Director's Cut (11 page)

The place was abuzz. One reason people join the chamber is to network. When I walked in I saw hands being shaken, cards being exchanged, and pats being delivered to backs.

It was showtime.

I
left the country club feeling good about the speech. No one dozed off, no one made snide remarks masked as questions, and no one asked a question I didn't have an answer for—always a danger. My relief was short-lived as thoughts of what remained in the afternoon loomed before me. I had a two o'clock with the Community Development Department and a briefing meeting with the council. I should head straight back to the office.

I didn't.

Instead, I called Floyd and asked him to push the CDD meeting back fifteen minutes, then I directed my vehicle toward Pacific Horizon Hospital.

PHH is a four-story structure that sits on the east side of the freeway, hunkered down in the gentle hills. It is a glass and concrete structure that refuses to blend in with its surroundings. It had all the style and form of a refrigerator. It wasn't pretty to look at, but those who worked within its walls made the place memorable and the architecture forgivable. PHH boasted some of the best-trained and brightest minds in medicine. Only high-end research hospitals could brag about a better staff, and even then, they would get an argument from the patients.

I parked and walked into the lobby. My head was down, and I realized that leaving the world of the well for the cosmos of the afflicted had unsettled me. It wasn't that sick people made me uncomfortable; it was that I spent time here this past winter, and it held a negative association. I had anchored my past uncomfortable experience with PHH.

The lobby was expansive. To one side was a group of worn and faded chairs and sofas. The room could seat fifty or sixty people, but only a handful of people populated the area, sitting in clumps like mushrooms on a spring lawn, each group as far from the others as the furnishings allowed.

I set a course for the information desk manned by two silver-haired ladies dressed in pink. They had kind eyes afloat on dour expressions, as if waiting for this morning's prune juice to do its work. One was short and thin as if crafted from drinking straws. The other was broad from shoulder to hips and her cheeks bore several layers of rouge. Hospital volunteers. Women who chose public service to pass hours otherwise spent alone in front of a television. As I stepped to the oak desk, they looked up at me but said nothing.

I smiled. “My name is Madison Glenn. I'm here to see Doug Turner.”

“Is he a patient?” the thin one said.

I blinked. “Yes, he's a patient.”

The thin woman asked, “What is his name?”

I smiled again. “Doug Turner. Maybe Douglas Turner. He was admitted last night.”

“Is that Turner with a T?” Before both women were clipboards with several sheets of paper. I could see patient names and room numbers.

“Yes, ma'am, that's Turner with . . . a T.”

“Here it is,” the broad woman announced with a forced smile. The thin pink lady frowned as if she had just been trumped in bridge. “He's in ICU. You'll need to check in with the nurses before going in. There's an intercom in the ICU waiting room. Just push the button and a nurse will talk to you.”

“What did you say your name is?” The thin pink lady picked up a black felt-tip pen and a sticky-backed name tag.

“Madison Glenn.”

“That's a lovely name, dear,” the broad woman said.

“Our mayor's name is Madison Glenn,” the thin one announced. “Did you know that? You have the same name as the mayor.”

“Imagine that,” I replied.

“She's not going to be our mayor for much longer,” the wider lady said. “She's running off to congress.”

She wrote down my first name, then stopped. “Not if I have anything to say about it,” her partner said. “I'm going to vote for that nice-looking Garret Kinsley. He has kind eyes.”

“Mary Jane! You're a Republican. Kinsley is a Democrat. He's going to steal all your Social Security.”

“But he has the kindest eyes,” Mary Jane countered. “I trust a man with kind eyes.”

“Excuse me,” I said. “My name tag.”

The larger woman looked at me, then cut her eyes to her friend. “Some women lose all common sense when they get old.”

There was no reply to that. “My name tag,” I said again.

The thin woman frowned at me like I was a nettlesome child interrupting an adult conversation. “What did you say your last name is?”

“Glenn.” I started to tell her that I spelled it with two
n
's, but was afraid of where that would lead.

“That's right, just like the mayor.”

I didn't argue.

With my name badge glued just below my shoulder, I marched down the corridor and took the elevator to the fourth floor. My time was tight when I arrived; it had been made worse by the kind pink ladies.

The ICU unit was behind closed doors. Just as the volunteer had said, there was a waiting room with an intercom and a white button. A sign attached to the wall gave warning that the ICU was off-limits and admission required permission from the nursing staff. I pressed the button. A moment later a tinny voice erupted from the small speaker.

“Yes?” A woman's voice.

“Madison Glenn to see Doug Turner.”

“Are you family?” the disembodied voice asked.

“No . . . , a friend.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but visits are restricted to family and—”

The voice cut off. I was afraid this would happen, but I felt compelled to try. I started to leave, when the distant voice returned. “Okay, ma'am. Come in.”

I stepped from the waiting room to the wide double doors that separated the controlled environment of the Intensive Care Unit from the rest of the hospital. A three-inch-square metal panel was fixed to one wall. Red letters on its surface read: Press to Open. I reached for it, but the doors swung open before I could lay finger to the button.

I started forward and stopped when I noticed a tall, good-looking man in a white smock standing in my path. He was my age, sported sandy blond hair and deep brown eyes. There was a glint in the eyes and an easy smile on his lips.

“What's the password?” he asked.

“Um, Vote-for-Maddy?”

“That'll work.” He stepped forward and gave me a hug.

“I take it I have you to thank for getting me in here.”

“That's true, and your debt to me continues to grow.”

He looked good to me. Seeing Jerry Thomas was a tonic. His smile was the best thing I had seen all day.

Dr. Jerry Thomas was several steps beyond a good friend. A pediatrician, he frequented the hospital as well as running a medical office on Castillo Avenue. His humor was sharp, his kindness boundless, and his heart as expansive as the sky. We dated in high school, but as with most such relationships, it evaporated under the heat of growing up. The tides of life forced us to drift apart. He married and seemed happy for the first few years, but it was one-sided. His wife, unable to endure the long hours required of a young doctor, left him for another man with more time and money. I had married Peter and was blissfully happy until his murder. Over the decade since those events Jerry and I remained friends. He pressed the relationship, trying to lay spark to the kindling of love. I resisted at every turn, but Jerry is nothing if not an optimist.

Early this year things began to change. I had come close to losing everything including my life. I was flailing in circumstances far out of my control. Standing there to catch me was Dr. Jerry Thomas.

Something inside me began to thaw.

We see each other on a regular basis and the bond continues to grow. I don't know what the future holds, but I've allowed for new possibilities.

We walked to the nurse's station. A semicircular bench marked off the area. Several men and women dressed in white smocks moved throughout the ICU, ducking in and out of small rooms with glass partitions that separated the work area from the patients' rooms. A doctor in the same style of smock sat at a desk, filling out a form.

“Do you have any information on Doug Turner?” I asked Jerry.

He shook his head. “No. I didn't even know he was here until I heard your voice over the intercom. But I know who does. Dr. Tucker, do you have a moment?”

The man in the white coat who had been filling out the form turned, then rose. “That's about all I have.”

“Dr. Tucker,” Jerry said, “this is Mayor Madison Glenn. She's a friend of Doug Turner.”

He looked me over, then gave a nod.

“Pleased to meet you, Doctor.” I offered my hand. He gave it a brief shake.

“I'm afraid Mr. Turner isn't up for visitors yet.”

“Is there anything you can tell me, Doctor?”

He looked at Jerry, who said nothing. Physicians are reluctant to talk about their patients with anyone other than family members. “First, the good news,” Tucker said. “His spinal cord shows no damage, and there's no indication of paralysis. He was wearing a seat belt, which kept him from being ejected when the vehicle rolled. Mr. Turner has, however, received several head injuries, a broken clavicle, a broken forearm, and a fractured ankle. There are some internal injuries, but those should heal normally. Our greatest fear is damage to the brain. That's still being assessed. We have him heavily sedated to limit his movements.”

“May I see him?” Everything inside me was twisting into a knot.

“I'll walk you to his cubicle, but I must insist you stay outside. He's unconscious.” Without waiting for a response, he crossed the distance from the nurse's station to one of the cubicles. The number above the door read 4003.

Once at the door, he stepped aside. I felt Jerry close to my left, his hand on my elbow. I looked in.

Doug was motionless on the bed. A thin white sheet covered him from his stomach to midthigh. One arm was in a fiberglass cast, as was one foot. His bare chest was blotched with blue bruises. His face was swollen twice its normal size. I could not recognize the man on the bed. I had to take Dr. Tucker's word for it that the swollen, battered, and bruised body belonged to the
Register
's ace reporter.

The temperature around me rose at an alarming rate. My face began to burn, and the normally unconscious act of breathing now required my full attention. Something was happening to my legs: the knee joints were morphing into Jell-O. I felt Jerry's hand tighten on my elbow. A hand seized my other arm.

“Okay,” Jerry said. “That's enough for now.”

I was turned and led from Doug's ICU cubicle. As I walked away, the heat that came upon me as if from an oven door dissipated, and my breathing returned to normal.

“Do you need to sit down?” Tucker asked.

I shook my head. “No. I'm fine. Really.” I caught Tucker exchanging a glance with Jerry.

“I'll take her for a walk,” Jerry said. “Thank you, Dr. Tucker.”

Tucker grunted and returned to his files.

Jerry walked me from the ICU, his hand still clamped like a vise on my elbow. I felt like a little old lady. We passed through the doors and into the waiting room. Thankfully, it was still empty. He directed me to a chair and made me sit. I started to protest, but before I could open my mouth, my fanny met one of the well-worn chairs.

“Stuff like that is always hard to see.”

“He didn't even look like the Doug I know.”

“The swelling does that. I've sent patients in for brain or face surgery and when they come out, I wonder who they are. In a few days, Doug will look like Doug.”

“How did you ever get used to seeing such trauma?” I took a deep breath.

“No one gets used to it.” Jerry took the seat next to mine. “Doctors just learn to expect it and deal with it. Fortunately, I don't have to deal with such things very often. Pediatrics is vastly different than emergency medicine. Still, we have our own set of challenges.”

I forced my attention from myself to Jerry. I was just now putting together the fact that my pediatrician friend was
inside
ICU. Jerry is like fancy ice cream, uniformly sweet, and filled with little surprises. He was quick with a joke, self-deprecating, sacrificial, and willing to invest himself in those he loves and admires. But the thing that has most impressed me about Jerry is his commitment to his work. Pediatrics was not the glamour discipline of medicine, nor was it the cash machine of other specialties. Dealing with children—sick children—day in and day out required a sturdier soul than most possessed. Jerry had once told me that most of his day was spent with runny noses, hurting tummies, and sore throats; but there were those days when he wanted to “burn his license.” Those days included telling parents that little Johnny had leukemia, or bone cancer, or some disease that would keep the child from having anything close to a normal life. I had a feeling that this was one of those days.

“Why were you there?” I nodded to the double doors that kept the heartrending sights on the other side.

“Doing follow-up on a surgery. A six-year-old boy, one of my patients, was hit by a car this morning. ER did a great job, and the surgical team did the impossible. There's nothing for me to do but monitor his condition and, I hope, guide the recovery.”

“You hope?”

His eyes shifted from me. That was all the answer I needed. Jerry didn't think the little boy would live.

“How are you doing? You okay?” I took his hand.

He shrugged. “I'm thinking of taking up cabinetmaking.”

“The world of medicine would be sorely wounded if you did.”

“I'm not so sure. At times I love my job, but days like this make me wonder if I'm the man to do it.”

“You've been doing it wonderfully for years.”

“Some doctors can flip a switch and leave all the misery in the hospital rooms, but I've never been able to do that. I take it home with me. Images come to me in my dreams.” He leaned back, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples. I could tell he was beat, and it wasn't even two o'clock.