Beyond Eden (33 page)

Lindsay wondered what had happened to the set man who'd asked her to come back here. No lineup shots? She didn't see any movement. She looked up to see Edie, the makeup woman, striding toward her. Maybe, at last, something was going to happen. She started to call out a greeting, something light and funny because Edie looked like the rest of them felt. Then suddenly Edie dropped her bag and stared upward, a scream coming out of her mouth and another. Then she screamed, “Eden! Jesus, move!”

Lindsay started forward, then heard other screams, and she looked up.

The entire ski-lift structure seemed to lift off its base, then burst into flames like some sort of exploding oil rig, spewing orange fire and black smoke upward. The blast sent a rain of steel flying outward, then down, hard and fast. The noise was deafening. Odd, but the people's screams around her were even louder. But this noise was different. It was stark and close and unreal because it was here, above her and all around her and soon—

“No,” she whispered, terror freezing her in place for an instant. She lurched away.

She wasn't fast enough. A thick support beam struck her shoulder and bounced off, hitting the concrete beside her. She felt an odd sense of warmth, a blankness that was strange, but there was no pain, only this pressure seeming to come from inside her. It intensified, sending her to her knees. Another piece of debris struck her, full on the side of the face, knocking her sideways, her knees crumpling. Pain, sudden and fierce, made her yell. Planks of wood crashed down from the ruined ski lift, hitting her, flinging her about. She couldn't do anything about it. Pain was there, full and deep and ugly, holding her. Then there was blackness, blessed blackness that was settling over her, blanketing the pain as one would blanket flames.

Odd about the screams. They went on and on. Had a lot of people been struck? Why wouldn't they stop? The screams were closer to her now, she knew that; they were softer, more vague, and she could almost feel those screams touching her, feel them coming even from her, but somehow she was moving away from them toward that wonderful blackness that blanked out everything and left nothing in its place.

The sirens were shrill. They pounded into her head. She hated them. She wanted to get away from them but she couldn't seem to move. Someone was squeezing her hand, she felt his fingers suddenly, warm fingers, blunt. A man was speaking softly and gently to her, but he was insistent, he wouldn't stop. He was like the sirens. She wanted to tell him to be quiet, but she couldn't seem to get the words to form in her mind. She didn't at first understand what he was saying, but she recognized the pattern, the repetition, and despite herself, she began to pay attention to him, looking to his voice to force her outward toward him.

“Do you know who you are?”

She opened her eyes. No, just her left eye. Her right eye wouldn't move. It was a young man speaking to her, his face very close to hers. His eyes were very blue and his ears were big. She thought he was Irish. She realized then she couldn't breathe.

She gasped for breath and the pain seared through her. There was only pain, no air.

“It's all right. I know you're having trouble. Just take real shallow breaths. No, no, don't panic. Shallow breaths. Yes, that's right. I think you've got a collapsed lung. That's why we've got that oxygen
mask over your face. Just breathe, shallow and easy. Good. Now, do you know who you are?”

She focused on the mask that covered her nose and mouth. But it hurt so much. She kept trying, and she got air, but the pain nearly sent her into madness. He asked her again who she was. She was her, and she was here, and she didn't know what was going on, what had happened, except she hurt and could barely breathe.

“Do you know your name? Please, tell me. Who are you? Do you know who you are?”

“Yes, I'm Lindsay.” God, it hurt to say those words, hurt so much she wanted to yell with it, but she couldn't. She whimpered, fear sharpening the sound, and the man said quickly, his voice calm and low, “Just take shallow breaths. Don't try to do anything else. Just breathe, that's all you have to do. Do you understand me? That's an oxygen mask over your face to help you. Don't fight it; let it help you. We think you've got a collapsed lung. That's why it hurts so much. But you've got to stay awake and pay attention, all right?”

God, it hurt so much. She tried to hold her breath, to stave off the horrible jabbing pain, but that didn't work either. He was speaking to her again. Why had he repeated the same thing? Did he think she was stupid?

“I know you hurt, but hang in there. We're nearly to the hospital and they're waiting for you. Don't worry. Just keep taking those little breaths. I'm glad to meet you, Lindsay. I'm Gene. Just lie still. We'll be at the hospital very soon now. No, don't try to move.”

“What happened?” It hurt so much to speak. And talking through the white plastic mask made
her feel like she was speaking from a long way away.

“There was some sort of explosion and you were hit by falling debris.”

“Am I going to die . . . collapsed lung?”

“Oh, no, not you. You'll be fine. I promise.”

“Taylor. Please call Taylor.”

“Yes, I will, I promise. No, don't try to move. I've got an IV in your arm. We don't want you to rip it out. Just keep breathing.”

“There were so many screams.”

“No one else was hurt, but everyone was scared. You were standing right next to that fake rigging when it blew. Tell me again. Who are you?”

“I was there because I'm Eden.”

He frowned, but she didn't see it. It hurt too much and she didn't want him to see her lose control. She turned her head away from him. The pain continued. She'd never imagined before how it would feel not to be able to breathe. For every small intake there was such pain that her whole body shook with it.

“How is she, Gene?”

“She's doing fine, at least I hope to God she is. The pain's bad, but she's hanging in there.” He turned away from the driver to her. “I'm sorry, Eden, but we can't give you anything for the pain yet. The trauma team has to check you out first. Just hold on, hold on. Squeeze my fingers, think about my fingers and squeeze when you hurt real bad. We're almost there, almost there.” Gene wondered if Taylor was her husband. Dear God, the man would be in for a shock when he saw his wife. She was a model. He looked at the right side of her face. It was difficult to tell how bad it was smashed because of all the blood. He held her hand
more tightly. Gene O'Mallory wanted her to be all right. He wanted it very much.

 

There were six people standing over her, three men and three women. They were cutting off her clothes, speaking to each other, jabbing at her, prodding and poking, but through it all, there was someone's hand on her forearm gently stroking and there was a soft woman's voice with that stroking, saying over and over, “It's going to be all right. You're here with us now and we'll make sure you're okay. Do you understand me, Lindsay? It will be all right.”

Someone else said, “She's that fashion model, Eden. First things first, but, Elsie, call Dr. Perry. Tell him to get over here on the double.”

Elsie said, “Gene called him from the ambulance. Perry's on his way.”

Lindsay felt cold on her skin. She knew somewhere in her mind that she was naked, just as she had been so long ago in Paris. But she felt too much pain to care. Just to take a single breath was beyond anything she could ever have imagined. But the gentle stroking on her forearm continued and she tried to concentrate on it.

A man was very close to her face. He said, “Lindsay? Good, listen to me now. You've got a collapsed lung. A broken rib punctured it. So we've got to cut a little incision over here between your ribs—near your side, yes, right here—and stick in a tube. We'll hook it up to a lung machine and it will reinflate your lung. It won't hurt. It'll all be over in just a few minutes and you'll be able to breathe again without the pain. Okay? You understand?”

The fingers paused on her forearm.

“Yes, I understand.”

“Okay, let's get it done, guys.”

Five minutes later, Lindsay took a breath that didn't feel like she was going to die. She even managed a smile at the man bending over her.

“Better?”

“Yes, much better.”

“Now, you've got two broken ribs. We'll leave them alone, but they're going to hurt for a while. We've been giving you morphine through the IV. Do you have any more pain?”

It was odd, but she didn't. “My face?”

“Your face—yes, Dr. Perry's here and he's going to take over now.”

The gentle fingers on her forearm stopped and Lindsay felt panic. “Where are the fingers?”

Someone said, “What's she talking about?”

“What's going on?”

“Oh, she means Debra. Deb, get back over here!”

The fingers were on her arm again. She closed her eyes.

It was all right. The voice came again, soft and warm.

Dr. Perry identified himself. He was a plastic surgeon and he specialized in facial reconstruction, he said. They were going to take her to CT scan and then they'd see exactly what the problems were. She wasn't to worry. If she felt any pain, she was to sing out.

Lindsay was fully prepared to sing, but the pain she felt was so slight compared to what she'd already endured, she didn't say anything.

Time passed. Debra didn't leave her. Lindsay said to her, “Taylor. He's my fiancé. Could you call him?”

“After I see you safe into surgery, Lindsay. Then I'll call him, I promise. Give me his number.”

Dr. Perry was back and he spoke gently and slowly. “You're lucky, Ms. Foxe. The flesh on your right cheek isn't very damaged, which means little to no scarring. However, the blows you took smashed the bones here and here and here.” He lightly pointed to his own face to show her. “We need to go in right now and fix them. You'll be good as new in three weeks.”

“Can I see?”

“I don't think you should.”

Lindsay thought about that. The right side of her face was numb. She raised her right hand, but Debra grabbed it and forced it back to her side. She leaned close. “No, Lindsay, don't. Just lie still, that's it.”

Dr. Perry's voice came again. “I'll need you to sign the surgery consent forms, Ms. Foxe.”

She did. Within fifteen minutes she was being wheeled to surgery. She felt no pain. Her head was cloudy. She wasn't scared.

The explosion had happened at twelve-thirty.

She was in surgery by three-thirty.

 

Demos stood in the hospital corridor, leaning against the wall near the door to what would be her private room, once she came out of surgery, once she came out of recovery.

It would be some time now before she was out of surgery. The surgery was on her face, being performed by a Dr. Perry, one of the top plastic surgeons in the country, the nurse had assured him, not once but four times, one of the very best, and he'd said the bones were situated ideally to be reconstructed and slipped back into their proper
place and they weren't to worry, which sounded disgusting to Demos. But why, Demos had wondered, why operate on her face now?

The nurse was patient with him, explaining that if they hadn't done it immediately, there would be swelling that would preclude doing it for a week, at least. Lindsay had agreed, naturally.

“But how could she agree?”

“She was conscious, Mr. Demos. Dr. Perry did an immediate CT scan on her face and her head. You'll have to speak to him, Mr. Demos. But she should be out of surgery around seven o'clock and then it's recovery for about an hour. Why don't you go have dinner?”

Demos and Glen went to the hospital cafeteria and stared at each other over open-faced roast-beef sandwiches.

“I'll never forget that damned phone call as long as I live,” Glen said, his hands shaking.

They'd gotten the hysterical call from one of the ad-agency people at precisely ten minutes to one. They'd gotten here as fast as they could, but they hadn't seen Lindsay. It wasn't allowed. Everything was being done for her. Not to worry. Demos had filled out paperwork on her. Then he'd realized he had to call Taylor. Let Taylor deal with her family, with Sydney. He was engaged to her, let him do it. Demos knew Lindsay's number by heart. He'd started to punch out the buttons, then stopped. He looked at those numbers, and they didn't mean anything to him.

“Glen, help.”

Glen had shoved him aside and quickly pressed the numbers.

Two rings and then, “Hello, Taylor here.”

“Taylor, this is Glen.”

“Yeah, Glen. What's up?”

“Oh, God, Taylor, you've got to get here right now.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Where's Demos? What's going on?”

Glen had nearly thrown the phone to Demos. “Taylor, this is Vinnie. There's been an accident and Eden's hurt. Hurry, man, get here now. I don't know anything, just hurry.”

Demos hung up the phone and leaned his cheek against the cold steel. He heard a man say, “Does anyone know a Lindsay or an Eden?”

“I do,” Glen said.

“I was with her in the ambulance. She asked me to call Taylor. I've been asking around, trying to find out his phone number, but nobody knows. Do you know who he is?”

“Yes, we know,” Demos said. “I just called him.”

“Her face,” the young man said. “She's so beautiful. Will she live? Has anyone said? Her collapsed lung?”

“She'll be fine,” Demos said, praying like a demon as he said the words.

Twenty minutes later, Taylor was running into the emergency room, pale and looking more terrified than a man should ever look.

“We don't know anything yet,” Glen said quickly. “They're fixing a collapsed lung, at least someone told us about that, but then there's her face—”

“Her face? What the hell happened to her face?”

“She was smashed.”

“Jesus,” Taylor said, unable to take it in, just standing there frozen. Then he burst into action. “Where is she? Who can I talk to?” He didn't wait, but walked quickly to the nurses' station.

The head emergency-room nurse, Ann Hollis, was sixty, tough, and more seasoned than a four-star general. She saw the man coming toward her, saw his fear, and readied herself for the outbreak. Screaming, raw, and impotent anger, outward fury, the rage brought on by the helplessness of it all. To her utter surprise, when he spoke, his voice was calm and low.

“I would appreciate your help—” He looked at her name tag. “Yes, Ms. Hollis. Lindsay or Eden is her name. I understand there was an accident and she's being treated. I'm her fiancé. Please tell me what's going on. This is very difficult.”

And Ann Hollis responded to him with the truth. “I will tell you what I know. First of all, stop worrying. The trauma team worked on her and they're the best. You stay here and I'll go check and find out what's happening. All right?”

Taylor nodded and she left him. He didn't move. Demos and Glen came over. No one said anything.

Nurse Hollis patted Taylor's arm. “Two broken ribs, a collapsed left lung, which they reinflated.”

“How's that done?”

“A small incision between two ribs and a tube is inserted that's in turn connected to a lung machine. It makes breathing easier for her. Contusions and lacerations, but those aren't all that bad. Then there's her face.” Again she touched her hand to his arm. “It's impossible to say right now because Dr. Perry just took her into surgery. Since she's a model, he didn't wait to operate.”

Taylor didn't say anything. He was trying not to shake. Nurse Hollis patted his arm again.

“As soon as I can find out how the surgery is going, I'll call you. Please go sit down. I know it's difficult. But you must try to stay calm. She won't
die. Her face will heal. Dr. Perry is one of the best in facial reconstruction in the city. She's Eden the model, isn't she?”