by Tim Downs
“Mr. Biederman—”
“Fifty percent of her I can’t stand, forty percent of her I respect and admire, and ten percent of her I worship and adore. Now doesn’t that sound like family to you?”
“Mr. Biederman, please.”
“What I’m saying is, I’m the closest thing to family she’s got. And I want her to have the best, do you understand? A private room, the best doctors. Money is no object—she has insurance.”
“This is UCLA, Mr. Biederman—believe it or not, Ms. Hayden is not our first celebrity. We understand her special privacy needs. She was assigned to a private room.”
Biederman looked impressed. “UCLA Medical Center is the number-three-ranked hospital in the entire United States. Do you know how I know this?”
“Because of the gigantic banner on the side of the building?”
“No—because of people like you. Now, may I please see my family?”
Shanice looked at him dully. “I will allow you to sit with Ms. Hayden for a few minutes—but only until I check with her doctor to make sure it’s all right. Do you understand? This way, please.”
She led him down the hallway to an isolated room at the far left. Most of the doors they passed were made entirely of glass with only a thin curtain blocking the view of the patient’s bed. Not this room; it had a solid wooden door that was obviously designed with prying eyes—and cameras—in mind.
She opened the door for him. “Sit there,” she said, pointing to a chair. “And don’t touch anything. I’ll page her doctor.”
“Can she hear me?”
“There’s no way to know for sure, Mr. Biederman. Go ahead and talk to her if you want to—we do.” She quietly shut the door behind him.
Biederman approached the bed and looked down at the figure lying motionless under the single sheet. Her blonde hair lay matted against her head; there were purple and red bruises under both eyes but no other signs of structural damage. Her nose didn’t seem to be broken. Good thing, he thought, that was an expensive nose. Her arms lay extended on top of the sheet; they were covered with bruises as well. A bluish plastic tube projected from under a bandage on the back of her left hand, winding back along the bedrail until it branched into two other tubes—one attached to a dangling sack of clear fluid, and the other attached to a boxlike device that held a large syringe. There were monitors everywhere displaying undulating sine waves and flashing numbers. Biederman wasn’t sure what any of it meant, but he figured it was at least a good sign that the waves weren’t flat and the numbers were all above zero.
He sat down in the chair across from the bed.
“So, Liv, how’s it going?”
There was no answer.
“I just heard about the accident an hour ago—I don’t think the hospital knew who to contact. They said they went through the numbers on your cell phone. Good thing you keep your agent on speed dial.”
Biederman watched for signs of movement or recognition; there were none.
“Got a call from that director this morning,” he went on. “Looks like Lips of Fury isn’t going to pan out. Look, about that—I just wanted you to consider the part, okay? You know, like an outfit in a clothing store—I just wanted you to try it on to see how it felt. I knew if I told you up front you would have turned it down flat.”
He looked at her lying perfectly still, almost as if she were stuffed and on display in some museum. She might as well be, he thought. Twenty years . . . that’s a pretty good run in a business like this—hey, that’s a terrific run. For most of those years she was at the top of the food chain and everybody else was lunch. But that was then and this is now, and neither one of us is getting any younger—or richer.
There was a quiet knock on the door and then it opened. “Mr. Biederman?”
Biederman stood up and shook hands with the physician.
“I’m Dr. Smithson—the neurologist in charge of Ms. Hayden’s care. I understand you’re Ms. Hayden’s agent.”
“How is she? What can you tell me?”
“Ms. Hayden was involved in an automobile accident on the 405 early this morning. Her car was smashed up pretty bad; it took them a couple of hours just to cut her free. The EMTs who brought her in said she must have been going very fast.”
“Sounds like her,” Biederman said.
“Apparently she lost control.”
“That sounds like her too.”
“She’s lucky to be alive, Mr. Biederman. Fortunately UCLA is a level 1 trauma center. They transferred her up here as soon as she was stabilized. They say her car rolled several times; whenever that happens there’s a high risk of injury to the brain, neck, and spinal cord. Ms. Hayden was extremely fortunate. We’ve done a full body scan and an MRI on her head and neck, and aside from abrasions and contusions she seems to have no significant injuries.”
“Then what’s she doing in an ICU?”
“When a car rolls over a body gets thrown violently from side to side—the head is snapped like a whip and the brain actually bounces against the inside of the skull. When that happens the brain can swell; it’s what we call intracranial hypertension. Fluid accumulates in the brain, and the skull can’t allow the brain to expand, so the brain becomes compressed—then brain tissue begins to die, resulting in permanent brain damage or even death.”
“Is that what’s happening?”
“No—that’s what can happen, and that’s why I’d like to keep her here for a few days. I want to keep her immobilized to give her brain a chance to rest and heal—just as a precautionary measure. We’ll do that by inducing a coma.”
“A coma?”
“Don’t worry—it’s a common procedure and it’s not as bad as it sounds. See that little box with the syringe inside? That’s an infusion pump. It’s giving her a steady dose of a drug called propofol—it’s a short-acting anesthetic agent that will make sure she remains unconscious until the risk of swelling has passed. That’s all we’re doing, really—making sure she stays asleep so she doesn’t move.”
“How long will she have to be in here?”
“About a week—just to be sure. Believe me, this is the best place for her right now.” The neurologist crossed to the side of the bed and looked down at his patient. “Liv Hayden,” he said. “She hasn’t made a picture for a while, has she?”
“None worth remembering. Her accountant’s still trying to forget.”
“She looks the same as always. A timeless beauty, I suppose.”
Timeless beauty, Biederman thought. Now there’s a contradiction in terms. “By the way, what’s that thing on her forehead?”
“This?” The neurologist pointed to a white plastic strap that circled her forehead like a headband; in the center was a rectangle the size of a large Band-Aid bearing two round circles. “That’s called a BIS sensor. It registers her brain activity—it tells us her level of consciousness. It’s connected to that monitor over there—see the number on the front? The number ranges from 0 to 99. A fully conscious person is a 99; we’ll try to keep her at about 60—that lets us know she’s fully sedated.”
“Is it okay if I sit with her for a while?”
“She’s in good hands here if you’ve got other clients to take care of.”
“She is my client,” Biederman said.
The neurologist smiled down at her. “You know, I can remember seeing her first picture—Six Weeks of Thursdays. I was a big fan of hers.”
“I’ll tell her you said so. It’ll mean a lot to her.”
“Yeah—I was in middle school at the time.”
Biederman paused. “I’ll leave that part out.”
5
Now this is more like it, Kemp thought.
Most of his patients in the ICU were older and in a lot worse shape—and not nearly as pleasant to look at. But this woman—she was a knockout. In fact, aside from the bruising around her eyes and some minor fluid retention, she was drop-dead gorgeous. Kemp rechecked her chart to verify her age: forty-four, it sai
d. He whistled in admiration. Definitely the deep end of the gene pool. He leaned over the bed and studied her face more closely. He could just barely detect a telltale line hidden along the bottom of each eyebrow and a similar line carefully tucked away under the curve of her jaw. This is very nice work, he thought. Very expensive—either she’s got a sugar daddy or this woman’s got money.
Just then there was the sound of a toilet flushing and the door to the restroom opened. Mort Biederman stepped out and found Kemp bent over his client’s bed.
Kemp straightened. “Who are you?”
“Mort Biederman. Who’re you?”
“I’m a nurse.”
“Oh. Thought you might be a doctor.”
“Yeah, me too. We ask visitors not to use the patients’ restrooms, Mr. Biederman—it increases the risk of infection.”
“Sorry. You know what they say: You only rent coffee.”
“So I’ve heard. Are you family?”
“I’m her agent. I own ten percent of her—just enough to get me visitation rights and an ulcer.”
“Her agent?” Kemp looked at the chart again. “Olivia Hayden—I thought that name sounded familiar. Is this the Liv Hayden?”
“How many are there? I made the name up myself.”
“Son of a gun—Liv Hayden, in the flesh.” He glanced at Biederman. “Is she married?”
“From time to time. Why?”
“Just curious.”
“Forget it, kiddo, she’s way out of your league. Besides, she’s buried four husbands already.”
“They all died?”
“Who said died? She just buried them. So you’re a nurse?”
“I think we’ve covered that.”
“How many patients you got? Because I want Olivia to have your full attention.”
“This is an ICU, Mr. Biederman. At UCLA it’s usually two patients per nurse, but for high-visibility patients like your client it’s one-to-one. I’ve been assigned to Ms. Hayden, and I’ll be her night nurse until she leaves the hospital.”
“The doctor tells me they’ll keep her in a coma.”
“That’s what her chart says.”
“So if she’s in a coma, what is it you do?”
“I check her vital signs. I turn her over every two hours to keep her from getting bedsores. I empty her catheter and adjust her IV fluids. I chart her BIS readings.”
“That’s it? Cushy job.”
“Only I don’t get ten percent.”
“Believe me, ten percent is not what it used to be.”
Kemp sneered. “I’ll take ten percent of Liv Hayden any day. The woman must be worth millions.”
“Worth millions, sure. She just doesn’t make millions—not anymore.”
“You’re kidding.”
“This is Hollywood, kid. By the time she was thirty she was already making top dollar, but producers get tired of paying top dollar. There’s always some up-and-comer who’ll do the role for half. Besides, the public wants to see new faces, younger faces—younger bodies.”
Kemp looked down at the bed. “Hers still looks good to me.”
“The camera doesn’t lie—neither does the box office. Producers and directors, that’s another story.”
Kemp took a look at his watch.
“I get the hint,” Biederman said. “I’ll be back to check on her tomorrow. You take real good care of her now, you hear? And if she needs anything at all, you call me.” He took out a business card and handed it to Kemp.
Kemp dropped the card into his pocket. “Don’t worry. She’s in good hands.”
When Biederman left, Kemp turned back to the bed again. “So you’re Liv Hayden,” he said. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Hayden. My name is Kemp—Kemp McAvoy. I’ll be your night nurse while you’re with us here at UCLA, so we’ll be getting to know each other quite well. By the time you leave, I suspect we’ll be very good friends.”
He took her pulse and blood pressure and recorded them in her chart.
“Your agent was just here,” he said. “Mr. Biederman—a nice enough fellow, though I’d think you’d get tired of finding his hand in your purse all the time. He says he owns ten percent of you—though I have a hard time believing that any man owns a piece of a woman like you.”
He gave her a wink and checked her BIS reading; the digital display read 61.
“This? Oh, this is what we call a BIS monitor—that stands for ‘bispectral index.’ It continually analyzes your electroencephalograms to assess your level of consciousness. See, when you’re awake your cerebral cortex is very active, but that changes under sedation. It all has to do with the metabolic ratio of glucose in the brain. Trust me, it’s very complicated; I won’t bore you with the details.”
He made a notation in the chart along with the current time.
“Well, yes, now that you mention it, I suppose I do sound awfully intelligent for a nurse. That’s a long story, but I can give you the Reader’s Digest version. See, I was planning to be a doctor—an anesthesiologist in fact. My father is a very successful anesthesiologist, did I mention that? Right here in Beverly Hills—he might have even been the one who put you under when you went in for that chin tuck. I was following in the old man’s footsteps, you see. I aced my MCATs and got accepted to Johns Hopkins no less. I finished med school and started my residency there—that’s right, at Hopkins too. I know, it’s impressive, isn’t it? And I almost finished my residency, but there was this silly disagreement over a minor ethical violation. You know what happened? They kicked me out. That’s right—seven years of medical education, and suddenly they tell me that I’m not going to be an anesthesiologist after all. Seven years of my life down the toilet—I don’t mind telling you, Liv, that hurt.
“So I moved back to L.A. I know—‘Why L.A.? Why not take a job where no one knows you?’ Simple—I’ve got family here, and I was a little strapped for cash at the time. You’d think Dad would have been glad to have his beloved son home again. I mean, it’s not like he couldn’t afford me—he’s not exactly living on food stamps there in Bel Air. But no, my old man’s got this thing about ‘making it on your own.’ So what was I supposed to do after seven years of medical school, wait tables and detail cars? I don’t think so. So I went down to the local community college and enrolled in a nursing program. I finished in less than a year. All I needed was the clinical nursing courses—‘Bed Pans 101’ and things of that sort—just enough to fulfill the requirements and qualify me to take the boards.
“So here I am—Kemp McAvoy, MD, RN, arguably the most overqualified nurse in America. I have to tell you, the job is a little demeaning, but it’s as close to medicine as I can get right now—until I figure out something else, that is. And I will too—wait and see. I’ll make it happen right here in L.A., just like I always said I would.
“But enough about me; let’s talk about you. Your agent says that you’re a washed-up has-been—is that true? Personally, Liv, I have a hard time believing it. I think you’re quite beautiful, even if you have had a little work done. No, I don’t blame you for that—that’s just routine maintenance. It’s a competitive world out there, and a woman has to look her best if she wants to keep a man’s attention.”
There was a soft knock at the door and a nurse poked her head into the room. “Kemp, I’m taking my break now. Can you keep an eye on 616 for me?”
“I’m just getting a patient settled in,” he said. “Can’t you ask Natalie to do it? She’s probably not doing anything.”
When the door closed Kemp turned back to his patient again. “See, that’s what I have to put up with all the time. Can you believe it? They expect me to do all the trivial things that ordinary nurses do—but I’m not exactly an ordinary nurse, now am I?”
He checked her Foley, then drained it and recorded the fluid level.
“Mr. Biederman thinks you’re out of my league. What do you think? Personally, I think he’s underestimating me and overestimating you. I mean, if you’re a has-been and I’
m an almost-was, doesn’t that put us in roughly the same category?”
Having completed his check-in, he set the chart aside and pulled up the chair that rested against the wall. He sat down next to her bed and relaxed, folding his hands across his chest.
“Seriously, Liv, I think you and I have a lot in common. You used to be on top of the world, and I was definitely headed there. Now look at you—a shadow of the woman you used to be—and look at me, stuck in this degrading job. I think I understand you, Liv, and I think if you had the chance you might understand me. Who knows? Under different circumstances we might have really hit it off. I mean, we both have talent, we both have ambition, and to be quite honest, women don’t find me unattractive.”
Kemp heard a sound behind him and turned to see Emmet emptying the trash can just to the left of the door.
Kemp looked him over. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Not long. Why?”
“Never mind. Come in here for a minute.”
Emmet hesitated, but finally stepped into the room and shut the door.
“You want to see a really beautiful woman?”
Emmet frowned. “Is this appropriate, Mr. Kemp?”
“C’mon, we’re not peeking under the sheets. I just thought you might like to see a world-class beauty up close. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
Emmet looked doubtful but stepped closer to the bed.
“This is Olivia Hayden, the famous movie star,” Kemp said. “Recognize her?”
Emmet shook his head sadly. “Poor thing. What happened to her?”
“Rolled her car or something. Women—they always want more car than they can handle—more man too.”
“Is she hurt real bad?”
“She’ll recover—they’re just keeping her in a coma as a precautionary measure. Now I ask you: Is that a beautiful woman or what?”
Emmet nodded. “But there’s a sadness about her somehow.”
“That’s just the propofol.”
“I wonder if she’s happy.”
