two hundred people had packed the auditorium. Not one of them was smiling. His eyes found the girl in the back, but she was looking at her notes again.
He cleared his throat and began explaining in succinct detail the condition of the county’s budget. When it was apparent how desperately cuts were in order, he began talking about the children’s unit. The numbers told the story. Kelso General was owned by the county and simply was not making enough money to warrant a children’s ward.
“Children’s units are more costly because equipment must be adjusted on nearly every level. Smaller beds, smaller machinery, smaller needles and tubing and testing devices.” He looked for a softening among the crowd and saw none.
He went on to tell them how other units at the hospital were essential and that children could still be treated in the emergency room once the children’s unit was closed.
“Children who need hospitalization will be transported to Portland’s Doernbecher Children’s Hospital. Of course that facility is one of the finest in the nation.”
Finally, Tanner dealt with the most difficult truth of all. “The fact is, Kelso General is costing this county a lot of money. While none of you wants to see the children’s unit closed, it would be far worse to see the entire hospital shut down.”
He cited towns that had lost hospitals because of the drain on county funds. “The board of supervisors feels very strongly that this town does need a hospital. Kelso General has atremendous reputation in the medical community, and the staff there has played a part in saving the lives of hundreds of Kelso residents. You may know someone who is alive today because of Kelso General. Perhaps you, yourself, are here because you had the privilege of living near a top-notch medical facility.”
Tanner scanned the faces before him, relieved to feel the tension easing. “We all want to keep the children’s unit. But if it means the difference between losing Kelso General or keeping it up and running in this great town, is there any question what the board should do? Thank you.”
So much for Plan B.
Tanner sat down and watched as the clusters of people who had been frowning and grumbling quietly considered what he’d said. He could almost read their minds. Children were wonderful and all, but no hospital? Nowhere to go when chest pains struck in the middle of the night? Longview’s St. John’s Hospital was ten miles away and a far cry from Kelso General. Several elderly citizens in the back of the room stood and headed for the exit.
Tanner turned and looked at Lang. There was relief in the man’s eyes, and Tanner silently thanked God. There was no doubt about one thing: The Lord had given him a gift of persuasion. The children’s unit was as good as gone. Maybe his mother was right after all. Maybe he would love being a politician.
Lang stood up. “Are there any questions?” Another batch of townsfolk stood and headed for the door. “All right then, at this point we’d like to—”
“Wait!” It was the girl from the back. She was on her feet staring at the people who were leaving. “Don’t go! You can’t give up that easily.” She motioned toward Tanner. “He doesn’t live here; it’s not his hospital.”
Lang coughed once. “Uhhh, Miss … Conner, is it? Do you have a comment you’d like to address to the board?”
The girl spun toward Lang. “Yes, sir, I do.”
Tanner sensed that for some reason the crowd didn’t like Miss conner, whoever she was. Still, the citizens who had started for the door were turning around and making their way back to their seats.
“I believe we’ve already shared with you the fact that we don’t want to cut the children’s unit. We simply don’t have a choice.” Lang sighed impatiently. “But go ahead. Make your comments known.”
The girl clenched her fists tightly and stood straighter, her eyes blazing. As she met the eyes of her fellow townsfolk, the