No one he knew, and he wasn’t on call.
Probably a misdial by the operator.
“I want you to operate,” he heard himself say as he put the thing back.
The short silence that followed gave him plenty of time to realize that not letting her go smacked of cowardice. But he couldn’t dwell on that psychobabble bullshit or he’d lose it.
“I can’t guarantee anything.” The vet went back to staring at the X-rays. “I can’t tell you how this is going to go, but I will swear to you—I’ll do my best.”
God, now he knew how those families felt when he spoke to them. “Thanks. Can I watch in here?”
“Absolutely. I’ll get you something to put on, and you know the drill with scrubbing in, Doctor.”
Twenty minutes later, the operation started, and Manny watched from her head, stroking her forelock with his latex-gloved hand even though she was out cold. As the head vet worked, Manny had to approve of the guy’s methodology and skills—which were just about the only things that had gone right since Glory had fallen. The procedure was over in under an hour, with the bone chips either removed or screwed into place. Then they rolled the leg up and moved her out of the OR and into a pool so she wouldn’t break another leg coming out of sedation.
He stayed until she was awake and then followed the vet out into the hall.
“Her vitals are good and the operation went well,” the vet said, “but the former can change quick. And it’s going to take time until we know what we’ve got.”
Shit. That little speech was exactly what he said to next-of-kins and other relatives when it was time for folks to go home and rest up and wait to see how a patient’s postop went.
“We’ll call you,” the vet said. “With updates.”
Manny snapped off his gloves and took out his business card. “In case you don’t have it in her records.”
“We’ve got it.” The guy took the thing anyway. “If anything changes, you’ll be the first to know, and I’ll update you personally every twelve hours when I do rounds.”
Manny nodded and stuck out his hand. “Thank you. For taking care of her.”
“You’re welcome.”
After they shook, Manny nodded back at the double doors. “Mind if I give her a see-ya-later?”
“Please.”
Back inside, he took a moment with his filly. God . . . this hurt.
“You hang on, there, girlie.” He had to whisper because he couldn’t seem to draw a full breath.
When he straightened, the staff were staring at him with a sadness he knew was going to stick with him.
“We’ll take excellent care of her,” the vet said gravely.
He believed they would, and that was the only thing that got him back into the hall.
Tricounty’s facilities were extensive, and it took him a while to change and then find his way out to where he’d parked by the front door. Up ahead, the sun had set, a rapidly fading peach glow lighting up the sky as if Manhattan were smoldering. The air was cool, but fragrant from spring’s early efforts to bring life to winter’s barren landscape, and he took so many deep breaths he got light-headed.
God, time had been running at a blur, but now, as the minutes drooled by, clearly the frantic pace had exhausted its energy source. Either that or it had slammed into a brick wall and passed the fuck out.
As he palmed up his car key, he felt older than God. His head was thumping and his arthritic hip was killing him, that flat-out race over the track to Glory’s side way more than the damn thing could handle.
This was so not how he’d envisioned this day ending. He’d assumed he’d be buying drinks for the owners he’d beaten . . . and maybe in the flush of victory taking Ms. Hanson up on her generous oral suggestion.
Getting into his Porsche, he started the engine. Caldwell was about forty-five minutes north of Queens, and his car could practically drive the trip back to the Commodore itself. Good thing, too, because he was a goddamn zombie.
No radio. No iPod music. No phoning people, either.
As he got on the Northway, he just stared at the road ahead and fought the urge to turn around and . . . yeah, and do what? Sleep next to his horse?