EMBRYO 5: SILVER GIRL (EMBRYO: A Raney & Levine Thriller)

by J. A. Schneider

  “Concern,” said the male voice at her end.

  “Concern,” Deborah repeated, high-voiced. She gave a tremulous thank you, and hung up.

  Such a sad, insecure woman, Jill thought, sighing. Reid says…Reid wants to know…Reid tells me how to finish sentences,

  It was 1:04. The hands shook as Jill spewed more to David. “Deborah W. called, they’re coming just before 2. He so dominates her, even on the phone! If you’re free try to meet with them. I know I’m going to get called.”

  She wrote more, finished, inhaled – whew - and hit Send.

  Then blinked around the room for the first time, seeing little knots of people anxious, waiting fretfully. An older man sitting alone leaned to her, his eyes tearful. “You think he’ll walk again?”

  Jill gave him a bolstering smile; murmured a heartfelt, “thoughts and prayers…”

  Her phone chirped again. Sam MacIntyre hollering for assistance.

  A big little boy was about to be born, his mother a gestational diabetic getting more unstable by the minute. Diabetics had bigger than normal babies; a C-section looked likely. They’d have to move fast with the mother threatening coma.

  Jill pushed the birth to the front of her mind, and ran.

  36

  Hope, they were going to call her. The little girl had been checked by a pediatrician and pronounced okay, despite five minutes in fetal distress due to a partial separation of the placenta from the uterus. A disastrous, complete abruptio placentae had threatened, and they got the child out fast; peeled out the placenta fast too. Amniotic fluid pouring into the bloodstream from the separated placenta could have killed the mother.

  David stayed with her in the recovery room, re-checking her vital signs and any sign of bleeding before he let the nurses take over.

  “Call me if there’s any bleeding anywhere,” he told a young nurse, releasing the mother’s limp hand. “Nose bleed, bleeding under the skin – it will look like bruises. Anything like that, call immediately. We’ll have to administer clotting factors.”

  Woody Greenberg was checking the woman’s catheter. “No blood in the urine,” he said, his latex-gloved hands running down the tube to a glass catch jar on the floor. “None visible anyway,” he amended, looking to an older nurse who’d just straightened from suctioning up a urine sample, and was emptying her pipette into a specimen container.

  They watched her dip a white plastic strip into the urine, then hold it up after thirty seconds. “No blood,” she announced with relief, showing them her dipstick.

  “Say hallelujah,” Woody breathed, looking drained above his mask.

  “Ditto.” David smiled tightly to the two nurses, repeated a tense Call if Anything, and followed Woody out. They’d spent longer in the recovery room than they had in the delivery room.

  In the scrub room they threw their masks and surgical gowns into the bin, then foot-pedaled splashing water and soap. “Hope,” Woody said emotionally. “What a great name for that little one.”

  David smiled. “Yeah, it’s a good feeling.”

  In the hall, Woody clambered like an exhausted child onto a gurney and lay his head down, with his phone under his hand in case he got called. “Can I order room service?” he asked faintly, his eyes already closing.

  “Sure,” David said. “What would you like? Toast and jam? Bacon and eggs?”

  “Pancakes. With maple syrup and butter and bacon…” His voice turned feeble and he was out. Hadn’t slept all night.

  David took a blanket from a different gurney and covered him. Nurses whisked past, smiling sympathetically. An orderly pushed past a gurney carrying a moaning woman, and Woody didn’t stir. An exhausted resident can sleep with a train passing through.

  Gently, David moved Woody’s phone closer to his face, then stepped to an overhead fluorescent to check his own phone.

  Jill’s email: “Deborah W. called, they’re coming just before 2, he so dominates her even on the phone! Try to meet with them, I’m sure to get called.”

  He read more: Reid’s booze relapse last winter, his hitting Deborah, Arender’s conviction that Reid and Robin were involved. “Jay said, ‘I’ve seen how they look at each other’ – but also said Reid was addicted to Jody! Was conflicted cuz she was unstable. With the Wylie marriage crumbling Robin may have seen Jody as the only obstacle…”

  It was ten after two. The Wylies must be up there already.

  David re-read Jill’s last few lines. Then a quick scroll revealed that she was in a delivery with Sam and Gary Phipps. He checked OB’s overload and others’ schedules: Tricia and Ramu were finishing up another delivery, Jim Holloway had hauled bitching George Mackey out of bed, and Charlie Ortega was herding five interns back from Grand Rounds.

  David headed for the elevators.

  “So you said nothing?” he heard as he passed the cop with a nod and entered Arender’s room. It was Reid Wylie, pacing, his gruff voice low. He was yards away from Deborah, who sat dejectedly by the other side of the bed and leaned toward Arender.

  Conversation ceased when they saw David.

  Click! went his mental picture of them, the body language of their tense group tableau.

  Wylie looked bad. Not the rakishly handsome rocker before his mike any more, but pale in his dark business suit with dark circles under bloodshot eyes. He looked like he’d been drinking again. The room reeked of booze.

  David smiled to the others and greeted Arender. Casual. Friendly-like. “I was on the floor and wanted to see how you’re doing.”

  Alarm flashed from Arender’s eyes. “Pretty good,” he muttered, looking not at all happy about the presence of his visitors. “No thanks to that cop who bashed me.” That’s my story, said his glare.

  David nodded – copy that – and bent to skim the patient chart at the foot of the bed. Such tension between the three of them. The vibe was thick, uncomfortable. “You’re doing well,” he said to Arender, straightening. “Hey, nice bathrobe.”

  The robe was a new-looking plush blue. It couldn’t have come from his apartment; Jill’s email said the cops had turned it upside down. Had probably spent the whole morning there.

  “A little feel-better something.” Deborah smiled weakly. “We stopped at Saks on the way over.”

  “You stopped at Saks,” Reid Wylie said bitterly. He dropped to the edge of an armchair. Flicked a nervous glance at David; checked his watch. “I can’t stay long.”

  “Yeah, your meeting at three,” Arender said sarcastically. “I’ll bet the traffic’s terrible. You should get a head start.”

  “Maybe I should.” Wylie got darkly to his feet again, unsteady; stumbled over a different chair leg.

  David caught his arm. “You okay?”

  “Sure, I’m fine!” Their eyes met for an instant. Wylie’s looked stricken. His breath emitted eighty proof, and he wore his gun in clear view on a shoulder strap inside his jacket. Why? He must also have an ankle holster. He was showing his hostility to the world. Daring everyone. Deteriorating, getting paranoid. Guns, booze and paranoia - bad, bad...

  “You gonna question me too for the cops?” he said miserably. Then turned and headed for the door. “But thanks for asking. I’m fine, just terrific,” he laughed bitterly over his shoulder. “My life’s fallen apart and I love getting chased by reporters.”

  “Reid, wait,” Deborah pleaded, getting up, trying to follow him. In the doorway he yanked his arm from her.

  “Reid, please!” they heard out in the hall.

  David raised his eyebrows back to Arender, who sneered. “Nice, huh? They saw cops leaving my room and were thrilled. Such dear-concerned-friends hoping to see me pinned with the murders. Guess Reid’s disappointed, huh?”

  “Cops were here?” David asked innocently.

  “Yeah. Got nothing, could only charge me with break and entry and assault. You should’ve seen the Wylies’ faces when I told them. I was shitty to them, but too bad. And I hate this damn robe.”

  37

/>   Guns, booze and paranoia... Was Deborah in danger from Reid? How do you ask someone if they fear their spouse is going to kill them?

  She was on a bench down the hall, sobbing. David’s heart went out to her. He approached and sat next to her, leaned forward with his hands clasped.

  “Need tissues?” he asked, eyeing her soggy ones. She wore a shapeless gray dress under the coat she’d never taken off.

  She blinked through streaming eyes at the linoleum floor. “Thanks, I have too many,” she managed, reaching with trembling hands into her purse, sendng a heartbroken glance to David. “I could use a barrel of Valium, though. Can you arrange that?”

  “Sure. I’ll go raid the pharmacy.” David gave her a crooked smile, and their eyes met. His were warm, concerned. She gazed into them for a second, and seemed to calm just a little. Then she looked away.

  “This,” she breathed, gripping her new tissue, “is unreal. It’s been a non-stop, sleepless nightmare.”

  He nodded, not knowing yet what to say. His silence prodded.

  “After the Jody…thing, we’d healed. Been back to happy.” Deborah shifted uncomfortably. The bench was hard. “Can you believe that?”

  “Sure.” Word for word, she’d told Jill the same thing. It didn’t jibe with Arender’s version of their relationship in Jill’s email. Serious denial here…

  Deborah’s face crumpled again; the tissue went to work. “Then that horrible party… We’d spent that whole afternoon on the roof gardening, happy as loons. Can you…picture us happy and gardening? After that scene in there, it must be hard.”

  “Not hard at all.” David gave a bolstering smile. Let her talk a bit. Try to calm further.

  “Our apartment’s on the top floor of an old, Moorish-style building,” she said in a long sigh, as if talking to herself. “Reid’s built a stairway to the roof. It’s only half-finished. Just a hatch so far, no proper door. He’s restored the wrecked old water tower up there to look like a mini Alhambra.” She cocked her head, smiled to herself. “A gazebo. We’re going to furnish it, hang plants in it when the weather gets nice.”

  Reid leaving Arender’s room didn’t look up for hanging plants. Deborah was fantasizing, comforting herself with the way their plans had been. Or the way her plans had been.

  “Sounds nice,” David said, surreptitiously checking the time, looking for an in to speak his concern.

  “We’d love to have you and Jill see it sometime. It’s getting really pretty up there. Will you come visit us?”

  “Sure.” She was in her own world. Hadn’t seemed to notice nurses passing, or the surgical resident who’d just rushed by with a wave to him.

  Abruptly she put her hand on David’s arm. “Reid did not do this,” she pleaded with her eyes wide. “He didn’t hurt those girls. He’s never hurt anybody in his life.”

  David smiled tightly, feeling suddenly uncomfortable with her hand on his arm, wishing he’d worn long sleeves under his scrubs. Her hand was cold, sweaty.

  “Ah…” He put his hand over hers. Squeezed comfortingly, then moved her hand back to her lap. “This is a rough patch for you. But it’s the hard times that define how strong our bonds are, right?”

  She seemed to like that answer. She’d heard what she wanted to hear. He hadn’t said, this will end well.

  “You’re so kind,” she said feelingly. “Jill is so lucky.” She shook her head slowly. “I can’t imagine you two ever…having a cross word.”

  Oh jeez, her face was crumpling again; more tears threatened. David didn’t want her to slide back so he shrugged and said, “Well, everyone has their operas. Who doesn’t?”

  Deborah’s face lit. She looked like she was going to laugh. “Everyone has their operas,” she repeated almost semi-hysterically. “I love that. It gives me hope.”

  Now. “One thing bothers me,” David said gently. “Ah, Reid’s back to drinking, isn’t he?”

  A hesitation. “Yes. He’s had relapses before.” A sniffle, a faint smile. “We’ll get through this.”

  “His guns bother me. His anger plus the booze and guns scare me.” David was emphatic. “For your sake.”

  Deborah waved her hand as if it were of no concern. “He was like that in January. We got through it. And January wasn’t the first time.” She blinked at David. “Are you worried he’ll hurt me?”

  “I worry that booze and anger make people crazy-”

  “Hey! You still here?”

  They looked up. Robin Abel was approaching with a stressed smile on her face. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, pulling open her trench coat to a tight black turtleneck and fixing on Deborah. Her eyes were bright and her lipstick looked freshly re-applied. “The office is bedlam. Reporters, reporters! The phone consoles look like a carny show.”

  She switched a curious gaze to David. “Oh, hi. You two commiserating?”

  “Yes,” Deborah said. “David is incredibly kind. He listens.” She looked at him, attempted a smile. “You remember Robin, don’t you?”

  “Sure.” David stood and shook. Robin Abel’s hand was cold too. “Come to visit Jay?” he asked casually.

  “Yes, but I gotta get back,” Robin said, flicking a glance at the open V of his scrub top, then to his arm above his elbow, checking out his biceps, then to his eyes with an admiring little smile.

  She was a flirt. Subtle and clever for someone not clued in to her.

  “Deb,” she said, switching her gaze. “There must be thirty new call-backs you gotta make. Selfish SOBs, they start with the same damn sorry, sorry, how’s Reid doing, then switch right away to their demands. My trailer’s chilly! Where’s the better chow they promised! Blah blah!” Robin shook her head, smoothed and fluffed her short dark hair. “I’m a wreck.”

  “Robin’s my rock. So devoted,” Deborah told David, getting up too as both women hugged. As she pulled back she saw Robin looking around. “Jay’s room is that one,” she said and pointed.

  “Thanks.” Robin still looked around. “Is Reid here?”

  “No, he left. Must be back to the office by now.”

  “Well, I’m just going to say hi and run back too. Jerry’s alone and it’s hell being short-handed.” Robin gave a little wave to them both and headed for Arender’s room.

  Deborah turned back to David. “Going to the elevator?” she asked. He’d just grabbed his phone and was checking a message.

  “A different elevator,” he told her, and gestured. “I go that way.” He didn’t want to say he’d been called to a delivery. Deborah’s miscarriage...

  “And I go back to reality.” She shrugged; looked suddenly afraid, heartbroken again.

  Reality? Was she more aware than she seemed?

  David lightly patted her arm. “Hang in there,” he said sympathetically.

  Her hand went to her arm where he’d touched it. She kept it there, as if to keep that place warm. “You are the sweetest person ever,” she said forlornly.

  “What we talked about…”

  “I’ll be okay. Thank you so much.”

  “Do you have 9-1-1 on speed dial?” he pressed.

  She smiled sadly. “No need. But it’s nice to have someone worry about you.”

  He watched her go, looking downcast and unbearably alone.

  Depressed, he quick-scrolled his phone. Solace was often there, in his phone. Ah, two more births just landed, sounding routine.

  Thank God for routine, he thought. He pictured the healthy squalls of a new little girl or boy renewing a family with joy, and a whole new chapter in their lives.

  That raised his spirits. Ditto thoughts of sweet Hope, the little girl who’d almost died but didn’t, now snug and healthy in the newborn nursery.

  His spirits rose a notch higher as he trotted to an elevator. More new life coming! He still worried about Deborah, and would do the only thing he could.

  It was nine minutes past three.

  38

  He called Alex, first chance he got.

  “There�
��s nothing we can do,” Alex said unhappily. “She won’t listen?”

  “No.”

  “If she complained to us, we’d be there in two seconds.”

  “She won’t.” David paced in the moist scrub room. Splashes on the floor. Steamed-up mirrors. It was 4:40. “He’s raging and she’s in denial. Says they’ve had these episodes before – when he wasn’t a murder suspect. She doesn’t realize now’s a hundred times worse.”

  Traffic sounded at Alex’s end. Tense cop voices too. David heard his police friend exhale hard.

  “The worst thing is, we can’t act until a complaint’s been issued or a crime’s been committed. She may re-think it. We get no end of hysterical calls from people barricaded in bathrooms. What?” A hurried voice called to him. “Gotta go,” he said back to the phone. “This doesn’t sound good. We’ll want to hear more, like, in an hour?”

  David next got Jill as she was running into a different scrub room. “Reid’s drinking again?” She was alarmed; they had to talk fast.

  “Yes. And wearing his gun very in-your-face under his open jacket. Hostile and raging. Blaming Deborah.”

  “She really should get out of there. I’ll call her. No, you call her. I gotta run in for this GYN surgery.”

  “She won’t listen to me.”

  “I’ll call her as soon as I can. I’m just assisting, gonna hold the retractors. I can scrub out early.”

  Ninety minutes later, at ten past seven, Jill tried for a second time to reach Deborah. “Got her voice mail again,” she said nervously, pocketing her phone, re-grabbing her knife and fork. “That leaves her two messages to call back. Oops, careful, honey,” she told Jesse, squirming and reaching for eats from Tricia’s lap next to her on the couch.

  David watched her cut Chinese shrimp and broccoli into tiny pieces. He was barely eating. “I just don’t get her denial,” he said. “She was a public defender. She’s seen domestic violence.”