The Promise of Stardust (12 page)

“I was lucky in real estate. Just lucky. So shut up. We're a family. The bills will get paid,” he said.

One of Elle's monitors gonged. Her pulse oximeter dropped to eighty and then to seventy-five as her color deteriorated to an ashen gray. I increased the oxygen coming from her ventilator, then I picked up a stethoscope and listened to her lungs.

One of her nurses rushed in.

“She needs suctioning,” I said as my thoughts raced. The constant cacophony and moment-to-moment crises of intensive care were familiar, and I understood that endotracheal tubes frequently clogged up and needed this type of housekeeping, but Elle wasn't a patient to me. She was my wife. So I watched the nurse's face for cues. Would I need to step in and replace Elle's endotracheal tube? Or maybe I ought to call in the intensive care doc.

The second hand made a full and slow rotation on the clock before Elle's oxygen level climbed to an acceptable level, and finally I breathed again.

The nurse looked up at me and smiled. “She's okay.”

“Right,” I said, noting that Hank had backed away and was gripping the counter by the sink, looking paler and older than he had moments before. “That kind of thing happens all the time,” I said, hoping he couldn't tell how worried I was.

“Matt, I want a drink,” he said. Before I had time to protest, he said, “But instead, I'm going to call my sponsor. Again. After which, I'm still going to need a drink.”

I got in his face. “Don't. I need you sober. I need your help to get through this. And not because of the money.”

He rubbed his eyes, smearing away the tears. “She's really going to die, isn't she?”

“Maybe the baby will survive,” I said. I patted his shoulder, and he cried the same way I'd seen him cry in Elle's arms when her mother died.

I didn't cry with him. I couldn't fall apart in front of my colleagues. But inside, another layer of my denial dissolved as I thought about Hank's words: “She's really going to die, isn't she?”

No, Hank
, I thought.
She's already gone. We already lost her
.

Phil walked in for morning rounds and handed me a small cooler packed with food from Melanie, apple slices and a PB&J sandwich with the crust cut off. He raised an eyebrow. “You can kind of tell we have preschoolers in the house. Here,” he said, passing me the newspaper he'd had tucked under his arm.

The headline of the
Portland Press Herald
read:

PREGNANT ASTRONAUT BRAIN-DEAD

Family Waging Court Battle

Phil leaned against the wall as I skimmed the article. My weary brain interpreted the journalist's words with flat surprise. She reported the courtroom events with little to no embellishments, and I was grateful for that minor indulgence. Still, the translation of Elle's life into black-and-white newsprint brought a concrete texture, heavy, solid, and subject to popular discussion.

“Damn,” I said.

“It's in the
Boston Globe
, too. Probably in every major paper. The networks are going for a more sensational version.”

“Which is?”

“This is being done against Elle's will. Playing up her brother's contention. The Pro-Life pundits are spewing their vitriol with equal intensity. Turn on the news; you'll see.”

I rubbed my neck, glancing at the darkened television mounted to the wall. “It's not unexpected.”

Phil drew a deep breath. “You should go home and sleep today. This is my fault. If I hadn't insisted on doing the surgery—”

“Would you stop? Just stop and think. If you didn't do the surgery, the baby would be dead, too. The only reason I'm doing this is for the baby.”

Phil looked away. “I'm sorry this is happening,” he said. “You didn't want me to operate at first. I feel responsible you're in this situation. And the media …” He flicked the newspaper.

“Damn it, Phil. I said stop. The news involvement is unfortunate. Jake told me to expect the case might get ugly.” The exposure was collateral damage. More and more the war analogy made sense to me. I was at war, and at stake was saving what was left of Elle: the baby. I realized I was a desperate man, and a desperate man is a dangerous one—and a reckless one. I didn't care if my reputation or my livelihood fell apart. I didn't care if it killed me or destroyed my relationship with my mother and my brother-in-law. I had nothing to salvage if this baby didn't survive. I was clinging to the baby as if it could save me instead of the other way around.

Phil shifted his feet. “Okay. I won't try to change your mind, but you look exhausted. She's stable. Her blood gases are good. Why don't you go home and sleep for a while. You haven't really slept since it happened. Maybe that will help.”

The concept of sleep was a seductive one even if I resented Phil's insinuation that I wasn't thinking clearly. I also knew he was right—I wasn't thinking clearly—but I was scared to leave Elle, afraid someone would turn off her life support in my absence. I'm sure I seemed irrational to Phil. Admittedly, I usually believed in the quality of life being as important as its longevity. And I knew I might not approve of my stance in his shoes.

Telling myself that Elle would want me to save this baby didn't change the fact that I also knew she'd be appalled she was in that bed unable to control her bladder or her bowels. There was nothing pretty or dignified about the way she was dying. And it didn't matter that I believed she would throw herself at the base of the Space Shuttle at launch time if it meant saving this child. I'd made the bed she had to lie in. Staying with her was my duty. “I'm sleeping now and then,” I said.

“Here and there doesn't cut it. You look like death. Listen, Matt, we should trach her and put in a PEG. Clint will do it. Do you want him to give you the risks and benefits talk or can you just sign it?” Phil set a consent in front of me for the tracheotomy and a PEG, a surgically placed feeding tube.

I drew the consent closer and scribbled my signature.

Phil nodded. “Go shower and shave, and when you come back, it will be done. You are not staying to watch.”

“That's fine.”

“By the way, I upped Mark Nguyen's dexamethasone. His cerebral edema was worsening. Thanks for getting the ball rolling with the MRI.”

“Sure.” I stood, and for a moment the room wobbled.

“You need to sleep. Grab a few hours in the on-call room. You want me to write you a script?”

“No.” I needed to keep a clear head. When I returned an hour later, the room seemed even more silent. Elle's mouth no longer bore the elephant's tusk of an endotracheal tube. Instead, they'd cut open her throat and inserted a trach. Her beautiful neck, the hollow where I'd kissed her so tenderly, now hosted a tube.

I pulled a picture of her from my wallet. As always, her eyes glimmered as she smiled back at me. I couldn't remember a single instance when she didn't look like she knew something I didn't, and the mystery of what always held me captive.

But not now. Now she didn't react at all and her eyes were—vacant. I cleansed her cracked lips with water and smoothed Vaseline on them. “It's all right, Peep,” I said. But the words were lies, and I said them not for her benefit but for mine.

   10   

I slipped out an employee exit and left the hospital without the press or the Pro-Lifers accosting me. I walked fast, urgently, barely taking note of the adjacent park. The hospital is situated on a hill that overlooks the western end of Portland, and on a clear day the White Mountains are visible. Today the air was heavy with the promise of an afternoon thundershower, and still, it felt good to be outside and
moving
. After a few minutes I slowed down and breathed and looked around.

Although it was only mid-August, a few stray maples were masquerading in autumn colors. I bent down and picked up a prematurely fallen maple leaf with red and gold striations. It was beautiful and sad, a little like Elle. Damn, I saw her everywhere. My exhaustion was making it difficult to focus.

I was supposed to meet Jake to discuss the case. Despite his aversion to hospitals, he and his wife lived nearby, and when I reached the far end of the Promenade, I saw them standing arm in arm and staring out at the view. Both were dressed in muted shades of linen, casual and neutral. Yvette nearly disappeared into him. Back at Columbia, I thought Jake set his sights on her because of her stature; she made him look tall—a short guy with a shorter girlfriend. She was pretty enough, but always so quiet she made me uncomfortable.

Elle once described Yvette as “diminutive.” At the time I raised an eyebrow at Elle. Anyone else would have said “short” or “tiny” or maybe “petite,” but no, Elle summoned a less common adjective. “Think about it,” she said. “She's like a perfectly proportioned doll. Even her voice is small.”

“You never struck me as one of those catty women,” I said.

“I'm not,” Elle said, stretching her back as we finished our morning run. “They're a perfect example of how opposites attract. She's shy. He's not. She's sweet. He's … never mind. I'm not going to win this one. I do sound like a catty woman.”

I pulled her to me and tipped her chin up. “Are we opposites?”

Elle cocked her head to one side and measured my question. She slipped her arms around me. “Well, the attraction is strong, but no, we're kindred spirits and need each other to be whole.”

Looking over at Jake and his wife nestled together, I experienced the sharp pang of envy. Whether they loved each other the same way—or in some different way than Elle and I did—they still had each other. All I had now was loneliness. And its weight bore down on me with such heaviness I wondered if I could even lift my feet to return to the hospital and to Elle.

Before I could decide whether I should interrupt them, Jake waved, and then Yvette looped her arm through his as they strolled toward me. He shook my hand, and she barely made eye contact. “Bring Matt to dinner,” she said to Jake.

I shook my head. The last thing I needed was to make polite dinner conversation. “Thank you, but I have plans,” I said.

She smiled, but there was pity in her expression as she reached out and touched my elbow. It was the warmest gesture she'd ever made toward me in all the years I'd known her. “I'll let you boys talk,” Yvette said. They kissed and she wandered away.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Jake dove into his plans. After talking to Phil, he'd decided he would not make a good witness for our side.

“Would any of Elle's friends tell the judge that all Elle wanted was a baby?” he asked.

I told him about Keisha and that she'd been on sabbatical down in New Zealand. “But she'll be home in a couple of days.”

“I need to talk to her before Friday. I have an appointment with your priest after he does a christening tomorrow afternoon. The Church wasn't much use in the Schiavo case, but then, she wasn't pregnant.”

“You realize we aren't devout Catholics,” I said. Even Elle only attended Mass a few times each year.

“You need to start going to services, if only for appearances. When were you there last?”

The last time I'd been inside a church was six months before. “Dylan's funeral,” I said. “We had a Mass for him. Just the family.”