An hour went by, then another.
“Hey, mister, is that bus out there yours? You gotta move it, buddy, there’s been a nine-car pileup on the interstate, and they’re coming in,” the hospital guard said.
Dallas looked around the small waiting room. He was the only occupant. Staring at his snakeskin boots, he muttered, “I don’t have a bus.”
“The limo, buddy. You gotta move it.”
“Oh. Sure, sure, I’ll move it.”
He was back in the waiting room in ten minutes. He looked at the clock. What was taking so long? He said another prayer. Then he thought about Billy Sweet and their friendship. He’d met Billy in kindergarten at the age of five. They’d been best friends ever since. Inseparable friends. He was godfather of Billy’s three children.
Thirty-three long years. It couldn’t end like this. Not here in this sterile, antiseptic place. He should call Billy’s wife Nancy, and tell her, but tell her what? There was no way Nancy and the kids could make it here to LA tonight. He could charter a plane for Billy’s family. If he did it now, they could be here by morning. Chicago wasn’t that far away.
Dallas stomped his way over to the row of telephone booths. Using his phone card he placed the call and spoke in a tortured whisper. “I don’t know, Nancy. We were on the last set, and he just turned white, grabbed his chest, and collapsed. I rushed him here to the hospital. I thought it was indigestion. He ate three chili dogs before we went on and guzzled a couple of root beers. I saw him pop some Turns a couple of times. It’s been more than two hours. They don’t tell you anything here. Hang up, I’m going to call and charter a plane for you. I’ll call you back with the details. I did pray, Nancy. I’m still praying. Let me give you the number of this phone. You can call me from the plane. I’ll get back to you when I have the flight information.”
It was a full thirty minutes before Dallas contemplated his snakeskin boots for the second time. Three hours! Three hours meant Billy was still alive. He wondered if they were operating. How long did operations last? He banged his booted feet on the tile floor, his eyes filling just as the double glass doors swished open to admit gun-toting police, first-aid volunteers, paramedics, bloody patients on gurneys, and crying ambulatory patients. Outside, bedlam reigned as fans and members of the Canyon River Band arrived to see what had happened to Billy Sweet. Dallas tried to shrink into the hard plastic chair.
Down the hall and around the corner, Nellie Pulaski mopped at her perspiring brow. “Told you it would hit the fan. We’re finished here, Sara. Do you want me to speak to Mr. Lord?”
“I’ll do it. Prep number two and give me an update on the interstate. Tell Dolores to call my sister to come in. She should be home by now. Does Harry the Hawk,” Sara said, referring to the hospital administrator, “know who our famous patient is?”
“He does now. He’s probably in the waiting room getting Mr. Lord’s signature on the dotted line saying he agreed to build a wing or an annex.”
“Only if Mr. Sweet lives. It doesn’t look good, Nellie. When my sister comes in, have her sit in ICU to monitor him. I know it’s against the rules, but have her do it anyway. I don’t want anything coming back here to haunt us later on. Mr. Sweet gets one on one. The Hawk will agree.”
“See, you’re already thinking like one of them, and you aren’t even a partner yet. That’s what I mean about getting a life.”
Sara nodded. It really was true. Nellie Pulaski could do three things at the same time. Four if you counted talking. With Nellie every minute, every second counted. She was shaving, cleansing, and bandaging an open wound as she rattled on to herself about the next patient awaiting her help.
“Mr. Lord.”
“Is he all right? What is it? Did you operate?”
“Mr. Sweet has suffered a coronary. He’s in ICU right now. A private-duty nurse is on the way to monitor him. Does he have family?”
“They’re on the way. Is he going to make it?”
What incredible blue eyes. How sad his voice was. How lonely he looked. “I don’t know, Mr. Lord. We’re doing everything we can. You can go up to ICU now. I’ll check with you later. As you can see, we’re busy here, and we’re shorthanded.”
“Can I do anything?”
Taken aback, Sara stared at the man in front of her. “Thank you for saying that. If you were a surgeon, I’d snatch you right up. If you really want to help, I would appreciate your asking those people outside to quiet down. I’m assuming they’re your fans or your people. I’m being paged. We can talk later, Mr. Lord.”
Dallas brushed at his dripping brow. How could someone as pretty, as gentle-sounding as that doctor, know what she was doing? Billy needed an experienced older man to treat him, someone who’d been around twenty or so years. He wanted brash and bluster, clean-shaven and confident eyes, not lipstick and poufy hair.
He’d been given an order and he had to obey it. Just the way he always obeyed his brother Adam’s orders. When you obeyed orders, according to Adam, things worked. It was when you ignored those orders that things got shot to hell. There was no way he wanted to shoot down Billy’s chances. He took a moment to compose himself. He needed to look confident. The barracudas out there would sense any little thing that didn’t sit well with them. The tabloids already had their scoop. He wondered if helicopters were flying overhead.
“Mr. Lord, I’m Harry Heinrick, the hospital administrator. Dr. Killian has informed me of Mr. Sweet’s condition. This is a fine hospital, Mr. Lord, and our staff will do everything humanly possible to treat your friend. Would you like me to go outside with you to make a statement? A vigil is fine, but it’s getting rowdy out there, and we have our patients to think about. The police are cordoning off the parking lot. A few words from you will go a long way. The media is . . . I guess I don’t have to tell you about the media, do I?”
“No.”
“It was a wonderful thing you and your band did this evening. I wish more celebrities felt as you do.”
“Billy’s dad has Alzheimer’s disease. Will this hospital get a share of the proceeds? Right now I can’t think clearly or remember the list. It was Billy’s idea to do this benefit. The band agreed.”
“A small share. We’re a private hospital, and our research is kept to a minimum.”
Dallas waited for the sliding door to open. “Why is that?”
“We rely on donations and requests. When you’re private, you have more say in the way things are done.”
“I’ll look into it. I’ll be paying for Billy, so if you want money now . . .”
“That isn’t necessary, Mr. Lord. Later will be fine. Let’s just worry about Mr. Sweet’s comfort right now. Good Lord, there must be a thousand people out here!” the administrator said, his voice full of awe. For the first time in his life the suave money man was at a loss for words.
Dallas held up his hands for silence. He drew a deep breath, his eyes searching the crowd for someone to home in on. He always did that when he was onstage singing. Sandi Sims. She looked like she was crying. He flapped his hands in the breeze to stop the questions. “Billy’s had a heart attack. His family is en route and should be here in a few hours. I’d like to ask all of you to say a prayer. Mr. Heinrick, the hospital administrator, will give you a further update in the morning. Please, move back and keep the noise down. This is a hospital, and there are a lot of sick people here. I’ll see you all later. Two prayers would be better than one.”
Harry Heinrick moved closer to the yellow tape as Dallas sprinted across the parking lot to the Emergency Room door. Strobe flashes traced his route. He did his best to look annoyed and wondered if they were capturing his best side. He couldn’t buy publicity like this. “I can give you five minutes.”
Dallas stopped in the rest room on his way to the elevator. Who was this haggard-looking individual staring back at him in the harsh light? He cried because he didn’t know what else to do. He knew his life was going to change. His life as he and Billy knew it would nev
er be the same again. What would he do without Billy in his life? Who would he talk to in the wee hours of the morning? Who would he confide in? Share his memories with? Adam? Adam was his blood brother. Older by three years, Adam was the brain behind Dallas Lord and the Canyon River Band’s success. Adam was the point man, their manager, their idea man, their investment banker, their attorney and broker. Adam had marketed them like a pro for the past fifteen years. They were a household name that even little old ladies in Punxsatawney, Pennsylvania knew. But Adam wasn’t Billy Sweet. Adam was a suit with a Wall Street haircut and monogrammed Brooks Brothers shirts.
Adam never went fishing with him the way Billy did. Adam never played baseball with him the way Billy did. Adam never shared a pizza and a beer with him, never shared a secret with him. Hell, Adam didn’t even like their music. What was worse, he didn’t bother to pretend he liked it.
Cold water rushed from the tap. Dallas stuck his head under the faucet until he thought his eyeballs would freeze. A glob of paper towels wiped away the ice-cold water. He didn’t feel one damn bit better.
Dallas combed his hair with his fingers, the springy curls going any which way. From his hip pocket he withdrew his Padres baseball cap and settled it firmly on his head. Billy had one just like it. Billy even wore his in concert. They were old, frayed, the stitching barely discernible. They’d gotten them the day Billy’s dad took them to their first baseball game. Light-years ago. If something happened to Billy, who was going to take care of his dad? Nancy had her hands full with the three kids and her own parents. He made a mental note to look into the elder Mr. Sweet’s care.
Dallas decided at that moment that he hated this hospital. It was too white, too hushed, too smelly. Was the smell a death smell? He didn’t know anything about death. Everyone he knew was physical and vital, front and center, even old Adam. Death was something he never thought about. Billy thought about it, though, and worried about his elderly father. Nancy had told Dallas that.
He heard them whispering as he strode down the hall. They knew who he was, and they were speculating. About what he didn’t know. Childishly, he crossed his fingers that none of the nursing staff would be crass enough to ask for his autograph.
An older nurse with cherub cheeks pointed to Billy’s room and nodded. He walked up to the plate-glass window, clenched his teeth as he jammed his hands into his pockets. The person lying in the bed wasn’t Billy Sweet. The Billy Sweet he knew needed a king-size bed because he was a sprawler. Billy Sweet was perpetual motion, playing music in his head even when he was sleeping.
When Dallas finally managed to open the door, his hand trembled. The machines were evil eyes glaring at him, defying him. If they worked, if they helped, he could live with them.
“If you’re going to stay in here, Mr. Lord, you have to be sterile. There is a room at the end of the hall where you can change,” the nurse said. “I’m Carly Killian.”
Dallas accepted the folded garments. “Is . . . has . . . how is he?”
“There’s been no change, Mr. Lord.”
“Where’s the doctor? She said she’d be up to talk to me.”
“We’re having a busy night, Mr. Lord. Dr. Killian’s shift was over some time ago. However, if she said she’ll talk to you, she will. No one at Benton actually works an eight-hour shift. We always go into overtime. The patients come first here. Time clocks aren’t important when you compare them to a life.”
Dallas nodded and backed out of the room. I can handle this. I can do whatever has to be done. I know I can do this. I will do this.
It was an hour before dawn when Sara Killian opened the door to Billy Sweet’s room. She motioned for Dallas to leave. He stood outside the door and waited, his breath exploding from his mouth in soft little puffs of sound. He looked across the hall to the nurse’s station. A tired-looking nurse smiled at him. He nodded. How could she smile? Was this just a job? Didn’t they care? Suddenly he was holding a cup of coffee in his hand. “It will help you to stay awake,” the smiling nurse said.
Dallas consumed the coffee in two swallows. He was handing the empty cup back to the nurse when Sara motioned him to follow her to the ICU lounge at the opposite end of the corridor.
“I wish it were yesterday,” Dallas said, before Sara could say anything.
“Yesterday’s gone, Mr. Lord. All we have is today because tomorrow isn’t here yet. The truth is we never really see tomorrow. Perhaps you can write a song about that someday.”
“He isn’t going to make it, is he?”
“We don’t know that. Miracles happen every day of the week. When do you expect his family?”
Dallas looked at his watch. “Another hour or so. Is there a specialist you can call in? Who’s the best heart specialist in the country? I’ll fly him here, pay him whatever he wants. Isn’t there anything we can do?”
“Sit down, Mr. Lord.” Sara reached for Dallas’s hands. “I did call Dr. La Cross. We spoke at length about Mr. Sweet. He arrived about ten minutes ago and is on his way up here as we speak.”
“That’s a relief. It’s not that I don’t have any faith in you. A second opinion is always good. Billy got six opinions when the first doctor diagnosed his father with Alzheimer’s. It didn’t change anything, though. This won’t change anything either, right?”
Sara shrugged, aware that she was still holding Dallas’s hand. She was about to remove it, when he said, “Do you operate?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of doctor are you? Do you have a specialty?”
“I’m an internist.” She smiled at his discomfort. “It’s all right. I agree with you about the second opinions. One night a month I work the ER. Last night was my night. I wish there was something more I could do.”
“I always thought Billy would live forever. Me too, for that matter. Something like this just never entered my mind. His wife and kids are going to be devastated.”
“You’ll have to be strong for them,” Sara said. Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand from his. She couldn’t help but wonder why she felt so reluctant to let go of this man’s sweaty hands. Something was tugging at her heart, something she hadn’t felt for a long time.
“How do you do it?”
“I do my best. When my best isn’t enough, I surrender the patient to other hands. I learned that from Dr. La Cross. He was my mentor.”
“You’re making me feel like an ass, Doctor.”
A smile tugged at the corners of Sara’s mouth. “If I were in your place, I’d probably be doing and thinking the same things you are. I think he’s here. Wait here, Mr. Lord.”
“Call me Dallas.”
“When Dr. La Cross completes his examination, he’ll come out and talk to you. Get another cup of coffee and try to relax. Conjure up your happiest memory with Billy and hold on to that. Can you do that?”
“Sure. Sure, I can do that. Look, don’t let him suffer, okay. Nancy will tell you the same thing when she gets here. Promise.”
“We’ll do our best.”
Sara watched the funeral services for Billy Sweet on the eleven o’clock news in her bedroom on a small television screen. She felt her eyes mist over when she saw Dallas and seven other members of the band carrying the bronze casket from the church. How strange. A week ago she hadn’t a clue as to who Billy Sweet was. A tear rolled down her cheek when she saw the three children hovering near their mother. She turned off the television set and the night-light.
Sleep eluded her; she tossed and turned. She got up and made a cup of tea. On the kitchen counter was a large brown package and a smaller one on top of it. Nellie Pulaski had thrust it in her hands as she was leaving the hospital. “It’s Mr. Sweet’s personal belongings. It would be nice of you to take them to Mr. Lord to give to his family.” She’d accepted the package and was now sorry. She didn’t even know where Dallas lived. Ha! Trust Nellie. The directions and the phone number were taped to the larger package.
Sara looked at the kitchen clock. Eleven-forty-f
ive. Go in darkness and get it over with. Or, go in daylight and have the media follow her. Should she call first? Maybe she should just drive to the house and slip the packages through a gate. Rock stars and movie stars always lived behind gates and walls. She could pen a short note expressing her condolences and staple it to the brown package.
“I thought I heard you down here. Couldn’t sleep, huh?” Carly said setting the kettle back on the stove. “Some doctor you are. Don’t you know tea, like coffee, will keep you awake?”
“Then why are you drinking it?”
“Because I’m just a nurse, and you’re a doctor. You’re supposed to have more brains. Did you watch the news?” Sara nodded. “So, are you going to take his stuff up to his house or what?”
“I’ve been sitting here thinking about it. Want to go along for the ride?”
“Nope. I have the morning shift. Tonight probably would be better than tomorrow in daylight. I’m glad we’re close, Sara. Dallas talked to me a lot while we sat in the room together. He was close to Billy Sweet but not to his brother. That’s strange, yet I understand it. I think he liked you, Sara. He said you were honest and compassionate. Traits he never gets to see in his business. Do you know what else he told me? He said he’s been tactfully trying to break off a relationship with one of his backup singers. He doesn’t want to hurt her feelings. He asked my advice.”
Sara stared at her younger look-alike sister. Carly, the fixit kid. “Carly, tell me you didn’t offer advice.”
“I offered. You know me. I told him to tell her straight out. This way she gets on with her life, and he gets on with his. Life is too short to be unhappy. I try to tell you that all the time, but do you listen to me? No, you do not.”
“I’m not unhappy. I love my work. I love puttering around the house. I try to keep it the way Mom did. For us, Carly. I have a good life. If I meet the right man someday, good. If not, that’s okay, too. I think I will take that stuff to Mr. Lord. Mandeville Canyon isn’t that far.”
Sara's Song Page 2
