Angel wanted to hit something, punch his fist into a solid brick wall and feel the familiar pain radiate up his arm. “So fix me,” he snapped. “Cut me open and repair the damage.”
“It’s not that easy, Mr. DeMarco. The damage done by this last episode is too extensive. I’ve spoken to Chris Allenford at St. Joe’s, and he concurs that repair isn’t a viable option.”
Damage. Too extensive.
Bad words, very bad words.
“Are you telling me I’m going to die and you can’t do anything to save me?”
“No. I’m telling you that standard heart surgery isn’t an option. It’s too late for that. You need a new heart.”
“No. You don’t mean …”
’Transplant.”
For a split second Angel couldn’t breathe. Ice-cold fear stabbed deep, deep in his heart. “Jesus,” he said on a breath. “Jesus …”
Transplant. A new heart. Someone else’s heart in his chest. A dead person’s heart. Beating, beating.
He stared at Gerlaine, trying to sound normal, unafraid. He forced a weak smile. “No way. I don’t even buy used cars.”
“This is no joke, Mr. DeMarco. Your heart disease is in end stage, and that is
as bad as it sounds. You’re going to die unless you receive a healthy heart. We’ll put you on the transplant list and hope a donor is found in time.”
A donor. Angel thought for a second he might puke. “And give me a life as what—Frankenstein’s pet project?”
“It’s a surgery, Mr. DeMarco, not unlike other surgeries. There’ll be guidelines, of course, restrictions on activity and diet, but with a few lifestyle changes…”
Angel was almost speechless. “Jesus Christ…”
“There are excellent psychiatrists who are trained to help in times like this….”
“Really?” Angel shot the word back. He knew he should be charming right now, try to get what he wanted with honey instead of piss, but he couldn’t manage it. He felt as if he were falling off a cliff into a deep, dark pit, and the helplessness of it made him want to scream out in anger. “How many heart transplants have you done, Mr. Head of Cardiology for LaGrangeville Hospital?”
“None, but—”
“But nothing. I’m not taking your word for anything. Anything, Do you understand me? Make arrangements to fly me to the best transplant center in the country.” He glared at the doctor. “Now.”
Gerlaine slowly pushed to his feet. “Kennedy told me you’d take this poorly.”
“Take it poorly?” Angel mimicked. “Take it poorly? What is that, some kind of joke?”
Gerlaine pushed the chair aside and sighed deeply, shaking his head. “I’ll make arrangements for a transfer. St. Joseph’s Hospital in Seattle would be your best bet. Allenford’s probably the top cardiovascular surgeon in the country.”
“Seattle?” His heart hammered out of control, sent that idiotic monitor clicking and blipping. He was so furious, he could barely breathe. “Jesus Christ, it’s a comedy of errors. You’re sending me home.”
Gerlaine brightened. “Really? I didn’t realize you were from Seattle. Well—”
“If anyone finds out about this—anyone—I’ll sue this goddamn hospital so fast, you’ll be emptying bedpans at a nursing home, you got that, Doctor?”
“Mr. DeMarco, be reasonable. You came here from a Hollywood party. People saw you arrive.”
“Nobody is gonna think I need a new heart. You figure out a way to hide it, Doc.”
Gerlaine stared down at him, frowning. “You have strange priorities….”
“Yeah, yeah, bite me. Now, get out of my room.”