Could I Have This Dance? (55 page)

“Do you have another vehicle?”

She shook her head.

“We can take you.”

“Give me a minute?”

He nodded. Claire grabbed her call bag, knowing she wouldn’t be home for a few nights, and without a car for easy transportation. As she walked out the front door, she asked, “Was he drunk?”

“No alcohol was found in the vehicle, but I’m sure they’ll test him at the hospital.”

“Only one car was involved?”

The officer nodded and opened the car door for Claire.

As they pulled away, she felt her stomach tighten.
Single-car accident. Clay was depressed and on the run.

Fear tightened around her heart.
Mom was right. Clay wanted to die.

At the hospital, Claire quickly dodged an admission clerk wanting to ask insurance questions and headed to the emergency room. Clay wasn’t there.

A nurse wearing bloody scrubs touched her arm. “He’s been in surgery for hours.” She pointed to a uniformed man in the hall. “The detective has been waiting for you.”

Claire resisted the urge to run straight to the OR. To do so, she would have to bypass the Volkswagen of a man in her path. He nodded in her direction and held out his meaty palm. “Tom Beckler, detective, Lafayette PD. Are you Clay McCall’s next of kin?”

Next of kin? Is Clay dead?
Her chin quivered. “Claire McCall. I’m Clay’s twin sister. Is he okay?”

“Don’t know. I’m in charge of the investigation. Could I ask you some questions?”

“Just what happened?” Claire asked.

“He ran off the road just beyond the lighthouse, where the road is straight. He appears to have careened off just before the guardrail started, and plummeted to the rocks below.”

Claire held her hand to her mouth. She knew the spot. But why there? Why lose control on a straight road? “But why? Was he drunk?”

“No. Blood alcohol and drug screen were negative.” The detective shuffled his feet and hooked his thumb in his belt under the shadow of his belly. “Does your brother have any medical problems, a seizure disorder or something?”

Claire stepped back. “What?”

The officer held up his hand. “Just a question, Ms. McCall. I need to fill out an accident report. He was alone, not drinking, and he ran off a straight stretch of road.”

She wanted to get to the OR. “My brother was healthy.”

“Was your car having any problems? Brake problems? Steering difficulties?”

“No. It was old, but it handled well.”

“He probably fell asleep at the wheel.” He shrugged his rounded shoulders. “See it all the time in a university town. Students stay up late, then fall asleep driving home.”

“It really wasn’t late.”

“We’ll probably never know.”

“My brother was depressed.”

The officer raised his eyebrows. “I see.”

“You don’t suppose he did this on purpose, do you?”

The officer rocked back and forth on his brightly polished shoes. “Look, Miss McCall, things like that can’t be proven. In my experience, it seems best not to torture yourself with ideas like that. I’d prefer to assume he fell asleep.”

“Will you be investigating the vehicle?”

“Not unless there is a suspicion of foul play.” He paused. “Did your brother have any enemies?”

She thought about Clay’s recent scrapes with the law, and hiding out in Lafayette, far away from his own trial. She didn’t want to bring it up. She shook her head. “Clay was friendly. No one would try to hurt him.”

“Probably just fell asleep.” The officer nodded, satisfied he could fill out his form.

“I’d really like to go see my brother.”

“He’s in surgery.”

“I know. I’m a surgeon in training in this hospital. I want to see him.”

“Do you know Dr. Daniels?”

She nodded. “Brett?”

“He was on his way home when he happened on the accident. He saved your brother’s life.”

“You’re kidding! Brett?”

“He made the 911 call, helped stabilize him at the scene. He even rode in the squad with him.”

Claire let the information sink in.
Brett Daniels!
“He lives just a few miles from there.”

The officer nodded. “Good thing for your brother. Dr. Daniels is a heck of a surgeon. He stuck one of those breathing tubes right in his neck.” He pointed at a crease in his chubby skin above his tie. “Slashed him right here. Never saw that before. He was something.”

She’d heard enough. If Clay had been trached in the field, things had to be bleak. “Could you excuse me? I’d like to check on my brother.”

Claire sidestepped around Officer Beckler and ran toward the operating rooms. Inside the double automatic doors, she came face-to-face with Janice Hilbert, the night charge nurse in the OR.

“Just where do you think you’re going, Dr. McCall?”

“My brother’s in surgery. I need to get scrubs.”

Nurse Hilbert stepped into the doorway leading to the female changing room. “I can’t let you go back there.”

Claire stepped aside and began to reach for the door handle. “That’s ridiculous. I’m a surgery resident in this hospital, and I’ll go see my brother if I want to.”

“No.” Hilbert was firm, gripping Claire’s arm.

“What can’t I see? Is my brother dead?”

“No. But there’s a lot of activity in that room right now. And it’s against hospital policy to let patient’s family members in the OR.”

“Come on, Janice. I
work
here. You can’t be serious.”

“I wish I wasn’t. The surgeons are hard at work in there, doing the best they can, and they don’t need you distracting them. The surgeons will be out soon enough to talk to you.”

Claire raised her voice and pointed her finger in the nurse’s face. “Listen. That’s my twin brother in there. I work in this OR every day. And I’m going in there to see—”

“Problem here?”

Claire looked up to see Dr. Tom Rogers.

“Uh, no, sir,” mumbled Claire.

“Dr. McCall here seems to think she’s above hospital policy,” Nurse Hilbert said. “She wants in the OR to see her brother.”

The chairman stroked his chin. “Janice is right. It’s not a good idea to be playing doctor right now. Why don’t you wait in the lounge, Claire?”

“I don’t want to play doctor,” she snapped. “He’s my only brother. I want an update. What’s going on in there?”

Dr. Rogers exchanged glances with the charge nurse. He wasn’t used to hearing a resident talk back. He motioned for Claire to sit at the nurses’ station. Claire silently obeyed.

“He’s very sick, Claire. He has serious head, abdominal, and orthopedic injuries. Dr. Steiner did a craniotomy to evacuate a blood clot pressing on his brain—”

“Epidural or subdural?”

Rogers smiled. “I’m not used to talking to other surgeons. It was epidural.”

She nodded. “What else?”

“Dr. McGrath did a splenectomy, and repaired a liver laceration.” He paused. “And now, Dr. Suter is rodding his left femur.” His eyes dropped to the floor. “He’s lost a lot of blood. We’ve given him over twenty units to get him stabilized.”

“Will he make it?”

He held up his hands. “I don’t know, Claire. We’ll do everything we can.” He reached over and touched her shoulder. “If he makes it, you can credit Brett Daniels. He stopped at the scene and helped out. When the EMTs couldn’t get an airway, Brett did an emergency cricothyroidotomy right at the roadside.” He shook his head. “It takes a great resident to do what he did. He was quick on his feet and didn’t lose his head in a situation few of us will ever face. What he did in stopping on the road to help says a whole lot about what kind of surgeon he’ll be.”

“That’s Brett. Always lending a helping hand.”

Dr. Rogers nodded.

He stood and smiled as Beatrice Hayes bounded through the swinging OR doors.

“Good morning, Dr. Rogers.”

“Nice work with that central line, Dr. Hayes.” His eyes shifted to Claire. “When your brother arrived, Beatrice could have been off sleeping in the orthopedic call room. Instead, she assisted the trauma service with his resuscitation.” He looked at his watch. “I should come in at three A.M. more often. You really get to see who gets the work done around this place.”

Claire studied Beatrice for a moment. The corner of her mouth turned up and she tilted her head forward as if to say, “What? Little ol’ me?”
You put a central line in my brother?
“Have you been in with Clay?”

“Yes,” Beatrice replied. “Dr. Suter is closing the skin. He should be in the SICU in thirty minutes. Can I ask you some questions about Clay’s medical history? I need to do a history and physical write-up for the ortho service.”

“Sure.”

Dr. Rogers excused himself.

Beatrice didn’t wait for him to get out of earshot when she began, “Tell me about the McCall family medical history. Any diseases in your mom or dad?”

Claire watched as Dr. Rogers seemed to hesitate at the door. Was he trying to overhear Claire’s answer? She waited a moment and then locked eyes with Beatrice.
You must have heard about yesterday’s grilling by Ramsey Plank. I should have known that news would spread like chicken pox in a daycare center.
Claire forced a smile. “No family history contributes to his present trauma.”

“It’s for the record, Claire. Anything at all? Alcoholism? Cancer? Genetic illness?”

You don’t have to raise your voice. I suspect Dr. Rogers has already heard about the HD in my family, if that’s what you’re trying to accomplish.
“The family history is noncontributory.”

Beatrice didn’t seem satisfied but moved on, as Dr. Rogers had slipped from sight. “Any reason to believe this was suicide?”

Claire stood up in disgust. Beatrice wasn’t about to miss a chance to dig up some dirt on the McCalls. “Nobody knows, Beatrice. Now,” she added quickly, “I need to notify my parents.”

For the next hour, Claire shared the waiting room with a half-dozen other people anxiously pacing between rows of vinyl chairs. She’d never experienced being in their shoes before. And knowing more about what Clay was going through only magnified her fears.

She called her mom, who promised to come.

She bought a cup of coffee from the vending machine.

And she waited. And she stewed.
I can’t believe I spoke so harshly to Dr. Rogers.
She flinched at the memory.
He told me not to “play doctor.” Is that what he thinks I’m doing around here?

And the way he talked about Brett, you’d think he could walk on water. And I thought he was going to slobber when he looked at Beatrice. “Nice work on that central line, Dr. Hayes.”

Why does he call her doctor, when he calls me Claire?

And he tells me not to play doctor!

At three-thirty, Dr. McGrath came in. At four, she spoke to Dr. Steiner. At four-fifteen, she talked to Dr. Suter. Everyone had the same message. Clay was alive. He was on a ventilator. Prognosis was guarded. She knew the drill. Hang black crepe so the family won’t be too disappointed.

But for how long?

At four-thirty, she held Clay’s hand in the ICU and trembled. She didn’t remember the last time she’d touched him.

She whispered words she didn’t believe, “Everything’s gonna be all right. Just you wait and see. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

When she finally collapsed onto a call-room mattress, she had time for only an hour’s sleep before plastic surgery rounds. And as she closed her eyes in the darkness of the room, she was struck with the image of Brett Daniels helping her brother. Every time she was afraid, Brett was there for her. When a stranger called, Brett was there. And now, who was here to help the McCalls yet again?

Brett Daniels. What a man.

Are you trying to tell me something, God?

Chapter Thirty-Nine

A
fter morning rounds, Claire attended a “lump and bump” clinic where the plastic surgery resident assisted her as she removed a variety of small skin cancers, moles, and other cutaneous lesions. For Claire, although the procedures were small, the morning couldn’t have been better. The patients were happy, and she was holding a knife, not a retractor, for a change. After eight cases, she ran her scut list to be sure she had collected all of the important data for afternoon rounds.

Her attendings urged her to take off, but she refused, wanting to stay busy, to take her mind away from the horror of her brother’s condition. She rushed through her progress notes, with her mind dancing between her work, her brother in ICU, and her desire to talk to Brett Daniels. Finally, by two P.M., with her upper-level residents still in the OR, she headed for Dr. Rogers’ research lab in search of her friend.

She found him, as always, with his head buried in a book. She knocked on the open doorway. He looked up but didn’t smile. “Hi,” she said quietly. “Am I interrupting?”

“Yes.”

“Too bad.” She sat on his desk and pushed his book aside. “Tell me what happened.”

He shifted in his seat and looked at the floor. “I was on my way home after our dinner out.” He took a deep breath. “There was a car several hundred yards ahead of me, right on the beach road. I wasn’t really paying attention, just vaguely aware of the taillights. And then, suddenly, the taillights were gone. I thought maybe the driver had just turned off the lights, but then I saw the car flipping through the air over the side of the road. I don’t think he braked at all. He was just going down the road one second, and the next …” His voice trailed off. He shook his head and mumbled a curse. “Claire, I’m so sorry.”

She reached for his hand. “What happened next? I want to hear this.”

“I pulled over and ran to the guardrail to see. I didn’t recognize your car. I saw a man lying beside the car. He had a pulse, but he needed an airway badly.”

Brett’s voice was monotone, mechanical, like he was reciting a textbook. “I pulled his chin forward, and that helped a little. He was able to take a few shallow breaths, but there was so much blood around his nose and mouth that I was sure he wouldn’t last long without an endotracheal tube.”