Chapter Sixteen
Madelaine reached for the doorknob. She gave a last sidelong look at Lina, who wouldn’t meet her gaze, then pushed the door open.
Sounds came at her, sounds she’d heard a million times in her life—the whoosh-wheeze of the ventilator, the steady electronic drone of the cardiac monitor. They should have meant nothing, those noises that were as familiar to her as the sound of her own breathing, but suddenly in the confines of this small, shadowy room, they were obscenely loud.
Taking a deep breath, she closed the door and went inside, circling around to the far side of the bed so that she wouldn’t have to disturb the curtain.
He lay in the narrow, metal-railed bed, the covers tucked up to his slack chin, his arms pressed protectively to his sides. Clear plastic tubing invaded his mouth and nose, one going to his lungs to keep him breathing, the other providing a steady drip of fluids. Bottles and bags hung from metal poles beside the bed, sending a tangle of clear tubing into his wrists, throat, and chest. A huge, discolored layer of gauze hid half his face.
The room was dark except for a triangle of weak light from the streetlamp outside. He looked completely calm and serene, as if he couldn’t have cared less that plastic tubing stormed his body and pumped air through his lungs.
She was so unsteady, she had to cling to the rails to keep from falling down. Finally she reached out, brushed a lock of hair from his eyes, tucking it beneath the white rim of the bandage. Beside her, the ventilator wheezed and dropped. His chest rose and fell, rose and fell.
She wanted to believe in a miracle right now, to believe that she could take his hand and lean close to his ear and help him find his way back to her, guide him back from the light so many patients spoke of.
But she’d been a doctor too long. His EEG was stone-flat. He’d had no reaction to the pain tests. Nothing. There was no life inside him anymore.
He would never smile at her, never call her his Maddy-girl.
At the thought, the grief she’d been holding at bay welled up inside her, spilling everywhere, streaking down her cheeks in hot, wet tears.
She remembered all the times they’d snuggled up on her couch to watch a movie together, all the times she’d held his hand in hers. She leaned over and pressed a kiss to his warm cheek.
And waited breathlessly for him to open his eyes and smile at her and say, Maddy-girl you didn’t think it was real, did you?
But he didn’t answer, didn’t move, just lay there breathing through a machine.
Without realizing what she was going to do, she lowered the bedrail and climbed into bed beside him, slipping an arm gently around his chest, staring at the side of his face that was unharmed.
He looked peaceful from this angle, and she prayed that he was, needed to believe that he was. She clung to him, pressing her face against his throat, crying. She wanted to beg him not to leave her, not to be dead, but she was crying too hard to speak, too hard even to think.
She had no idea how long she lay there, tangled up with him, breathing the last subtle reminder of his aftershave—the one she’d given him for Christmas. Thinking of all the moments they’d never have again, all the times she’d reach instinctively for the phone to call him, only to realize he wasn’t at home anymore.
She was roused at last by a knock on the door. She sniffed and wiped her eyes, intending to crawl out of the bed and stand by his side like the professional she’d always been. To buck up and be strong. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t leave him. So she lay there, holding him, and offered a harsh, raw “Come in.”
The door opened and Dr. Nusbaum came up beside her. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t say it,” she snapped. The moment the words left her mouth, she was horrified by her loss of control. She tried to force her trembling mouth into a smile and failed. “I’m sorry. It’s just…” She couldn’t go on. The tears came back, spilled helplessly down her cheeks. She balled her hands into fists and struggled to sit up. Without meeting Nusbaum’s gaze, she climbed out of the bed.
“It’s okay,” he said in a quiet voice. After a long, silent moment, he added, “I’ve spoken to Dr. Allenford at St. Joseph’s.”
At first Madelaine was confused—what did Chris have to do with this?—then the explanation washed over her, rippling and icy cold. She sucked in a sharp, aching breath. Facts fell into place: Francis was brain-dead, but his organs were functioning. The organ procurement people had spoken with UNOS, who had referred them to Dr. Allenford.
“What did he say?” she asked quietly.
“He says he has a perfect match for your… friend’s heart. A patient in Seattle.”
Madelaine felt as if she were doing a free fall into a deep, dark hole. She couldn’t reach out, couldn’t catch her breath. Her own heart started hammering in her chest. She should have seen it instantly, known it. How had she missed the obvious?
Nusbaum looked a little uncomfortable. “I’ve never had this conversation with someone who knew more about transplants than I do…. Are you the patient’s legal next of kin?”
“He’s a priest, did you know that? A priest. He’s never done a mean thing in his life. And now, now …” Words failed her.
Dr. Nusbaum gave her a gentle smile. “Would you like me to send the organ transplant coordinator in here? The bereavement counselor handles these things a hell of a lot better than I do.”
“No. Yes. Let me think.” She brushed the hair from Francis’s face with a shaking hand.
He moved toward her, placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not a coma, Dr. Hillyard, and I know you know the difference. Mr. DeMarco is legally brain-dead. Now his next of kin has to decide what to do. You know there isn’t much time for the donation decision. Dr. Allenford said—”