Sigma One (11 page)

"I said don't try to hurry that old battle-axe up. She's kept me waitin' here and besides that, I'm here ahead of you. So why don't you just sit down and wait yer turn. She'll be along readily." He clutched his chest again and gasped, "I hope."

Pat could see the man was in distress and forgot his own problems momentarily. He approached the old guy, who must have been in his late seventies and knelt down in front of him.

"You okay, Mister?" Pat asked quietly.

The old man answered. "I'm okay. Just got me a bad ticker, that's all. Ran outta nitro yesterday and came her to get a prescription for some." The old man began to wheeze again and coughed deeply and continuously. The sound made Pat want to retch.

"You sure you're okay?" Pat repeated after hearing the man nearly cough up a lung.

The old man caught his breath and became indignant. "I said I'm okay. Now why don't you leave me alone. You'll get yer turn. After me!" He sounded bitter.

Pat was taken aback. He was only trying to help the old bastard. He took one last look to insure the guy was truly all right and then got up off his knee and went back to the window and began banging on the glass again. This time he used his keys to make more noise. He was tired of waiting.

Shortly, the administrator turned around and slowly, but deliberately came towards the window. A snail could have moved quicker. It was as if she were trying to taunt him by deliberately delaying.

When she finally arrived, she leaned into the cut out in the window, and with the voice of the old witch from the Wizard of Oz spoke. "You needn't continue your rapping, young man.”

The old lady was seventy-five if she were a day, Pat thought as he studied her from behind the glass. Her blue-grey hair was neatly piled in place under her white nurse's cap and her lips were covered with bright red lipstick which gave her a comical appearance. She had entirely too much powder on her wrinkled face and it looked to him that if she laughed or even so much as smiled, that her powdery foundation would crack and fall to the floor. Pat wondered if Tammy Fay would look like this in a few years.

Pat held back his laughter and spoke up. "I'm Mr. Patrick Huxley and I'd like to know if a Ms. Cherisa Hunt from the NSF has checked in or left any messages for me. She told me to meet her here."

The old lady looked sternly at him. I've got a message for a Mr. Huxley, but if you're him, I've a good mind not to give it to you."

This infuriated him. "Listen, Ms."....he squinted to read her name tag, "Darnell, I haven't got the patience to play your games. Give me the God Damned message now!"

Darnell wasn't the least bit impressed by his display of anger. She ignored him altogether and moved away from the window where she sat down at her desk and picked up a romance novel and began reading.

Pat was to the boiling point, but held his anger, sensing he couldn't coerce Darnell into giving him his message. If he lost his temper, chances were he'd never get her to tell him. He decided on another tactic and leaned forward toward the window and put his face near the circular cutout.

"Ms. Darnell, I'm terribly sorry I snapped at you." His voice was as sugar coated as he could make it.

"If you would please give me my message, I'd be most grateful." Pat gritted his teeth while he fought back the urge to pull her face through the circle of glass.

Darnell slowly turned around and approached him. (Apparently his ploy had worked.) "May I see some ID please," she asked, obviously buying his apology.

He opened his wallet and held it up to the glass for her to see. Darnell studied the photo, looked back and forth from it to Pat. Finally satisfied, she poked a white envelope through the hole.

Pat grabbed it and ripped it open.

The message was scrawled sloppily on a piece of hospital stationary It read: "Pat, something has happened to O'Shaunnesey. We're on the fifth floor in the cardiac care unit. Get up here as quickly as you can." It was signed Cherisa.

The message stunned him. Something wrong with O'Shaunnesey? As if he didn't have enough troubles today. Cardiac rare unit? He stared blankly ahead as the shock of the note sunk in. He stayed like this for at least thirty seconds. His jaw was slack and he was blanching. His face had lost all color.

"You okay, Mister?" The old man asked.

"Yeah. I'll okay." He answered autonomously. He wasn't thinking.

"You sure you're okay? You don’t look so good,” the old man asked again.

Pat looked at the man and nodded. 'Where's the elevator?" The old man pointed down the hall to the left but remained silent as Pat turned and left. Pat didn't even thank him.

Halfway down the hall, a twinge of guilt came over him and Pat turned around and bade the old man good luck. The old man raised his hand in reply just as the elevator doors slid open.

As he was riding up to the cardiac care unit, he wondered what might have happened to O'Shaunnesey. He knew it had to be bad. Being put in the CCU couldn't be good. The question was, how bad?

The elevator doors opened and Pat stepped out into the hall. The first thing he saw was Cherisa standing before him. She had apparently telephoned down to the front desk and Darnell must have told her he was on his way up.

"Mr. Huxley              I didn't---- know---- what else to do." Cherisa was shaking and sobbing as she tried to tell Pat what had happened back at the NSF. Her words were hardly understandable. "It...all....happened so quickly," she continued. "I didn't know what else....to ...do."

"Calm down, Ms. Hunt! What happened so quickly?"

Cherisa let out a big sigh, lowering her head as she did. She then began to breathe deeply to relax herself. The paramedic who had brought O'Shaunnesey in was standing ten feet away smoking a cigarette. From his vantage point he caught Cherisa's profile and watched as her breasts rose and then fell with each deep breath she took. Pat was standing directly in front of her and even he couldn't help but notice her cleavage as well. He could now understand why the senator had been interested in maintaining his liaison with her. Cherisa had a knockout figure and her strawberry blonde hair, big blue eyes and pouty lips were reminiscent of Bardot. Pat stared at her just a moment longer, making a mental note to himself that he should probably be more tolerant of her recent tardiness. He wasn't even aware of his chauvinistic attitude. He rationalized his feelings by telling himself that Cherisa really was interested in doing a good job at the NSF and that she was dedicated. Why else would she be crying?

"Come on, Cherisa," Pat said as he reached his hand around her neck to comfort her. He began to slowly rub the top of her shoulders as he spoke soothingly to her. "Come on now, calm down so you can tell me what happened."

Cherisa sighed again and looked up. "Mr. Huxley, O'Shaunnesey, I mean Dr. Jackowitz," (She had been cautioned never to use his real name in public for security reasons.) She continued, "Dr. Jackowitz was in the lab preparing to be videotaped for the experiment when suddenly he clutched his chest and collapsed. I think he had a heart attack!"

Pat removed his hand from behind Cherisa's neck. His hand instantly became clammy.

"A heart attack? Are you sure?"

The paramedic who had been standing to the side admiring Cherisa stepped forward.

“He had a massive heart attack, sir. Are you a relative?"

"No," Pat replied. "He works for my organization."

Cherisa added, "he's my boss. The one I told you about."

Pat interjected, turning toward the paramedic, "what are his chances?"

Pat was becoming faint. What little color he had remaining was quickly fading out of his cheeks as he dwelt on the term "massive" and considered what this might mean to his project.

The paramedic stoically answered, "not very good I'm afraid."

"Can we ...see him?" Pat asked.

"Follow me."

Pat followed the paramedic into the CCU. He passed the nurses' station and stared at the bank of monitors hung on the wall behind the low white formica desk. Each of the monitors had a nameplate underneath it, and the pulse lines each registered simultaneously danced from left to right. Some lines had high spikes. Others were rhythmically lower. Oddly enough, most of the nurses on duty were seated around the front desks chatting and drinking coffee with their backs to the monitors. Pat thought this strange and approached the desk.

Pat picked out a particularly attractive young nurse to ask his question. She was busy doing a crossword puzzle and instead of sipping coffee like the others, was drinking a diet coke.

"How come no one's monitoring the screens?" he asked.

Without looking up she continued her puzzle and replied, "the monitors are set up so that if the vital sign such as heart rate, show any dramatic changes, they'll beep and that's how we keep track." She seemed a little annoyed at the question. She then looked sternly up at him and spoke to him in a voice that reminded him of a grade school teacher chastising a disobedient child. "Visiting hours aren't for another five minutes and then only immediate family can go in for five minutes at a time. Who are you here to see?"

"Mr. O’Shaunnesey"...Pat stammered...."I mean Dr. Jackowitz."

Before the nurse could say another word, a loud beep sounded off from behind her. Three of the nurses immediately turned their attention to the bank of monitors.
O’Shaunnesey's screen showed a straight horizontal line!

Pat's stomach turned as he stared up at the screen.

The three nurses bolted out from behind the desk and ran to the right side of the room, passing behind a curtain, behind which lay O’Shaunnesey.

In three or four seconds the first nurse ran back behind the desk and picked up the phone.

Pat heard the crackle of the speaker overhead.

"Code Blue! Code Blue! CCU Bed 7. Dr. Granger, report to CCU! Code Blue!"

Pat froze. Cherisa moved forward and grabbed his arm. They both stood motionless without saying a word for what seemed an eternity as they watched the monitor.

Finally, a doctor rushed in and the nurse who made the announcement followed him to O’Shaunnesey's bed. Pat could hear the electro-mechanical thump the defibrillator made as they tried to save O’Shaunnesey. He also could see the curtain move as the nursing staff moved back and forth around the bed. The activity continued for another two minute, but suddenly the curtains fell silent and the nurses filed out one by one. They didn't seem to be in quite the hurry they were only moments before.

Pat overheard the doctor. "Mark the time of death at 1:38 p.m."

The nurse complied and wrote on her chart.

Cherisa squeezed Pat's arm again and then burst into tears.

"I'm sorry Mr. Huxley. I'm sorry. We hurried as fast as we could."

Pat didn't know what to say. All he could think about was what little time he had to find a replacement for O’Shaunnesey. Cherisa must have known what he was thinking, for she drew closer to him and patted his hand as she slowly led him toward the elevators As they were passing through the emergency room, he failed to notice the team of physicians trying to revive the old man he had spoken to earlier. He had too many other things on his mind.

Pat left the hospital and drove home. He had purposefully taken the long way to think and chose his course where the road wound its way around the Potomac River. As he drove, he caught glimpses of its muddy brown waters as they meandered slowly by, passing quietly under the stone arched bridges which crossed the river in several places. The trees which lined its banks were brittle and lifeless, having lost their leaves weeks before in the first frost that had hit the east roast. The sky had turned cloudy, and a gloomy overcast dimmed the afternoon light putting a solemn glaze on everything Pat could see, adding to his already dark mood.

Pat thought that by taking the long way home he would be better able to gather his thoughts and to give himself time to assess the situation which had gone from bad to worse to almost hopeless in little more than four hours since the hearings. He was hoping the time spent alone in the car would produce some answers. As it was, with each additional mile he drove, he only sank deeper and deeper into depression. The depression hung over him like a heavy blanket, slowing his moves and muffling the sound of his tires on the pavement. It was as if he were lost in a deep, choking fog, wandering aimlessly to find his way out.

In an hour and a half, Pat finally turned his car into his driveway. The drive hadn't produced the desired results and Pat felt hopeless as he entered the house. The time was 4:30 p.m. and it was beginning to get dark.

He stepped inside and flicked on a hall light. The house was quiet. It would be another hour before Sarah returned home with Alice,their twelve year old daughter. He was glad the house was empty. At least he would have time to continue to think-about the problem before him without distraction. He could use the quiet time. Maybe the familiar surroundings of his house would bring an answer to mind where the drive had failed.