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Authors: Fern Michaels

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BOOK: Sara's Song
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“I'll do my best.”
“We are famous tonight, Sara,” Nellie said. “Tomorrow morning all of us, and that includes this hospital, will be on the cover of the
LA Times
. That was Dallas Lord, and Mr. Sweet is his lead guitarist. They look different in person. They look
normal
. I always thought celebrities looked . . . you know, kind of plastic, with tons of makeup. They look ordinary. Working the second shift in ER allows you to learn something new every day.”
“People are people, Nellie. It's what's inside that counts. Mr. Lord is worried about his friend. Move it, Nellie. Stat!”
Dallas Lord returned to the waiting room, his own face dripping sweat. He folded his hands and prayed, something he hadn't done in a very long time.
An hour went by, then another.
“Hey, mister, is that bus out there yours? You gotta move it, buddy, there's been a nine-car pileup on the interstate, and they're coming in,” the hospital guard said.
Dallas looked around the small waiting room. He was the only occupant. Staring at his snakeskin boots, he muttered, “I don't have a bus.”
“The limo, buddy. You gotta move it.”
“Oh. Sure, sure, I'll move it.”
He was back in the waiting room in ten minutes. He looked at the clock. What was taking so long? He said another prayer. Then he thought about Billy Sweet and their friendship. He'd met Billy in kindergarten at the age of five. They'd been best friends ever since. Inseparable friends. He was godfather of Billy's three children.
Thirty-three long years. It couldn't end like this. Not here in this sterile, antiseptic place. He should call Billy's wife Nancy, and tell her, but tell her what? There was no way Nancy and the kids could make it here to LA tonight. He could charter a plane for Billy's family. If he did it now, they could be here by morning. Chicago wasn't that far away.
Dallas stomped his way over to the row of telephone booths. Using his phone card he placed the call and spoke in a tortured whisper. “I don't know, Nancy. We were on the last set, and he just turned white, grabbed his chest, and collapsed. I rushed him here to the hospital. I thought it was indigestion. He ate three chili dogs before we went on and guzzled a couple of root beers. I saw him pop some Turns a couple of times. It's been more than two hours. They don't tell you anything here. Hang up, I'm going to call and charter a plane for you. I'll call you back with the details. I did pray, Nancy. I'm still praying. Let me give you the number of this phone. You can call me from the plane. I'll get back to you when I have the flight information.”
It was a full thirty minutes before Dallas contemplated his snakeskin boots for the second time. Three hours! Three hours meant Billy was still alive. He wondered if they were operating. How long did operations last? He banged his booted feet on the tile floor, his eyes filling just as the double glass doors swished open to admit gun-toting police, first-aid volunteers, paramedics, bloody patients on gurneys, and crying ambulatory patients. Outside, bedlam reigned as fans and members of the Canyon River Band arrived to see what had happened to Billy Sweet. Dallas tried to shrink into the hard plastic chair.
Down the hall and around the corner, Nellie Pulaski mopped at her perspiring brow. “Told you it would hit the fan. We're finished here, Sara. Do you want me to speak to Mr. Lord?”
“I'll do it. Prep number two and give me an update on the interstate. Tell Dolores to call my sister to come in. She should be home by now. Does Harry the Hawk,” Sara said, referring to the hospital administrator, “know who our famous patient is?”
“He does now. He's probably in the waiting room getting Mr. Lord's signature on the dotted line saying he agreed to build a wing or an annex.”
“Only if Mr. Sweet lives. It doesn't look good, Nellie. When my sister comes in, have her sit in ICU to monitor him. I know it's against the rules, but have her do it anyway. I don't want anything coming back here to haunt us later on. Mr. Sweet gets one on one. The Hawk will agree.”
“See, you're already thinking like one of
them
, and you aren't even a partner yet. That's what I mean about getting a life.”
Sara nodded. It really was true. Nellie Pulaski could do three things at the same time. Four if you counted talking. With Nellie every minute, every second counted. She was shaving, cleansing, and bandaging an open wound as she rattled on to herself about the next patient awaiting her help.
 
 
“Mr. Lord.”
“Is he all right? What is it? Did you operate?”
“Mr. Sweet has suffered a coronary. He's in ICU right now. A private-duty nurse is on the way to monitor him. Does he have family?”
“They're on the way. Is he going to make it?”
What incredible blue eyes. How sad his voice was. How lonely he looked
. “I don't know, Mr. Lord. We're doing everything we can. You can go up to ICU now. I'll check with you later. As you can see, we're busy here, and we're shorthanded.”
“Can I do anything?”
Taken aback, Sara stared at the man in front of her. “Thank you for saying that. If you were a surgeon, I'd snatch you right up. If you really want to help, I would appreciate your asking those people outside to quiet down. I'm assuming they're your fans or your people. I'm being paged. We can talk later, Mr. Lord.”
Dallas brushed at his dripping brow. How could someone as pretty, as gentle-sounding as that doctor, know what she was doing? Billy needed an experienced older
man
to treat him, someone who'd been around twenty or so years. He wanted brash and bluster, clean-shaven and confident eyes, not lipstick and
poufy
hair.
He'd been given an order and he had to obey it. Just the way he always obeyed his brother Adam's orders. When you obeyed orders, according to Adam, things worked. It was when you ignored those orders that things got shot to hell. There was no way he wanted to shoot down Billy's chances. He took a moment to compose himself. He needed to look confident. The barracudas out there would sense any little thing that didn't sit well with them. The tabloids already had their scoop. He wondered if helicopters were flying overhead.
“Mr. Lord, I'm Harry Heinrick, the hospital administrator. Dr. Killian has informed me of Mr. Sweet's condition. This is a fine hospital, Mr. Lord, and our staff will do everything humanly possible to treat your friend. Would you like me to go outside with you to make a statement? A vigil is fine, but it's getting rowdy out there, and we have our patients to think about. The police are cordoning off the parking lot. A few words from you will go a long way. The media is . . . I guess I don't have to tell you about the media, do I?”
“No.”
“It was a wonderful thing you and your band did this evening. I wish more celebrities felt as you do.”
“Billy's dad has Alzheimer's disease. Will this hospital get a share of the proceeds? Right now I can't think clearly or remember the list. It was Billy's idea to do this benefit. The band agreed.”
“A small share. We're a private hospital, and our research is kept to a minimum.”
Dallas waited for the sliding door to open. “Why is that?”
“We rely on donations and requests. When you're private, you have more say in the way things are done.”
“I'll look into it. I'll be paying for Billy, so if you want money now . . .”
“That isn't necessary, Mr. Lord. Later will be fine. Let's just worry about Mr. Sweet's comfort right now. Good Lord, there must be a thousand people out here!” the administrator said, his voice full of awe. For the first time in his life the suave money man was at a loss for words.
Dallas held up his hands for silence. He drew a deep breath, his eyes searching the crowd for someone to home in on. He always did that when he was onstage singing. Sandi Sims. She looked like she was crying. He flapped his hands in the breeze to stop the questions. “Billy's had a heart attack. His family is en route and should be here in a few hours. I'd like to ask all of you to say a prayer. Mr. Heinrick, the hospital administrator, will give you a further update in the morning. Please, move back and keep the noise down. This is a hospital, and there are a lot of sick people here. I'll see you all later. Two prayers would be better than one.”
Harry Heinrick moved closer to the yellow tape as Dallas sprinted across the parking lot to the Emergency Room door. Strobe flashes traced his route. He did his best to look annoyed and wondered if they were capturing his best side. He couldn't buy publicity like this. “I can give you five minutes.”
Dallas stopped in the rest room on his way to the elevator. Who
was
this haggard-looking individual staring back at him in the harsh light? He cried because he didn't know what else to do. He knew his life was going to change. His life as he and Billy knew it would never be the same again. What would he do without Billy in his life? Who would he talk to in the wee hours of the morning? Who would he confide in? Share his memories with? Adam? Adam was his blood brother. Older by three years, Adam was the brain behind Dallas Lord and the Canyon River Band's success. Adam was the point man, their manager, their idea man, their investment banker, their attorney and broker. Adam had marketed them like a pro for the past fifteen years. They were a household name that even little old ladies in Punxsatawney, Pennsylvania knew. But Adam wasn't Billy Sweet. Adam was a suit with a Wall Street haircut and monogrammed Brooks Brothers shirts.
Adam never went fishing with him the way Billy did. Adam never played baseball with him the way Billy did. Adam never shared a pizza and a beer with him, never shared a secret with him. Hell, Adam didn't even like their music. What was worse, he didn't bother to pretend he liked it.
Cold water rushed from the tap. Dallas stuck his head under the faucet until he thought his eyeballs would freeze. A glob of paper towels wiped away the ice-cold water. He didn't feel one damn bit better.
Dallas combed his hair with his fingers, the springy curls going any which way. From his hip pocket he withdrew his Padres baseball cap and settled it firmly on his head. Billy had one just like it. Billy even wore his in concert. They were old, frayed, the stitching barely discernible. They'd gotten them the day Billy's dad took them to their first baseball game. Light-years ago. If something happened to Billy, who was going to take care of his dad? Nancy had her hands full with the three kids and her own parents. He made a mental note to look into the elder Mr. Sweet's care.
Dallas decided at that moment that he hated this hospital. It was too white, too hushed, too smelly. Was the smell a death smell? He didn't know anything about death. Everyone he knew was physical and vital, front and center, even old Adam. Death was something he never thought about. Billy thought about it, though, and worried about his elderly father. Nancy had told Dallas that.
He heard them whispering as he strode down the hall. They knew who he was, and they were speculating. About what he didn't know. Childishly, he crossed his fingers that none of the nursing staff would be crass enough to ask for his autograph.
An older nurse with cherub cheeks pointed to Billy's room and nodded. He walked up to the plate-glass window, clenched his teeth as he jammed his hands into his pockets. The person lying in the bed wasn't Billy Sweet. The Billy Sweet he knew needed a king-size bed because he was a sprawler. Billy Sweet was perpetual motion, playing music in his head even when he was sleeping.
When Dallas finally managed to open the door, his hand trembled. The machines were evil eyes glaring at him, defying him. If they worked, if they helped, he could live with them.
“If you're going to stay in here, Mr. Lord, you have to be sterile. There is a room at the end of the hall where you can change,” the nurse said. “I'm Carly Killian.”
Dallas accepted the folded garments. “Is . . . has . . . how is he?”
“There's been no change, Mr. Lord.”
“Where's the doctor? She said she'd be up to talk to me.”
“We're having a busy night, Mr. Lord. Dr. Killian's shift was over some time ago. However, if she said she'll talk to you, she will. No one at Benton actually works an eight-hour shift. We always go into overtime. The patients come first here. Time clocks aren't important when you compare them to a life.”
Dallas nodded and backed out of the room.
I can handle this. I can do whatever has to be done. I know I can do this. I will do this
.
It was an hour before dawn when Sara Killian opened the door to Billy Sweet's room. She motioned for Dallas to leave. He stood outside the door and waited, his breath exploding from his mouth in soft little puffs of sound. He looked across the hall to the nurse's station. A tired-looking nurse smiled at him. He nodded. How could she smile? Was this just a job? Didn't they care? Suddenly he was holding a cup of coffee in his hand. “It will help you to stay awake,” the smiling nurse said.
BOOK: Sara's Song
7.17Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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