by Alton Gansky
“Ah, a woman of discriminating tastes,” Slay said.
“Careful,” Adam said as he shifted his position in bed. “I may never come back.”
“Who you trying to kid? If this hospital bed had a motor, you’d drive it to your office.”
“Speaking of the office, how is everything at the church?”
“What’s the matter, afraid we’ll change locks on you?”
“No. Just wanting to know what’s going on.”
“Well, everything is being handled just fine. Fannie is watching the office, George Kellerman is preaching, and I’m taking the hospital visits.”
“Fannie has been church secretary long enough that she runs the office anyway,” Adam said. “And George has filled in for me several times. We were fortunate to get him on the deacon board.”
“I told you not to worry. All you have to do is get better.”
“How come you got the easy job?”
“Easy?”
“Sure, I’m the only church member in the hospital, and I’m a pleasure to visit.”
Slay laughed. “Wrong on both counts, Pastor. It just so happens that as soon as I’m done cheering up your life, I’ve got another church member to visit in this very hospital.”
“One of our members?” Adam’s voice betrayed his surprise. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Dick lowered his head and sighed. “Because I knew you’d do just what you’re doing right now: getting all excited when you should be resting.”
“Well, the least you can do is tell me who it is.”
Slay said nothing while he debated whether or not to reveal the information. “You promise not to do anything stupid?”
“Of course.”
“It’s David Lorayne,” Slay said reluctantly. “He had surgery yesterday.”
For a moment Adam felt angry that he had not been informed, but his anger did not last; after all, his church was just trying to protect him. “How’s he doing?”
Slay sat stone-faced. “What’s wrong?” Adam asked, reading his deacon’s face. “Tell me everything.”
Resigning himself to defeat, Slay explained, “No one knew that he was coming in to surgery. You know how David is. He never wants to bother anyone. Anyway, like I said, he came in yesterday to have surgery on an ulcer. The surgery went fine, or so everyone thought until last night.”
“What happened?”
“He slipped into a coma. No one seems to know why. He just won’t wake up.”
Reaching for the bed controls, Adam slowly brought the head of the bed up until he was in the sitting position and then gently swung his feet over the edge of the bed and stood. He wobbled slightly and wondered if Slay had noticed.
“What are you doing?” Slay said, leaping to his feet. “You promised that you wouldn’t do anything stupid.”
“This isn’t stupid,” Adam said defensively. “I’m supposed to walk every day anyway. If I don’t, the nurses beat me. Hand me my robe, please. It would tarnish my image to be seen walking around the hospital bare-bottomed.”
“I’m not sure you should be doing this.”
“I’m fine, Dick, really. Now are you going to hand me my robe or not?”
Opening the small closet in the corner of the room Slay reluctantly pulled out a green bathrobe and handed it to Adam.
“What room?” Adam asked firmly.
“223.”
“Good, that’s the same floor we’re on. Let’s go.”
A few moments later the two men stood just inside the door of Lorayne’s hospital room.
“Ann,” Adam said softly.
“Oh, Pastor.” The woman sitting next to the bed dabbed a tissue at her red eyes, stood, and walked toward him.
“I hope you’ll excuse my appearance. I’ve just recently found out about David. I got here as soon as I could.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said softly. “You’ve got to take care of yourself.”
“I’m doing fine, Ann. No need to worry about me. Besides, I was in the area.” Adam put his arm around her, walked to the side of the bed and gazed down at the sleeping figure. Slay stood silently near the door. “How’s David doing?” Adam asked.
“Fine, I . . . I guess.” Ann Lorayne was a handsome woman of forty-five years. Her genteel manner and bright personality had made her one of the most popular people in the church, especially with the fifth-grade Sunday School class she faithfully taught. “He just won’t wake up.” She sobbed quietly.
“What do the doctors say?” He held her a little tighter.
“They don’t know what happened. They’re running some tests, but they seem as confused as I am. Oh, Pastor, I don’t know what to do.” She turned to him, buried her face in his shoulder, and wept.
“What you’ll do is take one step at a time.” Adam’s tone was gentle, yet firm. “You’ll cry when you need to, feel angry when you need to, and make decisions when you need to. I’ll be here with you any time you need me. Have you talked to the rest of the family?”
“Yes. My son is driving down from Los Angeles now. He should be here soon. Larry, David’s brother, is already here.” She turned and looked at her husband.
Adam dropped his arm from her shoulders and took her hand. He wished he could say something worthwhile, something to ease her anxiety; but as was often the case, no words came to mind. Adam watched in grim silence.
Tuesday, March 3, 1992; 10:40 A.M.
PRISCILLA’S RED BMW MOVED slowly along Interstate 8, a departure from her normal rash driving style. Her deliberate driving wasn’t grounded in caution but in her need to gather her thoughts and formulate a plan. In a few moments she would be at Kingston Memorial Hospital seeking information on the healing. Whom should she speak to first? Administrators? Doctors? Nurses? The approach she chose would be crucial; one wrong step could mean the difference between an attention-getting dramatic story and a mediocre one.
It was less than a twenty-minute drive from her condominium to the hospital, and she wanted to make use of each moment. Methodically she envisioned the various scenarios. She could take the diplomatic approach and speak to the hospital’s public relations department If they were hesitant to provide information to the media— and hospitals often were if they thought it could adversely affect their public image—they would stonewall, leaving Priscilla without a story or, at best, a story without any real meat to it.
No, it would be better to start with the rank and file, but who? If the nurse who called Irwin was on shift when the healing took place, then she would probably have already gone home. Maybe the woman was just coming on duty, discovered the incident, and decided to call the station. That would be a stroke of luck, but then Priscilla always considered herself a lucky person.
Irwin had said the woman was reluctant to answer questions and wouldn’t give her name. Why so secretive? The administration must be putting a lid on it. If so, then her decision to start at the bottom before approaching the administrators was correct.
When she arrived at the hospital, her plan was secure in her mind, replete with contingency strategies. She drove into the front parking lot and found an open stall. A sign at the head of the stall read: CLERGY PARKING.
Knowing that an affectation of confidence was seldom challenged, she briskly walked into the hospital lobby, checking the display on the pager in her hand. Priscilla marched through the lobby and turned left down the first hall she saw, looking every bit the busy executive or doctor.
Priscilla’s luck held: the hall led to a bank of elevators. One of the doors was opening and several people exited. Quickly she stepped into the empty compartment and then realized that she didn’t know where the burn ward was located. Well, the best way to find the top is to start at the bottom. She pushed the button marked B.
The elevator groaned as its hydraulic piston slowly lowered the compartment. A moment later the doors opened, and Priscilla stepped out of the lift. She was standing in a wide hall with pale green walls and a large
placard with the words RECORD STORAGE and an arrow pointing to her left, and two other lines: MORGUE and BURN WARD with arrows pointing to her right. The first line and arrow were printed in green, the morgue in blue and the words BURN WARD in yellow. Looking at the floor she saw three lines painted each in its own color: green, blue, and yellow.
“At least I won’t need a compass.” As she followed the yellow line on the highly polished floor, her footsteps echoed off the plaster walls making her feel uncomfortable. She felt as though she were walking down hallowed halls forbidden to the uninitiated.
The corridor led to a T intersection and Priscilla followed the yellow line to the left, into a new corridor filled with office doors that bore engraved signs: Dr. J. Mendoza, Dr. R.S. Ailes, Shift Nurse, Lounge. It was, however, the double doors at the end of the hall that interested Priscilla. They were painted a yellow that matched the line on the floor and had a sign with a red background and white letters: ADMITTANCE RESTRICTED. ALL GUESTS MUST DIAL 011 TO SPEAK TO A NURSE. On the wall next to the doors was a white phone.
Priscilla’s luck was running out. She had hoped to be able to walk in, find Lisa Hailey and, if the story was verified, call for a camera crew. She was counting on the element of surprise. Now she was left with a decision: She could call the nursing station and ask for permission to speak to Lisa, or simply walk in. Maybe if she just strolled in with an air of confidence, no one would pay attention to her. If she asked permission first, they might not only refuse her admission, but might also refuse to speak to her. That would force her to go through administration and, if they were keeping a wrap on the story, she would be left empty-handed. I’m not going back to Irwin without a story, not after the fuss I made.
Just then one of the doors swung open and a young man in a white lab coat walked through, his head down and his gaze fixed on the metal clipboard he held. Priscilla quickly reached for the phone and averted her eyes. She didn’t want to answer questions, not yet. She needn’t have worried; if the man saw her, he gave no indication of it. Priscilla watched him walk down the hall and entered one of the office doors.
It was then that she decided to act. Before the door could close, she stepped through.
The room was large and, unlike the corridor outside, was painted in cheerful colors of blue, yellow, and green. In the center of the room was the nursing station, marked off by a counter that formed a circle in the middle of the room. Two nurses sat behind the counter. Around the perimeter of the room were cubicles with glass fronts through which Priscilla could see people lying in bed. Instead of doors, each little room had curtains, all of which had been drawn back. Priscilla estimated that there were about ten cubicles; only four had patients, and Priscilla could see them clearly. One was a little boy about ten years old whose left arm was heavily bandaged. The patient in the next cubicle was under a sheet that was suspended over supports so that it didn’t touch the skin. The occupant of the third cubicle was in a crib. In the fourth, a young woman in a hospital gown was smiling and chatting with a man and a woman in hospital greens. The young woman wore no visible bandages, didn’t seem to be scarred, and showed no signs of pain. In fact, Priscilla noticed she looked overjoyed.
“Hey,” a strong female voice said.
Priscilla’s attention turned to the source of the exclamation: a squat, dark-haired, dark-skinned, rotund woman in a green nurse’s uniform, with green paper head covering and shoe covers.
“Hi.” Priscilla smiled. “I’m Priscilla Sim—”
“You can’t be here,” the nurse said forcefully.
“But I—” The nurse grabbed Priscilla by the arm and turned her toward the doors that led to the corridor. Priscilla noticed that the nurse was wearing rubber gloves and wondered what those gloves had been touching a few moments before.
“You’ll have to leave.”
“Wait a minute. I only wanted—”
“Outside. Now.”
A moment later Priscilla found herself in the corridor, this time face to face with the angry nurse.
“Now just a minute,” Priscilla said, hoping not to reveal how rattled she felt.
“You have no business in that ward without permission,” the nurse said forcefully. “Our patients are very susceptible to infection. Your presence endangers them.”
“I didn’t know. I only wanted—”
“You didn’t know because you ignored the sign on the door that told you to call the nursing station first. And we all know what you want, Ms. Simms. You want a story.”
“So you know who I am?”
“Yes, I know who you are, and until this moment I had a lot of respect for you.”
“Look, something has happened here, something newsworthy.” Priscilla looked at the plastic name tag on the nurse’s uniform. “Care to tell me about it, Nurse Hobbs?”
“Come with me.” The nurse marched down the corridor and stopped abruptly in front of one of the office doors. Without knocking she opened the door and strode into the room. Priscilla dutifully followed behind her.
The man Priscilla had seen exiting the burn ward was seated behind a metal desk. On the desk was the clipboard, a half-eaten onion bagel, and a Diet Coke. He looked up, irritated at the abrupt entrance, and started to speak but was cut short by the nurse. “Doctor, this is Priscilla Simms from the television station. She was just in the ward.”
He looked at Priscilla for a moment. “Who saw her?”
“A couple other nurses, maybe all of them.”
“Did anyone else speak to her?”
“No. I took the initiative and dragged her out.”
“That’s good. We have to be careful.” The doctor took a sip of the soft drink. He was a baby-faced man who looked young and old at the same time. Small wrinkles around his eyes heightened his weary appearance. His amber hair was in need of a trim.
As Priscilla watched, she could sense their tension. They shared a secret that held repercussions. “Look, I’m sorry if I did something wrong. I don’t know much about hospitals and I didn’t think it would hurt to talk to—”
“The fault is mine,” the doctor said. “I’m Dr. Robert Ailes, the chief resident. I’m the one responsible for your being here.”
“How so?” Priscilla asked.
“I asked Nurse Hobbs to call your station.” Priscilla looked at the woman next to her.
“Not me,” the nurse said, “my sister. She works the night shift. I didn’t come on duty until 7 this morning.”
“Your sister called? Where is she now?” Priscilla asked.
“Home probably. She was pretty shook up.”
“Would she talk to me?”
“That depends,” Ailes said.
“On what?”
“On how you handle what we’re about to tell you.”
Priscilla shook her head. “I’m confused. I thought I was about to get chewed out for walking in uninvited.”
Ailes chortled. “Actually you deserve to be chewed out, but we’ll skip all that if you promise not to go charging into any more restricted areas. As it is, we don’t have the time to give you a proper tongue-lashing.”
“Let’s get to it,” Hobbs said. “I don’t want to be out of the ward too long.”
“Agreed,” Ailes said. Motioning to a chair next to his desk he said to Priscilla, “Sit down.” As she did so, he continued, “I have only a few minutes before the head of every department comes down here. If they find out we’ve been talking to you, there’ll be a huge price to pay and I, for one, am not willing to pay it. So listen fast.” Ailes leaned over the desk and lowered his voice. “Since you’re here, I assume that you have a basic idea of what’s happened.”
“Someone was healed in a strange manner.”
“Strange is a good word. Amazing might be better.” Ailes pulled the clipboard in front of him. “I’ll not bore you with all the details, but here it is in a nutshell: Lisa Hailey, an eighteen-year-old female in good health, was in an auto accident. The gas tank of her car rup
tured and the gas ignited. She was trapped inside. When she arrived at the hospital, her vitals were tenuous. She had third-degree burns over 60 percent of her body, second-degree burns over the remaining 40 percent. Her trachea was burned and swelling shut. The emergency room staff did an amazing job keeping her alive. To everyone’s surprise she lived through the night and for several days after. Despite her tenacity the medical staff agreed that she would die soon. She was beyond hope.”
“Until last . . .” Priscilla said.
“Until the early hours of yesterday,” Ailes said. “About 6 that morning one of our nurses checked in on Ms. Hailey. What she saw was . . . unbelievable. Lisa Hailey was whole. Fully, completely, and utterly whole. No burns, no scars, just pink flesh.”
“And you’ve never seen anything like this before?” Ailes and Hobbs looked at each other. Hobbs spoke, “Do you know what a third-degree burn is, Ms. Simms? It is the destruction of all the layers of skin and often the tissue beneath. This means that the skin is utterly destroyed and must be replaced by skin grafts. Lisa’s skin is whole. In short, we don’t know where it came from.”
“It?”
“The skin, Ms. Simms,” Ailes said. “Where did the new skin come from? For that matter, where did the charred flesh go?”
Priscilla could see the confusion in Ailes’ eyes. He was truly puzzled, maybe even frightened. “Would I be able to speak to one of the nurses from that night’s shift?”
“Absolutely not,” Hobbs snapped. “We shouldn’t be talking to you. The hospital is clamping down on this. They want to keep it secret, and I half agree with them.”
“Then why are you talking to me now? Why did you have your sister call the station?”
The doctor and nurse looked at each other for a moment. “Honestly, Ms. Simms,” Ailes said leaning back in his chair, “I don’t know. Keeping it secret just didn’t seem right.”
“Can I talk to the family?” Priscilla asked. “Will you let me speak to Lisa?”
