by Harry Kraus
Wally stayed in the wheelchair, and Claire pushed him forward so he could reach his son. After two attempts, Wally clasped Clay’s hand and cried, “Save him, God.”
The scene was both pitiful and overwhelming. A distant father, racked with sobs over years lost to alcohol, begging for God to give him one last chance.
Della was a wet statue, crying, unmoving, her eyes frozen on the image of the one who bore little resemblance to her son.
Wally’s hand was still for a few moments before jerking away. His chorea wouldn’t let him rest. His head bobbed and his legs pulled against the restraints. Claire watched him from the corner of the room. How much had his Huntington’s disease been responsible for his explosive temper, his need to find a respite in the bottle? She lowered her head. Embarrassment, anger, and pity filled her heart. Silently, she slipped from the room.
She wanted to talk to Dr. Rogers away from her family, hoping that if she talked to him at the center unit console, he wouldn’t feel compelled to visit with her in Clay’s room. She was sure he’d hear of her father’s HD because of Ramsey Plank’s investigation into her life, but hearing of HD and seeing her father were different items altogether. It was hard enough for Claire to see her family like this. She didn’t want to color Dr. Rogers’ opinion of her by letting him experience the McCall clan firsthand at their worst.
She approached Dr. Rogers quietly. He looked up from the chart he was examining. “Hi, Claire.”
“Hi, Dr. Rogers.”
“How’s your brother?”
“He’s stable for the moment. It’ll take a few days before we know.”
He nodded slowly. “Look, Claire, I know you’ve been under a lot of pressure, what with the upcoming trial, all your intern work, and now this. If you need some time away, I—”
“I’m fine, sir. There’s no need to lighten my load. I can stop and see my brother during the day while I work. I’m not the type to want to sit around.”
He seemed to be studying her face while he chewed the inside of his cheek. “You’re not invincible, Claire. Surgeons have difficulty understanding that.”
She watched as he returned to examining the chart in front of him. Claire didn’t know how to respond. She’d thought that Dr. Rogers would be pleased with her ability to continue in the face of extraordinary adversity. Instead, she felt rebuked. She wanted to crawl away. “Of course,” she mumbled.
Claire backed away and returned to Clay’s cubicle. She pulled the curtain to see Wally’s hand on Della’s back as she leaned forward. “Oh, Clay,” she cried. “You didn’t need to do this, honey. I’m so sorry. I should have told you.” She lowered her face to his and whispered something in his ear before turning back to face Claire. She pressed her hand to her mouth.
“Mom, it’s—”
Della looked at Claire. “I have to know. Was he drinking?”
“He was sober, Mom. They tested his blood for alcohol. He was clean.”
“Did the police think it was a suicide attempt?”
Claire shook her head. “They said it looked like Clay just fell asleep at the wheel.”
“That’s what he wanted it to look like.” Her mother sniffed loudly. “He was so upset about his future. He shouldn’t have done this. I could have stopped him.” She dropped her eyes to the floor.
“Mom, you couldn’t have—”
Della brushed past, crying into her hands. “I should have told him the truth.”
Wally’s glassy stare disappeared momentarily as he focused on his wife. “Della!”
Claire watched as her mother fled from the unit. She turned and tried to read her father, but his HD gripped his face again. His head weaved, and his face was an expressionless mask. If anything, Wally appeared as confused as Claire felt.
They waited a few moments together, father and daughter adrift in a haze of high-tech gadgetry. Claire’s mind whirled between her conversation with Dr. Rogers, her shame of her family, and her confusion over her mother’s remorse.
She touched her father’s shoulder. “Would you like to stay longer?”
“No.” He struggled with a Velcro strap. “Let me out of this chair. I want, I want, I want to find Della.”
Claire grabbed the handles on the back of the wheelchair. “I’ll push you, Dad. It will be faster that way.”
She wheeled him away, dodging a steel cafeteria cart, and nearly colliding with a nurse pushing an EKG machine. She punched the wall switch to activate the automatic doors and dared not glance back to see if Dr. Rogers was watching.
Celia Jones plunged another greasy plate into the sudsy water. She really didn’t mind doing the supper dishes by hand, although Roger had been promising to buy a dishwasher for more than two years. She tilted her head toward the den where ESPN blared. She walked to the entrance of the den, drying her hands on a paper towel, and frowned at the sight of Roger passed out on the couch with six empty beer cans stacked in a neat pyramid on the floor beside him.
She was just starting to think about nudging him when the phone rang. She muted the TV and picked up the receiver. “Hello.”
“Celia! Ramsey Plank here.” His voice was soothing. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything by calling you at home.”
“Of course not.”
“Listen, could I talk to Roger, or could you give a message to Roger for me?
She looked over at the log on the couch. “I’ll give him a message.”
“Franklin Peters, Dr. McCall’s attorney, called. It seems that Dr. McCall has notified him again today, making claims that she is being bothered by your husband.”
“Roger wouldn’t—”
“Just hear me out, Celia. She claims that he followed her in his car last night, that she had to race back to the hospital just to get away from him.”
“That’s ridiculous. We saw her in the church parking lot and—”
“Church, huh? Oh, well, spare me the details, would you? Mr. Peters is trying to focus the attention away from where it belongs, you understand? His client is a bad doctor, and he’s trying anything he can to get the attention off the truth. And that’s why he brought up all of that smoke about someone threatening his client during the deposition.”
She looked at her husband as she listened to Ramsey. Roger had been awfully moody since Sierra’s death. Sure he had blown off steam that day in the ER, but Roger wasn’t the type that would try to get even. Or was he? “So you think Mr. Peters just made up that stuff about the phone calls?”
“Of course. He just wants you to feel sorry for his client and take the attention off of her mistake.” He paused, and Celia could hear the chink of ice falling in a glass. “But listen, I don’t want to hear about any contact between your husband and Dr. McCall. I can understand him being upset, but, just between us, if Roger threatens her, and Franklin can prove it, it will make us look pretty silly. So please watch him. We are very close to victory in this case. I think Franklin is running scared, and I don’t want anything to mess up my—uh—our chances for a big win.”
“I don’t care about the money, Mr. Plank.”
“I know you don’t, Mrs. Jones. But you remember the concern you expressed on the first day you came to my office? You wanted to protect the public from this resident, to be sure others won’t have to suffer at her hands.” He cleared his throat. “Well, believe me, you won’t have to worry about that when we’re done. The university will rue the day they hired her.” He chuckled, then his voice became serious again. “So tell Roger to lay low, you hear? I don’t want anything getting in the way of our victory.”
“But he’s no threat to anyone. He just had a little too much to drink. He don’t mean any harm.”
“Keep a lid on him, Mrs. Jones. And remember why we need to do this. It’s for the community. Legal action like this is a civic duty. It helps keep our hospitals safe for all of us.”
She looked out the back door to an empty tire swing and sighed. “I remember, Mr. Plank. I remember.”
&
nbsp; Ramsey Plank set the phone in the cradle and smiled. This case could be a rainmaker. The university was going to pay big for improperly observing the resident staff.
The intercom clicked. “Mr. Plank? I have Franklin Peters on line two.”
Ramsey’s grin broadened. He wants to settle before trial. “Franklin. So nice to hear from you.”
“Cut the pleasantries, Ramsey. I think after yesterday you should want to hear from me. I’ve spoken with the malpractice carrier for the hospital and Dr. McCall. We’re ready to make a deal.”
Ramsey nodded his head and said nothing. I knew it.
“We are ready to settle for 150,000 dollars.” He let the offer hang without further explanation.
Ramsey snickered, chuckled, then didn’t try to hold back a full belly laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding. What is the life of a six-year-old worth?” He paused. “That’s a slap in the face to my clients.”
“I know your clients have lost a great deal. But you’ve got to know that you’re on shaky ground, Ramsey. There is no way to prove that my client’s actions were responsible for the patient’s outcome.”
“The patient’s outcome was death, Franklin. Think about that. You’re insulting my client.”
“My client may not have been watching the moment the little girl’s IV became disconnected. We are ready to concede that. But her actions cannot be proven to have caused the death. You have to be reasonable.”
“How do you think a jury will feel? What do you think they will do when they know that Claire McCall slithered away from the Apple Valley so that no one in faraway Lafayette would know about her family history? Your doctor is a walking time bomb, Franklin. I’m sure a jury will see her for what she is. And let her tremble just once in front of the jury, and I’ll make sure they wonder if your doctor is already showing signs of her secret family illness.”
“You’re on thin ice, Ramsey.”
“You’re the one making the offer to settle.” He tapped his fingers on the top of his mahogany desktop.
“You have to know that I’ll push the autopsy issue.”
“And I’ll show the jury it’s all an attempt to cover the truth.”
“Come on, Ramsey. You’re the one blowing smoke. Bringing up her family history was a low blow. It’s irrelevant.”
“I noticed she hadn’t told you either, Franklin. That should tell you something about your client.”
“Ridiculous. Dr. McCall is an outstanding young—”
“Save it for the jury, Franky. You’ll need to come up with a lot more money to make me go away. I’ve got an obligation to protect the public from clients like yours.” Ramsey could almost feel Franklin’s anger through the phone. He imagined Franklin’s cheeks reddening and smiled.
“We’ll get back to you, Ramsey.”
Ramsey leaned back in his leather chair and put his feet on the edge of his cluttered desk. “Just think about the image of a laughing little six-year-old on her birthday. Flash that in front of the jury and see if they think she’s only worth 150K.” He scoffed. “You’re dreaming, Frank. You’re dreaming.” He set the phone down in the cradle without saying good-bye.
It wasn’t time to be pleasant anymore. His opposition was on the run, and Ramsey was in the driver’s seat right behind them.
Claire spent the night in restlessness, answering pages, assisting with an operation on a facial dog-bite patient, and checking on Clay.
Della and Wally declined Claire’s offer to stay at her home, preferring to stay in the hospital guest house across the street. It was closer, and Claire didn’t have a car anymore anyway.
Clay wasn’t improving. At midnight, his blood pressure began to sag, and the trauma resident inserted a special pulmonary artery catheter to monitor his blood volume. Medications to support his pressure were infused through continuous drips, and although his pressure improved, his kidneys began to fail. His lungs began to fill with fluid, and more oxygen was administered to compensate.
By six A.M. trauma rounds, Clay’s liver began showing signs of shock, and his clotting factors were depleted. More blood was transfused to keep up with ongoing losses from his operative sites.
By ten A.M. his brain swelling worsened. The family was summoned. The end could be anytime. Claire was released from her intern duties to sit with Clay. Della and Wally huddled together in the corner of Clay’s room. Margo was kept abreast of the situation, but couldn’t leave her girls at home alone. A chaplain prayed for Clay and prayed for the family.
Residents came in and explained all they could. Clotting factors were infused, but Clay’s bleeding problems continued. The attending surgeons came in and talked to Claire, and began hanging crepe. “We’ve done all we can.
Claire watched it all in disbelief. How often had she been on the other side, looking in on families in despair?
Della sobbed.
Wally prayed for a miracle.
At two o’clock, the chief resident on the trauma service, Blaire Bickett, asked the family for permission to classify Clay as a “No Code.” The end was inevitable, he explained. Why should they put Clay through chest compressions for no benefit?
Della agreed and buried her head in her hands.
Wally agreed and prayed louder.
Claire pulled the curtain to screen out the rest of the ICU and the world beyond.
At 2:37, Clay McCall’s cardiac monitor registered a flat line. Dr. Bickett shut off the ventilator, leaving Claire, Della, and Wally alone.
Chapter Forty
Claire left the intensive care unit in a daze, walking numbly down the hospital corridor, not really attentive to her path. Down the stairwell, into the lobby, and past the gift shop she plodded. In an alcove just beyond the pay phones and before the rest rooms, a small chapel sat, sandwiched between them, labeled with a small sign. She’d not stopped there before, having passed it in her clinical duties hundreds of times without a thought, but now, in her moment of sorrow, it seemed to beckon.
The door was propped open, and, to her relief, the room was empty. The chapel was small, with eight short padded benches in two columns bordering a center aisle. A wooden cross hung on the far wall, and two stained-glass skylights cast a colorful mosaic around it.
The carpet was red, providing a sharp contrast to the white benches. Claire selected the last row and sat down. Her emotions flooded to the surface. Life was not going as expected. She was doing her part. She was trying to be faithful to her calling. So why was everything so hard?
She stared at the cross and cried. She cried for a twin who’d grown up and away, and who now would only be a memory. She cried for her family who seemed inept to deal with another tragedy. She cried because of her own hardships, for her struggle to fulfill her dream, and every roadblock that threatened to get in the way. And she cried because she felt so lonely. She yearned for Brett, and for the comfort she was sure he’d offer.
Then, for the second time in recent days, she felt a gentle wooing, the subtle sensation that she was missing out on something important. There was something just beyond her reach, a longing for love not yet experienced, the feeling that she’d forgotten something, but couldn’t quite place what it was. God? She’d heard others talk of peace and intimacy with God. They spoke of him as a father, even a lover. She dropped her head. Haven’t I been working hard enough? Isn’t this the work you’ve called me to perform? Then why do I feel so empty?
A man in a dark suit stepped in and sat down across the aisle from Claire. She dried her cheeks, and supposing him to be a hospital chaplain, offered him a nod.
His eyes were blue, his hair gray. His smile seemed genuine enough, and the smell of peanuts was apparent when he spoke, even from across the aisle. “You seem disheartened. Have a loved one in the hospital?”
The thought of pouring out her problems to a stranger seemed unnatural to Claire, but his smile was so alluring that she began to drop her guard. “Yes.” She sighed. “My brother.”
“I’m sorry.
”
“He was in a bad accident. He just died this afternoon.”
The man shook his head. “This must be so hard for you.”
“He was so young. Do things like this ever make any sense?”
The gray-haired man shook his head. “Not very often.”
It wasn’t the answer she expected.
“Sometimes I can bring a little help in situations like this.”
Claire studied him. He seemed sincere. “Help?” She hung her head. “Nothing can bring my brother back.”
“Nothing can make up for the loss you’ve experienced. But my boss can help. There may be something that can ease your suffering and help to bring a little compensation. A small point of light in an otherwise bleak situation, you might say.”
“Your boss?” She smiled. “1 guess that’s a code word for God.”
He returned a chuckle, and the smell of roasted peanuts greeted her again. He shrugged. “God?”
“I appreciate a chaplain with a sense of humor.”
The man leaned forward. “Chaplain?”
Claire locked eyes with the stranger. “I’m sitting in a chapel. You’re offering me help from your boss. I thought you were speaking of God.”
“My boss thinks he’s God.” He laughed again, this time louder. He handed her a business card. “Ramsey Plank, attorney-at-law.”
Claire’s jaw dropped. This man worked for Ramsey! He was the man she’d seen in the cafeteria! She wanted to scream, to tell him what she thought of his ambulance-chasing, conniving tactics. “Why, that—” The words stuck in her throat. Her face reddened and she counted to ten, looking from the floor to the wooden cross.
Then, suddenly another idea struck her, and she shifted in her seat and leaned toward the man across the aisle. “My brother’s liver was injured. He had surgery and he seemed to do okay for a while, but then, he started bleeding again, and in spite of everything they tried, they couldn’t help him. Maybe they made amistake. Maybe he shouldn’t have died.”
“These are difficult questions, uh, Ms…” He held out his hand.
