Beyond Eden

by Catherine Coulter

  “Do you know who you are?”

  She opened her eyes. No, just her left eye. Her right eye wouldn’t move. It was a young man speaking to her, his face very close to hers. His eyes were very blue and his ears were big. She thought he was Irish. She realized then she couldn’t breathe.

  She gasped for breath and the pain seared through her. There was only pain, no air.

  “It’s all right. I know you’re having trouble. Just take real shallow breaths. No, no, don’t panic. Shallow breaths. Yes, that’s right. I think you’ve got a collapsed lung. That’s why we’ve got that oxygen mask over your face. Just breathe, shallow and easy. Good. Now, do you know who you are?”

  She focused on the mask that covered her nose and mouth. But it hurt so much. She kept trying, and she got air, but the pain nearly sent her into madness. He asked her again who she was. She was her, and she was here, and she didn’t know what was going on, what had happened, except she hurt and could barely breathe.

  “Do you know your name? Please, tell me. Who are you? Do you know who you are?”

  “Yes, I’m Lindsay.” God, it hurt to say those words, hurt so much she wanted to yell with it, but she couldn’t. She whimpered, fear sharpening the sound, and the man said quickly, his voice calm and low, “Just take shallow breaths. Don’t try to do anything else. Just breathe, that’s all you have to do. Do you understand me? That’s an oxygen mask over your face to help you. Don’t fight it; let it help you. We think you’ve got a collapsed lung. That’s why it hurts so much. But you’ve got to stay awake and pay attention, all right?”

  God, it hurt so much. She tried to hold her breath, to stave off the horrible jabbing pain, but that didn’t work either. He was speaking to her again. Why had he repeated the same thing? Did he think she was stupid?

  “I know you hurt, but hang in there. We’re nearly to the hospital and they’re waiting for you. Don’t worry. Just keep taking those little breaths. I’m glad to meet you, Lindsay. I’m Gene. Just lie still. We’ll be at the hospital very soon now. No, don’t try to move.”

  “What happened?” It hurt so much to speak. And talking through the white plastic mask made her feel like she was speaking from a long way away.

  “There was some sort of explosion and you were hit by falling debris.”

  “Am I going to die . . . collapsed lung?”

  “Oh, no, not you. You’ll be fine. I promise.”

  “Taylor. Please call Taylor.”

  “Yes, I will, I promise. No, don’t try to move. I’ve got an IV in your arm. We don’t want you to rip it out. Just keep breathing.”

  “There were so many screams.”

  “No one else was hurt, but everyone was scared. You were standing right next to that fake rigging when it blew. Tell me again. Who are you?”

  “I was there because I’m Eden.”

  He frowned, but she didn’t see it. It hurt too much and she didn’t want him to see her lose control. She turned her head away from him. The pain continued. She’d never imagined before how it would feel not to be able to breathe. For every small intake there was such pain that her whole body shook with it.

  “How is she, Gene?”

  “She’s doing fine, at least I hope to God she is. The pain’s bad, but she’s hanging in there.” He turned away from the driver to her. “I’m sorry, Eden, but we can’t give you anything for the pain yet. The trauma team has to check you out first. Just hold on, hold on. Squeeze my fingers, think about my fingers and squeeze when you hurt real bad. We’re almost there, almost there.” Gene wondered if Taylor was her husband. Dear God, the man would be in for a shock when he saw his wife. She was a model. He looked at the right side of her face. It was difficult to tell how bad it was smashed because of all the blood. He held her hand more tightly. Gene O’Mallory wanted her to be all right. He wanted it very much.

  There were six people standing over her, three men and three women. They were cutting off her clothes, speaking to each other, jabbing at her, prodding and poking, but through it all, there was someone’s hand on her forearm gently stroking and there was a soft woman’s voice with that stroking, saying over and over, “It’s going to be all right. You’re here with us now and we’ll make sure you’re okay. Do you understand me, Lindsay? It will be all right.”

  Someone else said, “She’s that fashion model, Eden. First things first, but, Elsie, call Dr. Perry. Tell him to get over here on the double.”

  Elsie said, “Gene called him from the ambulance. Perry’s on his way.”

  Lindsay felt cold on her skin. She knew somewhere in her mind that she was naked, just as she had been so long ago in Paris. But she felt too much pain to care. Just to take a single breath was beyond anything she could ever have imagined. But the gentle stroking on her forearm continued and she tried to concentrate on it.

  A man was very close to her face. He said, “Lindsay? Good, listen to me now. You’ve got a collapsed lung. A broken rib punctured it. So we’ve got to cut a little incision over here between your ribs—near your side, yes, right here—and stick in a tube. We’ll hook it up to a lung machine and it will reinflate your lung. It won’t hurt. It’ll all be over in just a few minutes and you’ll be able to breathe again without the pain. Okay? You understand?”

  The fingers paused on her forearm.

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “Okay, let’s get it done, guys.”

  Five minutes later, Lindsay took a breath that didn’t feel like she was going to die. She even managed a smile at the man bending over her.

  “Better?”

  “Yes, much better.”

  “Now, you’ve got two broken ribs. We’ll leave them alone, but they’re going to hurt for a while. We’ve been giving you morphine through the IV. Do you have any more pain?”

  It was odd, but she didn’t. “My face?”

  “Your face—yes, Dr. Perry’s here and he’s going to take over now.”

  The gentle fingers on her forearm stopped and Lindsay felt panic. “Where are the fingers?”

  Someone said, “What’s she talking about?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Oh, she means Debra. Deb, get back over here!”

  The fingers were on her arm again. She closed her eyes.

  It was all right. The voice came again, soft and warm.

  Dr. Perry identified himself. He was a plastic surgeon and he specialized in facial reconstruction, he said. They were going to take her to CT scan and then they’d see exactly what the problems were. She wasn’t to worry. If she felt any pain, she was to sing out.

  Lindsay was fully prepared to sing, but the pain she felt was so slight compared to what she’d already endured, she didn’t say anything.

  Time passed. Debra didn’t leave her. Lindsay said to her, “Taylor. He’s my fiancé. Could you call him?”

  “After I see you safe into surgery, Lindsay. Then I’ll call him, I promise. Give me his number.”

  Dr. Perry was back and he spoke gently and slowly. “You’re lucky, Ms. Foxe. The flesh on your right cheek isn’t very damaged, which means little to no scarring. However, the blows you took smashed the bones here and here and here.” He lightly pointed to his own face to show her. “We need to go in right now and fix them. You’ll be good as new in three weeks.”

  “Can I see?”

  “I don’t think you should.”

  Lindsay thought about that. The right side of her face was numb. She raised her right hand, but Debra grabbed it and forced it back to her side. She leaned close. “No, Lindsay, don’t. Just lie still, that’s it.”

  Dr. Perry’s voice came again. “I’ll need you to sign the surgery consent forms, Ms. Foxe.”

  She did. Within fifteen minutes she was being wheeled to surgery. She felt no pain. Her head was cloudy. She wasn’t scared.

  The explosion had happened at twelve-thirty.

  She was in surgery by three-thirty.

  Demos stood in the hospital corridor, leani
ng against the wall near the door to what would be her private room, once she came out of surgery, once she came out of recovery.

  It would be some time now before she was out of surgery. The surgery was on her face, being performed by a Dr. Perry, one of the top plastic surgeons in the country, the nurse had assured him, not once but four times, one of the very best, and he’d said the bones were situated ideally to be reconstructed and slipped back into their proper place and they weren’t to worry, which sounded disgusting to Demos. But why, Demos had wondered, why operate on her face now?

  The nurse was patient with him, explaining that if they hadn’t done it immediately, there would be swelling that would preclude doing it for a week, at least. Lindsay had agreed, naturally.

  “But how could she agree?”

  “She was conscious, Mr. Demos. Dr. Perry did an immediate CT scan on her face and her head. You’ll have to speak to him, Mr. Demos. But she should be out of surgery around seven o’clock and then it’s recovery for about an hour. Why don’t you go have dinner?”

  Demos and Glen went to the hospital cafeteria and stared at each other over open-faced roast-beef sandwiches.

  “I’ll never forget that damned phone call as long as I live,” Glen said, his hands shaking.

  They’d gotten the hysterical call from one of the ad-agency people at precisely ten minutes to one. They’d gotten here as fast as they could, but they hadn’t seen Lindsay. It wasn’t allowed. Everything was being done for her. Not to worry. Demos had filled out paperwork on her. Then he’d realized he had to call Taylor. Let Taylor deal with her family, with Sydney. He was engaged to her, let him do it. Demos knew Lindsay’s number by heart. He’d started to punch out the buttons, then stopped. He looked at those numbers, and they didn’t mean anything to him.

  “Glen, help.”

  Glen had shoved him aside and quickly pressed the numbers.

  Two rings and then, “Hello, Taylor here.”

  “Taylor, this is Glen.”

  “Yeah, Glen. What’s up?”

  “Oh, God, Taylor, you’ve got to get here right now.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Where’s Demos? What’s going on?”

  Glen had nearly thrown the phone to Demos. “Taylor, this is Vinnie. There’s been an accident and Eden’s hurt. Hurry, man, get here now. I don’t know anything, just hurry.”

  Demos hung up the phone and leaned his cheek against the cold steel. He heard a man say, “Does anyone know a Lindsay or an Eden?”

  “I do,” Glen said.

  “I was with her in the ambulance. She asked me to call Taylor. I’ve been asking around, trying to find out his phone number, but nobody knows. Do you know who he is?”

  “Yes, we know,” Demos said. “I just called him.”

  “Her face,” the young man said. “She’s so beautiful. Will she live? Has anyone said? Her collapsed lung?”

  “She’ll be fine,” Demos said, praying like a demon as he said the words.

  Twenty minutes later, Taylor was running into the emergency room, pale and looking more terrified than a man should ever look.

  “We don’t know anything yet,” Glen said quickly. “They’re fixing a collapsed lung, at least someone told us about that, but then there’s her face—”

  “Her face? What the hell happened to her face?”

  “She was smashed.”

  “Jesus,” Taylor said, unable to take it in, just standing there frozen. Then he burst into action. “Where is she? Who can I talk to?” He didn’t wait, but walked quickly to the nurses’ station.

  The head emergency-room nurse, Ann Hollis, was sixty, tough, and more seasoned than a four-star general. She saw the man coming toward her, saw his fear, and readied herself for the outbreak. Screaming, raw, and impotent anger, outward fury, the rage brought on by the helplessness of it all. To her utter surprise, when he spoke, his voice was calm and low.

  “I would appreciate your help—” He looked at her name tag. “Yes, Ms. Hollis. Lindsay or Eden is her name. I understand there was an accident and she’s being treated. I’m her fiancé. Please tell me what’s going on. This is very difficult.”

  And Ann Hollis responded to him with the truth. “I will tell you what I know. First of all, stop worrying. The trauma team worked on her and they’re the best. You stay here and I’ll go check and find out what’s happening. All right?”

  Taylor nodded and she left him. He didn’t move. Demos and Glen came over. No one said anything.

  Nurse Hollis patted Taylor’s arm. “Two broken ribs, a collapsed left lung, which they reinflated.”

  “How’s that done?”

  “A small incision between two ribs and a tube is inserted that’s in turn connected to a lung machine. It makes breathing easier for her. Contusions and lacerations, but those aren’t all that bad. Then there’s her face.” Again she touched her hand to his arm. “It’s impossible to say right now because Dr. Perry just took her into surgery. Since she’s a model, he didn’t wait to operate.”

  Taylor didn’t say anything. He was trying not to shake. Nurse Hollis patted his arm again.

  “As soon as I can find out how the surgery is going, I’ll call you. Please go sit down. I know it’s difficult. But you must try to stay calm. She won’t die. Her face will heal. Dr. Perry is one of the best in facial reconstruction in the city. She’s Eden the model, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve seen her picture many times. She’s quite beautiful and she will be again.”

  “Thank you. She is. She’s also a lot more than that—she’s—”

  She wanted to take his hand but she didn’t. “I understand, Mr. Taylor. I will tell you as soon as I know something more.” He nodded and she knew he was fighting for control. She hated to see such pain. She hated to see this hidden, deep pain, this completely controlled pain. Sometimes it was better to shriek and curse all the doctors and nurses and rail against God and fate. But this man would always try to control himself and circumstances around him.

  Ann Hollis smiled at him, and now she patted his arm again. The poor young woman was a model—not anymore, Ann Hollis thought. Oh, no, not unless she was very lucky indeed. She’d seen the young woman’s face. They hadn’t cleaned it yet, and there was nothing but dried blood and bone and matted blood-dried hair. Yes, it would be difficult to be beautiful when your face was smashed.

  She watched the man Taylor turn away and walk back into the waiting lounge with two other men.

  Lindsay wished she could throw a rock at the light. It was bright and it hurt her eyes. Why was it on? She hadn’t turned it on. Why didn’t someone turn it off? She didn’t want to open her eyes. She didn’t want to see anything; she didn’t want to be or do anything. She wanted to stay buried deep and warm within herself, within the warm darkness. It was secure here, except for that damned light. She knew, somehow, that if she opened her eyes she would regret it.

  Still, the light was there, brighter now, and there was a voice along with it, a woman’s voice, urgent and hoarse-sounding, saying over and over, “ Lindsay, Lindsay, wake up now, wake up now. Come on, you can do it. Wake up.”

  “No,” she said, and even that one small word was difficult. Her throat was dry and to the point of pain.

  “Here, I’m putting a straw in your mouth. Try to suck some water. You need it.”

  How did the woman know that? She sucked and felt the water fill her mouth and trickle down her throat. It was wonderful until she swallowed. A shock of pain went through her, squeezing the breath out of her, making her tighten and shrink and shudder with its force.

  “Oh, God.”

  “I know it hurts. I’ll give you more painkiller very soon now. You’ve got to get over the anesthesia first. I need to see how your brain is working.” There was a smile in the woman’s voice; then she said, “Please open your eyes for me.”

  “The light. It hurts.”

  The light disappeared. Lindsay opened her eyes. The r
oom was in shadows. There was a woman in white standing over her. There were other people in the room, she could hear them. She couldn’t see them, but she could hear them. Their breathing, a few moans.

  “That’s good. Now, tell what you see.”

  “You. I see you and you’re wearing white and you’re pretty.”

  “Thank you. Now, don’t be frightened. You came out of surgery and you’re in the recovery room. You pulled through everything great. Dr. Perry will be in to see you in the morning. He said you’ll be gorgeous again. Right now, you look like a Q-Tip—your head is all bandaged up and that’s why you can’t open your mouth very wide. The bandages are to keep everything immobile. Do you understand? Good. Now, I want you to count some fingers for me. Four? Excellent. And now? Good, Lindsay. Very good.”

  “My ribs hurt.”

  “I know. And they’ll hurt for quite a good while yet. But the painkiller will help immensely. Dr. Shantel will be here in a moment to talk to you. Just hang in there and then we’ll give you some more painkiller very soon.”

  “Taylor. Where’s Taylor?” It was so hard to talk. She felt the swath of bandages for the first time. Her head felt tight. It hurt to try to open her mouth, even a little bit.

  “He’s here. I tried to keep him out but he threatened to break all my moving parts if I didn’t let him in.” The nurse leaned closer and whispered, “Besides, he’s a real cutie. If he has a brother, I sure would appreciate an introduction.”

  The nurse moved aside. Lindsay felt him take her hand. Then his fingers were on her bare forearm, light and gentle, Taylor’s fingers. Odd that he was doing just what Debra had done. She wondered if they’d told him to touch her, to keep human contact.