“Shh,” Francis said with a smile, a slow, easy smile that crinkled his eyes into slits. “I know.” He squeezed Angel’s hand. “Just hang on, brother. I’m with you.”
And Angel woke up crying.
Madelaine stood in the open doorway of OR 8, wondering what she was going to do about Angel. Allenford and his surgical nurse were huddled around the bed, preparing Angel for his first post-op biopsy. Even from here, Madelaine heard Angel’s angry voice.
His mood swings were uncontroll
able. One minute he was compliant and charming, and the next—wham! He threw the kind of temper tantrums that became legend almost before they were over. Nurses had started drawing straws to see who would have to check his vitals and adjust his meds. He’d become the six-hundred-pound gorilla in Intensive Care.
Physically, things were going well. He’d been weaned off all intravenous drugs, including dopamine and Isuprel. He was progressing in leaps and bounds, and had been able to leave isolation earlier than most patients. The physical therapist had already visited him twice and reported that he was up and walking at least forty minutes a day. The blood cultures were negative.
Yes, physically he was doing great. Mentally he was a mess. He seemed unable to come to terms with the new lifestyle. Every pill or shot or blood test drove him crazy. He couldn’t stand the swelling in his cheeks or the weight he’d lost while he was sick.
In short, most of the time he was a pain in the ass.
But he wouldn’t be one for long.
Soon Angel would be discharged from the hospital and he’d be on his own. No one to take care of him but him.
And if something didn’t change quickly, she was afraid he wouldn’t take it seriously enough. Hadn’t that always been Angel’s problem—that he took nothing seriously?
His meds schedule wasn’t something he could ignore. He had to follow the rules, for once in his life. If he didn’t…
She pushed the thought away, refusing to dwell on it. Angel had Francis’s heart—all that was left of her laughing, blue-eyed priest—and she’d be damned if she’d let him throw the miracle away.
He was lost right now. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in the fleeting softness of his touch. And whenever Angel got scared, he got angry; she knew that, had always known it.
The question was, what was she going to do about it?
She walked over to his bedside, taking his hand in hers. “Hey, Mad,” he said in a drowsy voice, “guess you wanted to see old Allenford stick it to me again.”
Chris dipped some cotton in the iodine solution and swabbed a spot at Angel’s throat.
Angel flinched at the touch and squeezed his eyes shut.
Madelaine could see how afraid he was, and she tightened her grip on his hand. She wanted to tell him that everything would be okay, but she was a doctor, and she knew—as he did—that this procedure was too important to sluff off on generalities. It would alert them if his body was rejecting Francis’s heart.
“I need more Valium,” he muttered, opening his eyes to look at her.
She tried to smile. “We’ve already given you more than your fair share.”
Half his mouth lifted in a sloppy grin. “I never was good at sharing my drugs. I have a high tolerance—I need more.”
She heard the raw edge to his voice and wished she could calm him.
He lay there, his head twisted sharply to the side. The portion of his neck that was painted orange throbbed with a thick blue vein. Allenford injected a local anesthetic just below Angel’s Adam’s apple. When the anesthesia took effect, he inserted a needle into the jugular vein and eased the bioptome down, down, down toward Angel’s heart.
All four heads turned toward the television monitor at the foot of the bed. Angel’s heart appeared on the screen as a pumping, writhing shadow. Allenford nicked off a tiny piece of heart muscle—no bigger than a pinhead—and removed the bioptome.
“That’s all, folks,” he said, smiling as he placed the specimens in a container and bandaged the small incision. He peeled off the white rubber gloves and tossed them in the garbage, then stood up. “We should have the results in a few hours.”
The surgical nurse wrapped everything up and left the room.
Allenford picked up his charts and began studying the notations. “Anything on your mind, Angel?”
Angel turned to stare up at the surgeon. “Yeah, since you asked. Mad here won’t tell me anything about my donor.” He said the last word as if it tasted bitter on his tongue.
Chris’s gaze darted to her face for a second, and Madelaine felt her cheeks grow hot. Then he looked back at Angel. “There’s a strict protocol for these things, Angel. We have found in our years of practice that the transition proceeds much better if confidentiality is maintained.”