By My Hands (5 page)

“They
can
do more than clean house, you
know.”

“Yeah, but cut you open with a knife and . . .” Slay
stopped mid-sentence realizing his indiscretion. “Sorry.”

“That’s all right. She’s really a live wire. Came in
late Sunday night and grilled me about my illness. I felt guilty
for being sick. Then when she found out I was a minister, she acted
like I was some kind of witch doctor.” Adam pushed the control
button that lowered the head of his bed. He was still sore and
weak. “I don’t think she holds the clergy in high regard.”

“Ah, a woman of discriminating tastes,” Slay
said.

“Careful,” Adam said as he shifted his position in
bed. “I may never come back.”

“Who you trying to kid? If this hospital bed had a
motor, you’d drive it to your office.”

“Speaking of the office, how is everything at the
church?”

“What’s the matter, afraid we’ll change locks on
you?”

“No. Just wanting to know what’s going on.”

“Well, everything is being handled just fine. Fannie
is watching the office, George Kellerman is preaching, and I’m
taking the hospital visits.”

“Fannie has been church secretary long enough that
she runs the office anyway,” Adam said. “And George has filled in
for me several times. We were fortunate to get him on the deacon
board.”

“I told you not to worry. All you have to do is get
better.”

“How come you got the easy job?”

“Easy?”

“Sure, I’m the only church member in the hospital,
and I’m a pleasure to visit.”

Slay laughed. “Wrong on both counts, Pastor. It just
so happens that as soon as I’m done cheering up your life, I’ve got
another church member to visit in this very hospital.”

“One of our members?” Adam’s voice betrayed his
surprise. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Dick lowered his head and sighed. “Because I knew
you’d do just what you’re doing right now: getting all excited when
you should be resting.”

“Well, the least you can do is tell me who it
is.”

Slay said nothing while he debated whether or not to
reveal the information. “You promise not to do anything
stupid?”

“Of course.”

“It’s David Lorayne,” Slay said reluctantly. “He had
surgery yesterday.”

For a moment Adam felt angry that he had not been
informed, but his anger did not last; after all, his church was
just trying to protect him. “How’s he doing?”

Slay sat stone-faced. “What’s wrong?” Adam asked,
reading his deacon’s face. “Tell me everything.”

Resigning himself to defeat, Slay explained, “No one
knew that he was coming in to surgery. You know how David is. He
never wants to bother anyone. Anyway, like I said, he came in
yesterday to have surgery on an ulcer. The surgery went fine, or so
everyone thought until last night.”

“What happened?”

“He slipped into a coma. No one seems to know why.
He just won’t wake up.”

Reaching for the bed controls, Adam slowly brought
the head of the bed up until he was in the sitting position and
then gently swung his feet over the edge of the bed and stood. He
wobbled slightly and wondered if Slay had noticed.

“What are you doing?” Slay said, leaping to his
feet. “You promised that you wouldn’t do anything stupid.”

“This isn’t stupid,” Adam said defensively. “I’m
supposed to walk every day anyway. If I don’t, the nurses beat me.
Hand me my robe, please. It would tarnish my image to be seen
walking around the hospital bare-bottomed.”

“I’m not sure you should be doing this.”

“I’m fine, Dick, really. Now are you going to hand
me my robe or not?”

Opening the small closet in the corner of the room
Slay reluctantly pulled out a green bathrobe and handed it to
Adam.

“What room?” Adam asked firmly.

“223.”

“Good, that’s the same floor we’re on. Let’s
go.”

A few moments later the two men stood just inside
the door of Lorayne’s hospital room.

“Ann,” Adam said softly.

“Oh, Pastor.” The woman sitting next to the bed
dabbed a tissue at her red eyes, stood, and walked toward him.

“I hope you’ll excuse my appearance. I’ve just
recently found out about David. I got here as soon as I could.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said softly. “You’ve
got to take care of yourself.”

“I’m doing fine, Ann. No need to worry about me.
Besides, I was in the area.” Adam put his arm around her, walked to
the side of the bed and gazed down at the sleeping figure. Slay
stood silently near the door. “How’s David doing?” Adam asked.

“Fine, I . . . I guess.” Ann Lorayne was a handsome
woman of forty-five years. Her genteel manner and bright
personality had made her one of the most popular people in the
church, especially with the fifth-grade Sunday School class she
faithfully taught. “He just won’t wake up.” She sobbed quietly.

“What do the doctors say?” He held her a little
tighter.

“They don’t know what happened. They’re running some
tests, but they seem as confused as I am. Oh, Pastor, I don’t know
what to do.” She turned to him, buried her face in his shoulder,
and wept.

“What you’ll do is take one step at a time.” Adam’s
tone was gentle, yet firm. “You’ll cry when you need to, feel angry
when you need to, and make decisions when you need to. I’ll be here
with you any time you need me. Have you talked to the rest of the
family?”

“Yes. My son is driving down from Los Angeles now.
He should be here soon. Larry, David’s brother, is already here.”
She turned and looked at her husband.

Adam dropped his arm from her shoulders and took her
hand. He wished he could say something worthwhile, something to
ease her anxiety; but as was often the case, no words came to mind.
Adam watched in grim silence.

Tuesday, March 3, 1992; 10:40
A.M.

PRISCILLA’S RED BMW MOVED slowly along Interstate 8,
a departure from her normal rash driving style. Her deliberate
driving wasn’t grounded in caution but in her need to gather her
thoughts and formulate a plan. In a few moments she would be at
Kingston Memorial Hospital seeking information on the healing. Whom
should she speak to first? Administrators? Doctors? Nurses? The
approach she chose would be crucial; one wrong step could mean the
difference between an attention-getting dramatic story and a
mediocre one.

It was less than a twenty-minute drive from her
condominium to the hospital, and she wanted to make use of each
moment. Methodically she envisioned the various scenarios. She
could take the diplomatic approach and speak to the hospital’s
public relations department If they were hesitant to provide
information to the media— and hospitals often were if they thought
it could adversely affect their public image—they would stonewall,
leaving Priscilla without a story or, at best, a story without any
real meat to it.

No, it would be better to start with the rank and
file, but who? If the nurse who called Irwin was on shift when the
healing took place, then she would probably have already gone home.
Maybe the woman was just coming on duty, discovered the incident,
and decided to call the station. That would be a stroke of luck,
but then Priscilla always considered herself a lucky person.

Irwin had said the woman was reluctant to answer
questions and wouldn’t give her name.
Why so secretive? The
administration must be putting a lid on it
. If so, then her
decision to start at the bottom before approaching the
administrators was correct.

When she arrived at the hospital, her plan was
secure in her mind, replete with contingency strategies. She drove
into the front parking lot and found an open stall. A sign at the
head of the stall read: CLERGY PARKING.

Knowing that an affectation of confidence was seldom
challenged, she briskly walked into the hospital lobby, checking
the display on the pager in her hand. Priscilla marched through the
lobby and turned left down the first hall she saw, looking every
bit the busy executive or doctor.

Priscilla’s luck held: the hall led to a bank of
elevators. One of the doors was opening and several people exited.
Quickly she stepped into the empty compartment and then realized
that she didn’t know where the burn ward was located.
Well, the
best way to find the top is to start at the bottom.
She pushed
the button marked B.

The elevator groaned as its hydraulic piston slowly
lowered the compartment. A moment later the doors opened, and
Priscilla stepped out of the lift. She was standing in a wide hall
with pale green walls and a large placard with the words RECORD
STORAGE and an arrow pointing to her left, and two other lines:
MORGUE and BURN WARD with arrows pointing to her right. The first
line and arrow were printed in green, the morgue in blue and the
words BURN WARD in yellow. Looking at the floor she saw three lines
painted each in its own color: green, blue, and yellow.

“At least I won’t need a compass.” As she followed
the yellow line on the highly polished floor, her footsteps echoed
off the plaster walls making her feel uncomfortable. She felt as
though she were walking down hallowed halls forbidden to the
uninitiated.

The corridor led to a T intersection and Priscilla
followed the yellow line to the left, into a new corridor filled
with office doors that bore engraved signs: Dr. J. Mendoza, Dr.
R.S. Ailes, Shift Nurse, Lounge. It was, however, the double doors
at the end of the hall that interested Priscilla. They were painted
a yellow that matched the line on the floor and had a sign with a
red background and white letters: ADMITTANCE RESTRICTED. ALL GUESTS
MUST DIAL 011 TO SPEAK TO A NURSE. On the wall next to the doors
was a white phone.

Priscilla’s luck was running out. She had hoped to
be able to walk in, find Lisa Hailey and, if the story was
verified, call for a camera crew. She was counting on the element
of surprise. Now she was left with a decision: She could call the
nursing station and ask for permission to speak to Lisa, or simply
walk in. Maybe if she just strolled in with an air of confidence,
no one would pay attention to her. If she asked permission first,
they might not only refuse her admission, but might also refuse to
speak to her. That would force her to go through administration
and, if they were keeping a wrap on the story, she would be left
empty-handed. I’m
not going back to Irwin without a story, not
after the fuss I made
.

Just then one of the doors swung open and a young
man in a white lab coat walked through, his head down and his gaze
fixed on the metal clipboard he held. Priscilla quickly reached for
the phone and averted her eyes. She didn’t want to answer
questions, not yet. She needn’t have worried; if the man saw her,
he gave no indication of it. Priscilla watched him walk down the
hall and entered one of the office doors.

It was then that she decided to act. Before the door
could close, she stepped through.

The room was large and, unlike the corridor outside,
was painted in cheerful colors of blue, yellow, and green. In the
center of the room was the nursing station, marked off by a counter
that formed a circle in the middle of the room. Two nurses sat
behind the counter. Around the perimeter of the room were cubicles
with glass fronts through which Priscilla could see people lying in
bed. Instead of doors, each little room had curtains, all of which
had been drawn back. Priscilla estimated that there were about ten
cubicles; only four had patients, and Priscilla could see them
clearly. One was a little boy about ten years old whose left arm
was heavily bandaged. The patient in the next cubicle was under a
sheet that was suspended over supports so that it didn’t touch the
skin. The occupant of the third cubicle was in a crib. In the
fourth, a young woman in a hospital gown was smiling and chatting
with a man and a woman in hospital greens. The young woman wore no
visible bandages, didn’t seem to be scarred, and showed no signs of
pain. In fact, Priscilla noticed she looked overjoyed.

“Hey,” a strong female voice said.

Priscilla’s attention turned to the source of the
exclamation: a squat, dark-haired, dark-skinned, rotund woman in a
green nurse’s uniform, with green paper head covering and shoe
covers.

“Hi.” Priscilla smiled. “I’m Priscilla Sim—”

“You can’t be here,” the nurse said forcefully.

“But I—” The nurse grabbed Priscilla by the arm and
turned her toward the doors that led to the corridor. Priscilla
noticed that the nurse was wearing rubber gloves and wondered what
those gloves had been touching a few moments before.

“You’ll have to leave.”

“Wait a minute. I only wanted—”

“Outside. Now.”

A moment later Priscilla found herself in the
corridor, this time face to face with the angry nurse.

“Now just a minute,” Priscilla said, hoping not to
reveal how rattled she felt.

“You have no business in that ward without
permission,” the nurse said forcefully. “Our patients are very
susceptible to infection. Your presence endangers them.”

“I didn’t know. I only wanted—”

“You didn’t know because you ignored the sign on the
door that told you to call the nursing station first. And we all
know what you want, Ms. Simms. You want a story.”

“So you know who I am?”

“Yes, I know who you are, and until this moment I
had a lot of respect for you.”

“Look, something has happened here, something
newsworthy.” Priscilla looked at the plastic name tag on the
nurse’s uniform. “Care to tell me about it, Nurse Hobbs?”

“Come with me.” The nurse marched down the corridor
and stopped abruptly in front of one of the office doors. Without
knocking she opened the door and strode into the room. Priscilla
dutifully followed behind her.

The man Priscilla had seen exiting the burn ward was
seated behind a metal desk. On the desk was the clipboard, a
half-eaten onion bagel, and a Diet Coke. He looked up, irritated at
the abrupt entrance, and started to speak but was cut short by the
nurse. “Doctor, this is Priscilla Simms from the television
station. She was just in the ward.”