fixed everything.”
Cocheta didn’t answer. The explanation was so obvious, she wanted to scream.Because she was thirteen!
It was dark outside. Stars were starting to blink; she could make them out through the skylight overhead. Cocheta looked up, checked the time on the wall clock. Almost ten o’clock. She wouldn’t be compensated for overtime. Cocheta typed faster.
The nurse’s aide kept firing questions. “So how’d it go down? Did the girl come to you at school, tell you she was pregnant? Or did that Bria Gaines get you involved?”
The mention of Dr. Gaines made an ice pick go to work on Cocheta’s brain. She winced as a band of pain tightened around her head. The product of a guilty conscience. Bria Gaines didn’t get Cocheta involved. It was the other way around.
But they’d threatened her. Said she’d go to jail. Who wouldtake care of Holden? How would he remain in school if Cocheta was locked up?
“I can’t talk about it” was all she said.
Finally, she wrapped up her reports. Unlocked a drawer and pulled out her purse.
“I’m heading out now,” she told the aide. “When Shakira gets back, tell her to keep an eye on Iona Johnson in 21E. HerC. diffis acting up.”
“Again?”
Cocheta walked to the side exit. Her departure was delayed when she encountered a roaming resident who was this close to placement in the memory care unit. After she walked the man back to his room, Cocheta made it to the parking lot.
She had a sinking feeling when she started up her Toyota SUV and saw that it was low on gas. That meant she’d need to go out of her way, to drive to the twenty-four-hour convenience store on the highway. Just a matter of minutes, but she wasn’t happy about the delay. Cocheta felt like she was out of gas, too. Her energy supply was drained, she just wanted to get home.
She’d driven about half a mile from the nursing home when the glare of headlights shining in her rearview mirror started to bug her. She took a glance over her shoulder. Looked like a truck was following her, with its brights on. The headlights blinded her, so she couldn’t tell much about the truck, couldn’t guess the make or even the color.
Wasn’t her husband, though. His truck was a clunker that ran on diesel; you could hear it a mile away.
She was relieved when the brightly litQUICK SERVEsign came into view. She turned into the lot, releasing a huge breath as the truck picked up speed and drove on by.
She only pumped twenty dollars’ worth of regular, because payday was a week away. Then she went inside the store, to kill a little time. Wandered the snack aisle, walked by the coolers of water, soda, and beer.
The cashier kept an eye on her. He called out, “Can I help you find something?”
Cocheta almost confided in him. Told him that a truck was following, making her paranoid. But the guy didn’t look particularly sympathetic. These days, people around town were giving Cocheta short shrift, the cold shoulder.
So she just shook her head. “No thanks,” she said as she headed out of the store.
Inside her car, she hit the lock button before she buckled her seat belt. Thought about calling somebody, asking for reassurance. But who could she call? It was well past ten o’clock. Nobody wanted to be bothered past ten at night.
As she pulled out of the lot and onto the highway, she wondered what her ex-husband was up to. Would Karl put someone up to this? Had she made him mad again? It didn’t take much.
Had she ticked off someone else?
