They rushed to Toy on the bed, and the dark-haired man pulled up her T-shirt and placed a stethoscope there, listening carefully. "Her pulse is weak but steady," he said. "Are you sure she was in cardiac arrest?"
i think so," Sylvia said, suddenly unsure. "I listened and didn't hear anything, and I'm almost positive she wasn't breathing." She stopped and thought a moment and then added, "She was short of
breath earlier in the evening when we were carrying our bags at the airport."
The blonde with the long hair was already ripping open a package, preparing to start Toy on an intravenous drip. As soon as he handed the needle to his partner to insert into Toy's vein, he used his portable radio and contacted the hospital, filling them in on what they had. Once both men were working on Toy, Sylvia stepped to the back of the room and wrapped her arms around her chest.
"Does she have any medical problems?" one of the men asked.
"I don't think so," Sylvia said. Then she recalled what Toy had told her about her illness in her senior year. "She had a virus once around her heart, but that was almost ten years ago."
The paramedic jotted the information down on his clipboard. He then unfolded the gurney, and they both lifted Toy onto it. As they did, one of her arms fell off the side, and Sylvia saw that the inside of her hand was red and inflamed.
"Her hand," she yelled out. "Look at her hand."
They stopped, one lifting Toy's hand carefully and examining it. "Looks like a burn," the dark-haired man said. "Do you know what happened?"
"No," Sylvia said, shaking her head and compressing her lips in dismay. "She didn't even leave the room. How could she get burned like that? This is bizarre. It just doesn't make sense." She started frantically searching the room, jerking the drawers open, then sticking her head in the bathroom. "There's not even a book of matches in here. It's a non-smoking room."
"Your guess is as good as mine," the man said, nodding at his partner and both of them straining as they hoisted the gurney again.
Sylvia became hysterical as they carried Toy out of the room. Seeing her friend so pale and still, she was fearful she would never see her again. "Where are you taking her?" she said, her eyes filling with tears.
"Roosevelt," the man answered, the gurney clearing the door. "Amsterdam and Fifty-ninth."
"I'll be there," Sylvia said, hurrying to get dressed.
Toy opened her eyes to blazing white light and the distinctive odors of disinfectant, quickly realizing she was in a hospital, the dream still fresh in her mind.
"So, you're awake," the pretty blond nurse said, peering down at her. "I'll go get the doctor."
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"Where am I?" Toy asked, weak and confused as to why she was here, trying to make sense of the dream.
"You're in intensive care at Roosevelt Hospital," the nurse told her. "But I think the doctor is going to move you to a regular room in the cardiac care wing now that you're stable."
Before Toy could say anything else, the woman left and a few minutes later, a tall, distinguished-looking man with dark skin and intelligent eyes entered the room, dressed neatly in an expensive brown suit.
"I'm Dr. Esteban," he said with a slight accent, stepping to the edge of the bed. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine," Toy replied tentatively. "Why am I here?"
"You suffered a cardiac incident and were brought in by ambulance. I'm a cardiologist, on staff here. The hospital called me in to take a look at you."
"I was with someone," Toy said, unable to concentrate on what the man was saying. She saw there was an IV in her arm hooked up to a bottle by the bed, and she felt something sticky and annoying attached to her chest. Then she jerked her head to the side and saw the monitor. She was hooked up to an EKG machine and could hear it beeping. "A woman, my friend. Where is she?"
"If you're referring to Ms. Goldstein," Dr. Esteban said, "I believe she's still in the waiting room."
"Oh," Toy said, closing her eyes, wanting desperately to return to the dream so she could see the boy again and make certain he was all right. Like all of her dreams, this one seemed so real, so vivid. She inhaled deeply and was certain she could still smell the smoke on her body.
"Can you tell us how you got those burns on your hands?" the doctor asked.
Suddenly Toy felt a thickness to her left hand and lifted it, seeing that it was bandaged. Her other palm was smarting with pain as well, but there was no bandage, only raised blisters. Just like the ring, Toy thought. She had brought something back from the dream. She was elated. "Did my heart stop?" she asked the doctor, her green eyes flashing. "Didn't you say something about a cardiac incident?"
"We're not completely certain, but Ms. Goldstein claimed you went into cardiac arrest in the hotel room. She administered CPR, and more than likely saved your life." He paused a moment and then continued, "I've ordered a number of tests. Once they're completed, you'll be transferred to a regular room. We felt it was better to keep
you in intensive care until we were certain your condition had stabilized."
"I don't want any tests," Toy said fiercely. "I'm fine now. I want to leave."
Dr. Esteban scowled at her. "That's foolish. This is a serious situation, Mrs. Johnson. Surely you realize that. Your friend related that you once suffered an attack of pericarditis. That attack more than likely damaged your heart, and that's why you suffered this incident today. We've notified your husband, who I understand is a physician, and he's en route here right now from California."
Stephen, Toy thought, angry that they had called him without her consent. The fact that she had landed in a hospital her first day in New York would only prove his point—that his wife was a weak, naive woman who could not take care of herself. "I don't want to see my husband," Toy told the doctor, trying to sit up. "I'm getting out of here."
The doctor gently pushed her back down in the bed. "Please, Mrs. Johnson. You're upsetting yourself and making things difficult for no reason. I simply cannot release you until we arrive at the proper diagnosis, and see if this recent attack has caused any more damage to your heart."
Toy turned her head away, realizing it was useless to argue. The man was a doctor, no different from Stephen. He couldn't understand the joy the dream had brought her. He would mar what Toy secretly felt was a miraculous event, try to fit it into the narrow and restrictive realm of science.
After a long time, Toy turned back to look at the doctor. "Can my friend come in?" she said.
"Only for a moment," he answered. "They'll be coming soon to take you for the tests. Once I review the results, I'll come back to talk to you."
The doctor left the room, and a few minutes later, Sylvia stepped in. She looked horrid. Her hair was disheveled and standing straight up on her head, while her eyes were bloodshot and filled with concern. She rushed to Toy's side and kissed her forehead. "Thank goodness you're okay," she gushed emotionally. "You gave me a terrible scare this morning. Boy, what a way to start a vacation, huh?"
Toy smiled at her. "I'm fine," she said. Then her eyes filled with gratitude. "The doctor said you saved my life, gave me CPR."
Sylvia's chest swelled with pride. In the few times she had been in
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a crisis situation, she'd always panicked and done the wrong thing. About six months back, one of her students had severely cut his hand on a jagged piece of aluminum he was using for a science project, and Sylvia had tried to make a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. Unfortunately, she was so hysterical that she'd tied the cord too tightly around his arm and it had sliced through his skin. She'd felt awful, and had sworn she would never try her hand at first aid again.
i can't believe I remembered to do it right," she told Toy a few moments later. "I mean, it's been at least six years since I took that CPR course, and I never went in for the refresher."
"You're a hero," Toy said, never looking more radiant than she did at that moment. Her eyes were the deepest of green, like pricel
ess glowing emeralds. Her lovely hair was fanned out around her face on the pillow, and her skin was as clear and translucent as the finest silk.
Sylvia's face flushed with pleasure. She had finally met a crisis straight-on and not turned into a bumbling idiot. A few seconds later, though, her expression shifted back to one of concern. "How did you get those burns on your hands? Did you leave the room or something during the night? It's the weirdest thing, Toy. I didn't hear you leave the room during the night, and I'm generally a light sleeper. I'm certain you were in the bed with me."
"Something happened," Toy said, quickly ripping the needle out of her arm and flinching as it smarted.
"Stop that," Sylvia said, wide-eyed with alarm. "You can't take that off. They're giving you medicine, Toy. Now I'll have to go get the nurse and have them put it back in."
Toy sat up and pulled up her hospital gown, bending her head to pluck the suction cups off her chest. "Get my clothes. We're going back to the hotel before Stephen gets here."
Sylvia was standing there with her mouth open, gaping. "I'm going to get the nurse," she said sternly. "You can't just get up and walk away like nothing happened. Damn it, Toy, you almost died."
"I did die," Toy said, a sly smile playing at the corners of her lips, 'if my heart stopped beating, I was technically dead. Isn't that right? When your heart doesn't beat, you're dead."
Sylvia threw her hands out to the side. "So, you were technically dead. What difference does that make? It certainly doesn't mean you should get up and walk out of here."
Toy shook her head. "You don't understand, Sylvia. I can't explain it right now, but I'll tell you everything that happened later." Then
she stared deep into her friend's eyes, seeing how upset she was becoming. "As soon as we get put of here, okay? I promise."
Sylvia planted her feet and crossed her arms over her chest in defiance. "Tell me now," she demanded. "I'm not letting you leave, Toy. If Stephen comes and finds out I let you check yourself out of the hospital, he'll be furious with me."
"Then you shouldn't have called him," Toy said, stepping onto the cold floor in her bare feet. "Quick, get me my clothes."
Sylvia refused to budge. "Get back in the bed, Toy."
Toy ignored her and found her clothes in a plastic sack attached to the foot of the bed. In seconds she was dressed. All she needed were her shoes. "Where's my shoes?" she said.
Sylvia shrugged, her concern turning to annoyance at the way her friend was acting. Toy had always been so complaisent, so easy to reason with. She had no idea why she was acting this way. "You didn't just walk in here, Toy," she said sarcastically, "you were carried in on a stretcher." Then she pursed her lips and spat out, "Unconscious, remember?"
Toy was dressed now in the baseball T-shirt and her black pants, ready to leave, shoes or no shoes. "Are you going or staying?" she asked Sylvia, walking toward the door.
"Where are you going?" Sylvia said. "Back to the hotel, I hope. Please, Toy, swear you're only going back to the hotel."
"Yeah, sure," Toy said, "where else would I go? Why? Aren't you going with me?"
Sylvia glanced at her watch and saw it was late afternoon already. When she had called Stephen from the hotel, he'd told her he was taking the next flight out of Los Angeles and would come straight to the hospital from the airport. Toy had been unconscious for several hours, and then they had made Sylvia wait outside until the cardiologist had arrived and had a chance to examine her. "Stephen will be here pretty soon," she told Toy. "Maybe I should wait here until he comes. Otherwise, the man will go ballistic when he walks in here and finds out you're gone."
"Suit yourself," Toy said, shrugging her shoulders. She started to leave and then paused in the doorway. "I really appreciate what you did for me, Sylvia. I ... I just can't stay here. Please try to understand."
'T'm trying," Sylvia said, flopping down on the hospital bed, then leaning forward over her knees with her head in her hands.
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People's heads turned as the woman in the California Angels T-shirt with the flaming red hair rushed past them in her bare feet in the hospital lobby. Toy was oblivious of their stares, lost in her thoughts.
The dreams had finally come back, and she knew her prayers had been answered. Perhaps the dreams had stopped because of Stephen, she told herself, just like she had thought. He was a hardened cynic, distrustful of anything he couldn't pigeonhole into a neat little category or examine under a microscope. Toy felt her hands smarting and instead of reacting to the pain, she felt an intense, overwhelming pleasure. Let him try to explain this one, she thought, stepping out into the damp, chilly air.
She looked up at the sky. It was overcast and dismal, and the scent of rain filled the air. Wrapping her arms tightly around her chest to stay warm, she took off down the street, trying to keep her head down and watch for broken glass on the sidewalk. Hordes of people pushed past her on the street, most of them dressed in raincoats and carrying umbrellas, all of them seemingly in a desperate hurry. Toy had no idea where she was, but she knew she couldn't keep walking or she would surely step on something and cut her feet.
All around her were the sights and sounds of the city. Instead of being overwhelmed with disgust, however, Toy could smell the delightful odor of chestnuts roasting on the corner, of hot dogs turning on the spits. Even the steam rising from the subways didn't seem offensive. Toy glanced at it and thought of mist floating over a peaceful pond at dawn.
After walking a few more blocks and gawking at the buildings, Toy reached an intersection and saw a big yellow neon sign that read, Wolfe's. The name rang a bell and it wasn't much longer before she realized that Sylvia had mentioned the restaurant in the taxi the night before, indicating that it was only a short distance from their hotel. She stopped and looked in the window. In preparation for Halloween, the windows were decorated festively with huge orange pumpkins, red peppers, and arrangements made out of ears of corn. Toy's mouth was parched, and she was cold and wet. A slight drizzle had started to fall.
As the rain started coming down harder, Toy decided to go inside the restaurant and see if she could warm herself with a hot cup of coffee. Then she would ask for directions to the hotel.
Embarrassed that she was barefoot, she waited until a large group of businessmen entered and slipped in behind them, following
closely as they headed to the rear section of the restaurant and ducking into the first open booth. •
Stephen Johnson opened his eyes when the taxi pulled up in front of Roosevelt Hospital. His day had begun at three o'clock in Los Angeles when he'd been called out to perform an emergency appendectomy, and he'd just returned to the house to catch a few hours of sleep when Sylvia had called with the news about Toy.
Exhausted and irritable, he was beside himself with worry. And there was the guilt. He should have never refused to talk to Toy, let her run off to another city with that goofy Sylvia Goldstein. Although she had been Toy's friend for years, he'd never cared for Sylvia. For one thing, the woman was a slob, at least twenty or thirty pounds overweight, and he detested people who didn't take care of their bodies. She also had that nasal Brooklyn accent that he found annoying and distasteful, and she was always influencing Toy to do the wrong thing.
Handing some bills to the cabdriver, he got out of the taxi and decided that once he was certain his wife was receiving proper care, he was going to have a nice, firm chat with her best buddy, set her straight once and for all. He chastised himself for not doing it years ago. If he had, Toy might not have gotten herself in this mess.
Even now he couldn't figure it out, couldn't come up with a valid medical reason why his twenty-nine-year-old wife who appeared in every way to be in perfect health could have gone into cardiac arrest. He knew about her attack of pericarditis, but when they had been trying to have a child, Toy had undergone dozens of tests, including a full cardiac screening. Absolutely nothing was found to be amiss. In fact, none of the tests showed any
thing to be clinically wrong with her.
Checking in with the admitting office, he learned what floor Toy was on and headed to the elevators.
"I'm Dr. Johnson," he told the nurse at the nurses' station. "I'm here to see my wife, Toy Johnson."
The woman looked her name up on a list. "Room 746. It's to the right."
Stephen was mystified that Toy was not in intensive care, but he had to assume they had moved her to the regular medical wing because they thought she was in no immediate danger. That was a good sign. Finding the room, he opened the door and stepped inside. The bed was made and Toy was gone. They must have taken her down for
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more tests, he thought, taking a seat in the chair and picking up the phone to check in with his office.
"No, no, no," he yelled into the phone to his secretary, yanking off his tie and tossing it on the bed. "I don't want Henrik to handle that case. He's a pompous creep. The last person he sliced open died. Get Bill Grant to sub for me."
Hanging up the phone, he decided that Toy had picked the worst possible week to become ill and disrupt his schedule. He was completely booked every day. Most of the procedures were not elective, they were mandatory. Stephen had terminated his partnership last year. Now all he had to rely on was goodwill and friends to take over for him while he was away. Most of his friends in the profession had back-to-back surgical procedures scheduled every day just as he did. It wasn't going to be easy to get them to take over his cases. If Toy could travel, he decided, he would take her back on the plane this evening. He couldn't see any reason for her to remain in New York if her condition was stable.
After waiting a few minutes longer for her to return, he walked back to the nurses' station. "Excuse me," he said to the same nurse, now poring over a chart, "but my wife must be having tests now. Do you know when they're bringing her back or where her treating physician is? I'd like to speak to him."
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