She was right on time. Glancing around the cafeteria, she realized that none of the surgery residents were there for sign-out rounds. No one had been in the locker room, either. It was Saturday, which meant that only a handful of the residents were on call, but someone should have been in the cafeteria. Since there was no point in sitting around waiting, she started back upstairs. Just as she reached the main corridor, she saw Bruce jogging toward her.
"What's going on?" Wynter asked. "Where is everyone?"
"Downstairs in the ER," he huffed. "Pearce is there."
"She's back?" Wynter said, unable to keep the excitement from her voice.
Bruce looked at her curiously. "They medevaced her in about fifteen minutes ago. Something about a carjacking..."
Wynter stared at him, hearing the words but unable to decipher them. Her head filled with a roaring sound and the coffee cup dropped from her hand. Bruce jumped back with a surprised yelp.
"What?" Wynter cried. "What are you talking about?"
"I didn't get all the details--something about someone trying to boost her car and she tried to stop them--"
"She's hurt?" Wynter grabbed his arm hard enough to make him wince. "Is that what you're telling me? Pearce is here and she's hurt ?"
"Dzubrow told us because her father called hi--"
"Oh my God." Wynter dropped his arm and spun away in the direction of the ER. As she started to run, Bruce called after her.
"She's on her way to CAT scan, Wynter."
Wynter veered right and pushed through the fire doors into the stairwell. A startled lab tech flattened himself against the wall as Wynter clattered by, bolting down the stairs so quickly she nearly fell several times. The hall outside the CAT scan room was jammed with residents and a few nurses. Curious onlookers. She pushed and shoved her way through, oblivious to the surprised grunts and muffled curses until she got as far as the doorway to the small cubicle adjoining the room which housed the CAT scanner. She couldn't see the desk where the tech sat in front of the monitor because the anteroom was wall-to-wall people, most of whom she recognized as surgery department heads.
Neurosurgery. Plastic surgery. Cardiothoracic surgery. Ophthalmology.
Wynter's heart seized. Jesus God, what's happened to her? She saw Henry Dzubrow and then Ambrose Rifkin in the center of the pack. Oblivious to the disgruntled expressions from those she elbowed, she managed to reach them. Through the glass partition that comprised most of one wall, she could make out part of the person inside the scanner. Bare legs and feet. Where were her jeans? Her boots? Maybe it wasn't Pearce. Maybe it was all a mistake. It had to be.
"Make sure you get cuts all the way through the facial bones,"
Rifkin said, his voice cool and steady.
"Yes sir," the tech said sharply.
"Is that Pearce?" Wynter said, her throat so tight and scratchy she barely recognized her voice.
"Yes," Dzubrow replied in a strident whisper.
Part of Wynter's brain automatically assessed the situation.
There was no one in the room with Pearce, which meant she was hemodynamically stable. There was no respirator, which meant she was breathing on her own. There was a single clear plastic bag of saline hanging on an IV pole with the tubing snaking inside the scanner and, presumably, to Pearce's wrist. But no blood was hanging. She wasn't hemorrhaging.
"What happened?" she asked. She would have asked why no one called her, but why would they have? No one knew. No one knew what Pearce meant to her. Right now, knowing Pearce was in that room alone, hurt, Wynter realized just how much. She wanted to get to her so badly, she feared she might scream. If she'd been thinking clearly, she would have been surprised that Ambrose Rifkin answered, but as it was, all she cared about was knowing.
"Apparently," he said smoothly, "someone tried to steal her car and she objected. There is some blunt injury to the head and chest."
Blunt injury. Someone had hit her. Wynter's stomach nearly revolted, but she forced down the swell of nausea. The room was hot under the best of circumstances, and now, with so many people jammed into it, the air was stifling. Dizzy, she put a hand down on the counter to steady herself, unable to take her eyes away from the body in the CAT scanner. "Is she awake?"
"Mildly disoriented, but responsive."
"Brain looks clear," the tech said.
"Let's let Lewis decide that," Rifkin said, turning sideways so that a tall, thin African American man could move closer to the monitor.
Wynter recognized the chief of neurosurgery. Refusing to give ground, she craned her neck to see the computer images of Pearce's cranium and brain. The fluid-filled ventricles were symmetrical and not enlarged, the gray matter showed no evidence of hemorrhage or edema, and there were no collections of blood between the brain itself and the skull. No epidural or subdural hematomas. No air in the intracranial space. She scanned the double rim of calvarial bone and saw no evidence of fractures. No serious head injury. The relief was so intense she felt weak.
"It looks fine," Lewis pronounced. "I'll wait around until they cut the spine, just to be sure her neck is clear. I'll be out in the hall. This sweatbox is getting to be a little much."
"Don't go far," Rifkin said mildly.
"I'm not moving until we're sure she's all right."
Wynter watched the machine generate image after image, as it artificially reconstructed "slices" of Pearce's skull and face, spreading them out across the computer screen like so many cards on the table.
When followed in sequence, they gave a detailed survey of all the bones and soft tissue elements in their path.
Dzubrow pointed to the monitor. "Facial bones are clear too."
"No," Wynter said, stretching out a hand that was amazingly steady considering that she felt as if she were coming apart. She indicated the second row of images. "She has fractures of the right orbital wall and a blowout of the orbital floor. Right there." She was aware of Dzubrow flushing bright red beside her, but she didn't care.
"Patricia," Rifkin commanded of the chief of plastic surgery.
"What do you think?"
The fifty-year-old redhead, usually jovial to the point of irreverence, was uncharacteristically solemn as she studied the films one after the other. "I agree. There's a fair amount of floor disrupted beneath the right globe."
"Scan's done," the tech announced.
Wynter didn't wait to hear anymore. She edged around Dzubrow, pushed through the inner door into the CAT scan room, and rushed to the side of the long, narrow motorized table that carried the patient in and out of the machine. "Pearce? Honey?" She heard the whir of a motor and, slowly, the platform slid out, bearing Pearce's still form.
She moaned softly and fumbled for Pearce's hand. The right side of Pearce's face was misshapen and bruised, both eyelids discolored and so edematous that she couldn't open her eye. A cervical collar was Velcroed around her neck. Pearce seemed thinner, smaller, beneath the frayed white cotton hospital gown covered with tiny blue diamonds.
"Oh, sweetheart."
"I'm okay, babe," Pearce said groggily, squeezing Wynter's fingers.
Her voice was slurred as a result of the swelling that extended through her cheek and into the intraoral tissues. She managed a lopsided smile.
"Asked them to call you."
Wynter lifted Pearce's hand and kissed it, then cradled it against her breast. She ached to gather Pearce into her arms. "I just found out. I'm sorry I wasn't here when you got here."
"S'okay. Freakin' zoo."
Two nurses pulled a stretcher into the room. "We're going to take you up to the operating room now, Dr. Rifkin," one of them said. "We just need you to slide over onto this stretcher."
Pearce jerked and tried to sit up. "OR? Why?"
"Lie down, darling." Wynter said gently, ignoring the surprised stares from the nurses. "Let's get you out of here, and then we'll talk."
Pearce tried to turn her head but was impaired by the collar. She yanked at the closures with t
he hand that was tethered by the IV line.
"God damn it. Can't see you."
Wynter leaned closer, into Pearce's line of vision, and gently caught her wrist, preventing her from dislodging the collar or the IV. "Don't fight. You'll hurt yourself. I'll talk to your father and then I'll talk to you. Nothing's going to happen that you don't want. I promise."
"Don't go. Please."
"I won't." Wynter brushed her fingers tenderly through Pearce's hair. "Ever."
A trickle of blood ran from a cut just above Pearce's right eyebrow into her left eye and she blinked. "Bastards tried to take my car."
"Big mistake." Wynter's smile wavered for just an instant, and then she steadied herself. She looked to one of the nurses. "Can you put a saline gauze pad on that laceration and get the blood out of her eye?"
"Sure," the one nearest said. "What about the OR?"
Pearce stiffened and Wynter squeezed her shoulder tenderly. "Let the nurses help you move onto this stretcher, honey. I'm going to talk to your father, and then I'll be right back."
"Okay," Pearce whispered weakly.
Wynter found Ambrose just outside the door, deep in conversation with the ophthalmologist and plastic surgeon. She didn't even bother to wait until he'd finished speaking.
"Pearce needs to see you. She can't go to the operating room without knowing what's wrong."
Ambrose Rifkin regarded her with surprise and interest. "I need to finish discussing the treatment plan with--"
"You need," Wynter said, her furious gaze on his, "to speak to her. She's the patient, and she's a doctor. Show her some respect for once in your life."
Someone coughed, and she was aware of the people around her shuffling back, but she never moved her eyes from Rifkin's face. His handsome features set angrily as he narrowed his eyes. "You forget yourself, Dr. Thompson."
"No. I don't." She moved closer so that no one else could hear.
"I know exactly what I'm doing. I love Pearce. She's hurt, and I don't intend to let you hurt her anymore. Not today."
There was no sound in the hallway. No one moved. Wynter felt as if she and Ambrose Rifkin were the only two people in the world.
His laser gaze raked her face, bore into her eyes and far beyond. She trembled under the silent onslaught, but she held steady until he gave an almost imperceptible nod.
"Very well." Then he turned toward the door to the CAT scan suite.
"Are you coming, Dr. Thompson?" he said without turning around.
Legs shaking, Wynter followed.
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Pearce heard the door open but couldn't tell who had entered because the cervical collar prevented her from lifting her head.
The nurses had moved her to the stretcher but had not put the back up.
All she could see was the ceiling. "Wynter?"
"She'll be along momentarily," Ambrose said. "The OR is standing by, and I want you to go straight up."
"Why?"
Wynter walked in just as Pearce asked the question and crossed quickly to her side. She leaned over and smiled. "Hi. You okay?"
"Yeah." Pearce tried to smile, but her cheek felt like a water balloon and it was difficult to move the right side of her face. She raised her hand and Wynter took it immediately. "What's the damage?"
Ambrose stepped closer to the opposite side of the stretcher.
Pearce could see him now, but his expression told her little. As he had done when he first arrived in the emergency room, he scrutinized her face carefully. "Your chest CT is relatively unremarkable. There are hairline fractures of the right ninth and tenth ribs, but the lung looks good. Some pleural thickening, but no intrathoracic bleeding."
"Bastard kicked me."
Wynter fought not to let Pearce see her horror and fury. She would gladly kill the person who had hurt her. The thought of anyone even touching Pearce, particularly with the intent to harm, made her slightly insane.
"There are, however," Ambrose went on impassively, "displaced fractures of the right zygoma and orbital floor. These need to be corrected surgically. Today."
"Wynter," Pearce said, trying once more to turn her head and failing, "have you seen the films?"
Wynter ignored Ambrose Rifkin's surprised mutter. "Yes."
"What do you think?"
"Pearce," Ambrose said impatiently, "I've already told you--"
"Honey?" Pearce asked.
"They need to be fixed, baby," Wynter said gently. "The floor fracture especially. Your father's right. Patricia thinks so too."
Ambrose leaned closer. "If the orbital bones are not repaired and the eye drops even a few millimeters," he said stridently, "you'll likely develop double vision. That will end your career, Pearce."
"I run the risk of double vision with the surgery too," Pearce said.
She was tired. She hurt. It was hard to think. She should be able to sort it all out, but it was so hard. She struggled to move, felt Wynter's restraining hand.
"I agree with your father and Patricia, sweetheart," Wynter said gently. "You need surgery. It will be okay."
"Will you be there?" Pearce asked.
"The whole time," Wynter kissed Pearce's forehead, then looked across the bed at Ambrose. "You're going to assist, aren't you?"
A look of surprise flashed across his patrician features and then was quickly erased. "Yes. I am."
She didn't smile but she nodded. "Good."
"Are we ready, then?" Ambrose asked.
Wynter brushed her fingers through Pearce's hair. "Yes. We are."
v Ordinarily it took an hour to transport a patient to the operating room, complete the preoperative and anesthesia assessments, get the operating team in place, and put the patient to sleep. In fifteen minutes, Pearce was in the operating room on the table with the chief of anesthesia standing by. Ken was there to assist. Wynter stood at the head of the operating table on the left side, her hand on Pearce's shoulder. Patricia Duvall--the plastic surgeon--and Ambrose were scrubbing just outside the room.
"Ready, Pearce?" Harry Inouye asked, a syringe full of Nembutal in one hand for the first stage of induction.
"Yeah," Pearce said. She held tightly to Wynter's hand.
Wynter leaned down and whispered, "I love you. I'll see you in just a little while."
"Love...you...too," Pearce murmured as she drifted off.
As soon as Pearce was sedated, Inouye administered another drug cocktail to paralyze her. When she stopped breathing, he quickly inserted the endotracheal tube through her vocal cords and connected it to the machine that would control her respiration during surgery. As he worked, Ken leaned over to whisper in Wynter's ear.
"You're not scrubbing?"
"I can't." Wynter stroked Pearce's cheek one last time before the nurses prepped her face for the surgery. She would not be able to touch her again until after the operation. "I just want to be her lover right now."
"I know what you mean. I can hardly look when the babies are coming."
"Thanks," Wynter murmured.
"Rifkin's going to assist?" Ken snorted. "Man, he's ice. Working on his own daughter."
"He can do it, and right now I'm glad he can. It's probably easier for him that way too."
"Huh. Maybe." Ken settled down on the metal stool in front of the anesthesia machine and began to make notes regarding Pearce's vital signs, the drugs that had been administered, and the other particulars of the procedure. He indicated another stool with the tip of his chin.
"Might as well pull that over and get comfortable. We'll probably be here awhile."
"Good idea." Wynter suddenly felt shaky. She remembered she'd forgotten to eat the bagel, and the adrenaline rush of stress and fear had burned off whatever energy reserves she'd had left. Her legs trembled and she sank down abruptly.
"You okay?" Ken murmured.
"Yes." She took a deep breath as Patricia and Ambrose entered and the scrub nurse hurried toward them with sterile towels. Pearce was
all that mattered now. "Fine."
For the next few minutes the room was silent as the nurses placed protective ointment in Pearce's eyes and then washed her hair and face with Betadine prep solution. When Ambrose efficiently isolated the surgical area with sterile sheets, Wynter had to edge her stool out slightly from her cubbyhole behind the ether screen to see around the barricades. She knew exactly where they would put the incisions in Pearce's eyelids to expose the underlying fractures. She knew what tools would be used to elevate the depressed bone fragments in the floor of the orbit underneath her eye, where the drill holes would be made, and where the miniature titanium plates and screws would be affixed to reposition the broken bones. She'd seen the procedure many times before and done it herself under supervision. It was technically challenging, which made it fun. The scarring would be minimal. But there was no way she could have made those incisions today. She could not have added more injury to Pearce's already battered face, even though it was necessary.
"Oh, that's good," Patricia said after a long interval of silence when the only sounds were the quiet requests for instruments, the slap of steel against flesh, and the steady whoosh of the anesthesia machine delivering oxygen to Pearce's lungs. "The floor is in two big pieces. If I can get them up without shattering them, we can get away without an implant."
"Will it be strong enough to support her eye?" Ambrose asked.
"Those bones look like eggshells."
"Let's see what I can do." Patricia used a fine, blunt-tipped silver probe to gently pry the broken bone fragments back into position.
"Pupils look like they're on the same level now. Once I put a plate on the lateral and infraorbital rims, they should be stable. She'll do fine."
She'll do fine. She'll do fine. The words reverberated in Wynter's head, and she closed her eyes to prevent the tears she felt quickly rise to the surface from spilling over. All she wanted was for Pearce to be well. Not to hurt. To be happy. And to be with her. Nothing had ever been clearer in her life. She wanted them to be together.
v It seemed to Pearce that she had only been asleep a few minutes.
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