The Promise of Stardust (10 page)

For a while she had highlighted her hair, but after we married, she let it go back to its natural color, a warm shade of blond. She didn't want to use anything potentially toxic when she might get pregnant. “No dyes in my food or in my hair,” she said. She wanted children, healthy children, and she'd obsessed over doing everything right.

Now, instead of eating pure foods, we were pumping steroids and potent diuretics into her to reduce her brain swelling. The X-rays had sprayed her with radiation.

I immersed the washcloth into the tepid water and wrung it out, then slipped off her hospital gown, taking care with her IVs. Elle was an athlete; she even ran marathons, and she had an exquisitely fit body. I soaped the washcloth and bathed her powerless form, already losing its tone.

Phil Grey rounded the curtain, and instinctively, I pulled a towel over Elle to protect her modesty.

“Ah, sorry.” Phil stood there, blinking and looking uncomfortable in his OR scrubs.

I nodded. “How was the surgery?”

“Uneventful,” he said. “I talked to D'Amato. He says their practice can help cover while you're on leave. And he sends his best.”

“Thank him for me. I'll reciprocate later.”

“He knows you will.” Phil scratched his cheek and averted his gaze. “How was the meeting with the judge?” he asked.

“Okay.” I dropped the washcloth in the basin then stood and pocketed my wet hands. “He set a hearing date. My lawyer wants one of the ICU docs and Blythe to testify. Maybe you.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” His brow furrowed.

I wasn't certain of anything, but I was afraid to express doubt—even to my partner, who might say just that if he took the stand. “Yeah,” I said. “This is the right thing.” I turned toward the window. “Would you let Melanie go if you were in my place?”

Phil exhaled loudly. “Yeah. I think I would. Ethics 101. Do no harm. Elle didn't want to be kept alive. And you're going to lose her anyway.”

“I've already lost her.” I looked away. “I know the odds are overwhelming, but Elle would still try to save the baby. If you testify, what would you say?”

He thought for a moment then shuddered. “The truth. Medically, so far, she's stable. If she does survive, she'll remain in a persistent vegetative state—maybe even for years. Are you prepared for that? If she lives indefinitely?”

My head was pounding as ruthlessly as it would with a fever. “After she delivers, I'll let her go.”

“Do you remember how long it took the courts to let Terri Schiavo die?” Phil asked. “When that story was all over the news, Elle was pretty upset. She didn't agree with the Pro-Lifers.”

“This is different. In the Schiavo case, the parents were in denial. They thought their daughter was responding to them. I know better.”

“But Elle's father doesn't. You said he's opposed to taking her off life support.”

I paused to wonder about my father-in-law, his sobriety, and whether or not his opposition would become a problem if Elle survived that long or if she miscarried. “I'll deal with Hank when I need to—if he ever shows up again.” On top of everything else, I was also growing more concerned about Hank, beginning to wonder if he'd drunk himself to death or gone off a road somewhere.

“One way or another,” Phil said, “in the end, you'll have to say good-bye to her, and by then, all you'll remember is how she became, not how she was.”

“I'm stating the obvious here, but she's pregnant. So one way is not the same as the other. She wanted a baby.”

“
She
wanted a baby? What about you?”

I met his eyes. Sure, I wanted a child with Elle; we both wanted a family. But alone? Did I want to raise baby alone? I felt so alone. I nodded.

Phil's nostrils flared as he exhaled. “Okay.” For a minute or two longer, he rambled about her clinical status. “Melanie wants me to bring you home for dinner.”

I shook my head. “Thank her for me anyway.”

He looked, for a few seconds, as if he might try to persuade me and I began to compose my rationalizations, but then he said, “Okay.” He left without further ado.

Because the water had cooled, I changed it and continued to bathe her. She didn't look pregnant; her belly was still flat. Maybe her breasts were a tad fuller. I marveled as I always did, at her tiny feet, and for the smallest moment I indulged myself in possibility, and my mind conjured an image of Elle holding a newborn baby. Then the moment ended.

I dried off my hands, pulled out my cell phone, and replayed Elle's last voice message. “Hey, it's me,” she said.

   8   

Usually, we discontinued life support within hours of a brain-death determination. The longest I'd ever kept anyone “alive” was the previous Christmas. A teenager, braving her first ice storm as a driver, went off the road and hit a tree. Her father, an army reservist deployed in Iraq, rushed home on an emergency leave. We kept the girl on life support long enough for him to say his good-byes. The elapsed time from the skidding tires to calling her time of death was four days, seven hours, and thirty minutes.

Elle would need five or six months in order to save the baby.

Jake took over the ICU conference room to interview all of Elle's doctors, and Phil was first up. He didn't think we could do it; Elle's body could start shutting down at any moment. At least that's what I heard him tell Jake as I stood next to the window staring blankly out at the rain clouds building on the horizon.

I'd known Phil since my neurosurgical residency. He was a year my senior, brilliant, compassionate, and uncompromising. He believed in salvaging people—when there was something to salvage. He believed in the dignity of life. And he believed in self-determination. His own. His patients'. Elle's.

More than that, Phil knew Elle personally. No, you're not supposed to talk about your patients outside of work, but Phil and I were friends. We socialized. Sometimes we talked shop at home. Wives were present. And Elle and Melanie expressed their opinions. When you're a neurosurgeon, quality-of-life issues arise and eat at you. They ate at me. Ate at Phil. And now as he explained Elle's condition to Jake, Phil made it clear that he didn't think we could save the baby in Elle's womb.

Maybe clinging to the idea that some part of Elle could live on was irrational, but the night before the accident Elle insisted that sometimes a person had to take chances. She was, of course, talking about getting pregnant again. I fought with her because another pregnancy would be
extremely
high risk. Hell, I didn't want to risk Elle's life, but that was before. She was already brain-dead. And as unlikely as it may be, the baby was still alive.

And I could hear her—really hear the echoes of words she said in desperation the night our baby Dylan died. Her words of pleading, begging me to save him, even if it killed her.

That night almost did kill her. That's why I didn't want to try again. That's also why Elle used a diaphragm ever since that night. We were careful,
damn it
. She wouldn't have fallen, and she wouldn't have fainted, if
I
hadn't gotten her pregnant again.
If
, instead of relying on her stupid diaphragm, I'd had a vasectomy after Dylan died.

She wanted a child then, and she would want a child now. It was the only thing I had left: giving her the baby everyone wanted me to forget. I was doing the right thing. I was. And it pissed me off that the family thought they knew Elle better than I did—or that I was some slobbering fool who couldn't face the reality in front of me. That I couldn't let her go. I didn't want to let Elle die, but it was too late to save her.

I blew out of the conference room and headed straight to the only private bathroom on the floor and closed the door behind me, taking refuge in the quiet. In the darkness I sank down and into the grief I was fighting so hard with reason. If I disintegrated, they would dismiss me. If I lost my credibility, they'd side with Mom. If I turned into the blubbering widower, no one would believe me capable of logic. But what if I was wrong? I began banging my head against the ceramic tile wall once for every emotional thought I had. I didn't know how long I could keep up this pretense. I wanted to die. I wanted to kill someone.

With the back of my hand, I wiped away the snot running out of my nose. I kicked the wall under the sink as I banged my head. Again. And again. And again.

My foot went through the drywall.

Ah, shit
. I shook my foot loose and stood, feeling for the light. Shit.

I tried to bend the Sheetrock back into place, but it crumbled. I crept out of the bathroom and straight into Jillian Waters, the nurse manager, who was staring at me.

“I—uh, put a hole in the wall.”

She stuck her head through the bathroom door and then turned to me. “Nice one. Are you okay?”

I struggled to find my voice, but it cracked when I said, “Yeah.”

“Listen, go take a walk. I'll let maintenance know. Not that you did it, but well … Do you want me to call someone for you?”

“No. No thanks.”

I trolled down one long corridor after another, hit a staircase, walked up a flight, circled the loop of Orthopedics, hit the staircase, up another flight to Telemetry, repeat, Pediatrics. I was halfway around when I saw the twelve-year-old boy I'd operated on the night before Elle's accident. He was sitting in a wheelchair, and his parents were pushing him in my direction.

I stopped and feigned a professional smile. “Hello. You probably don't remember me. I'm Dr. Beaulieu. I did your surgery.”

The boy raised his hand in a half wave.

Mrs. Nguyen squatted, eye level with her son. “Dr. B. said you a strong boy.”

The boy nodded, twisted his lips, but his tongue struggled to wrap itself around his garbled words. I couldn't understand him.

The father held out his hand and shook mine. “Dr. Grey is very happy with Mark's progress. The speech therapist said he could start on Monday.”

“Good, very good,” I said.

“We're sorry to hear about your wife's accident. We saw you there, in ICU room next to Mark's, but you looked busy,” Mrs. Nguyen said.

I nodded. “I haven't been seeing patients, but I'm happy you're doing better, Mark.” And I was glad he was doing well, but at the same time I didn't really want to be there talking to them.

Mark waved again.

I waved back this time. “You're doing great, kiddo. I'll come by later,” I said, although I had no immediate plans of taking up my normal life or making rounds.

“Doctor, Mark says he's seeing double,” the father said.

Damn
. I'd only stumbled onto Pediatrics. I wanted to walk away, let someone else handle it. “Give me a few minutes to chase down an ophthalmoscope, and I'll meet you in his room.”

Handmade get-well cards decorated Mark's wall, drawn by a younger sibling, a sister, judging by the smiley faces, sunshine, and purple daisies. Or were those echinacea? Elle loved echinacea.

Mark's mother plugged the boy's IV pump into the wall outlet while I examined him. Funny how the mothers always did that, jumped right in, learning whatever they needed to know to take care of their children.