“I think so. I don’t know much, Liz. I was watching them … I told them …” Carole started to cry as she said it, and Liz started her car, and ended the conversation as she pulled away from the curb, praying that he’d be all right. He had to be. They couldn’t live through another disaster, or God forbid, losing him. She just couldn’t. She drove to the hospital as fast as she could without running lights or hitting pedestrians, and she pulled into the parking lot shortly after they rushed Peter into the emergency room. They had taken him straight to the trauma unit, and they directed Liz to it as soon as she got there.
She was running down the halls, looking for him, and as soon as she walked into the trauma unit, she saw him. He was gray and wet and they were giving him oxygen, and working on him frantically. They were too busy to talk to her, a nurse explained to her rapidly what was happening. He had a severe head injury, and a possible fracture of several vertebrae. They were going to X-ray Peter as soon as possible, and they were running IV lines into him, and putting monitors on him as Liz watched them.
“Is he going to be all right?” Liz asked without taking her eyes off her son, overwhelmed by a wave of panic. He looked like he was dying, and she wasn’t sure that he wasn’t.
“We don’t know yet,” the nurse told her honestly. “The doctor will speak to you as soon as they assess him.”
Liz wanted to touch him, and talk to him, but she couldn’t even get near him. And all she could do was stand there, and wrestle with her own panic. They were bringing an X-ray machine in, they had cut his bathing suit off, and he was lying naked on the gurney.
They X-rayed his head and his neck, and they seemed to be examining every part of him, as his mother watched them. She was crying as she looked at him, and it seemed an eternity before a doctor in green scrubs walked toward her. He had a stethoscope around his neck, and he looked stern as he explained the situation to her. He was tall, and his dark eyes looked grim, but the gray at his temples made her want to believe that he knew what he was doing.
“How is he?” she asked, sounding desperate.
“Not great at the moment. We’re not sure yet how bad the head injury is, or what the implications are. There’s a broad range of possibilities here. There’s a fair amount of internal swelling. We’re going to do an EEG, and a CT scan in a few minutes. And a lot is going to depend on how fast he comes out of it. I think he may have gotten lucky with his neck. I thought it was broken when he came in, but I don’t think it is. We’ll have the X rays back in a minute.” He saw a lot of quadriplegics come in from pool accidents, mostly boys this age, in their late teens, who played too rough, or dove without caution. But this kid seemed to have gotten lucky. There was no paralysis of his limbs, and he had good mobility from what they could tell. If anything, he had a hairline fracture, which, five minutes later, is what the X rays told them. He had a hairline fracture of the fourth cervical vertebra, but he hadn’t damaged his spinal cord. Now they had to concentrate on his head injuries.
And for just an instant, before they took him away, she was able to reach out and touch him. All she could think of to say to him was “I love you,” but Peter was still unconscious and couldn’t hear her.
It was nearly an hour later before he came back, and he still looked gray, and the doctor who came to talk to her again didn’t look happy. She had learned that he was the head of the trauma unit by then, and his name was Bill Webster.
“Your son has quite a concussion, Mrs. Sutherland. And a hell of a lot of swelling. All we can do is wait now, and if the swelling gets worse, we’re going to have to go in and relieve it.”
“You mean brain surgery?” She looked horrified, as he nodded. “Will he be … is he …” She couldn’t even formulate the words beyond her panic.
“We don’t know yet. There are a lot of variables here. We’re going to keep him quiet for a little while and see what happens.”
“Can I sit with him?”
“As long as you stay out of our way, and don’t move him. We need him quiet.” He spoke to her as though she were the enemy, and she felt as though he was. There was a toughness to the man, and a lack of sensitivity, which she hated instandy. But all he was interested in was saving Peter, which slightly redeemed him.
“I won’t get in your way,” she said quietly.
He told her where she could sit, and she pulled up a stool next to where Peter lay, and quietly held his hand. There was an oxygen monitor on one finger, and there were monitors everywhere, to keep track of his heart and his brain waves. For the moment at least, he was stable.
“Where were you when this happened?” he asked accusingly, and she wanted to slap him.
“In court. I’m a lawyer. My housekeeper was at the pool with them, but I guess things got out of hand.”
“So I gather,” he said curtly, and went to talk to a resident and another doctor. He came back again a few minutes later. “We’re going to give it another hour or two, and then take him upstairs to surgery,” he said bluntly, and she nodded. She was sitting on the stool, holding Peter’s hand as best she could.
“Can he hear me if I talk to him?”
“It’s unlikely,” he said, looking at her with a frown. She was as pale as her son, but she was also a redhead and very fair. “Are you all right?” he asked, and she nodded. “We don’t have time to deal with you here if you faint. If this is too much for you, you can sit in the waiting room and we’ll call you if anything happens.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said firmly. She had lived through what had happened to Jack eight months before, and she hadn’t fainted then. She hated the way this man was speaking to her, but one of the nurses had told her he was the best there was, and she was willing to believe it. But his bedside manner was appalling. He was used to life-and-death situations, and saving lives, his whole focus was on that, and not their relatives. The last thing he wanted was to have to worry about someone other than his patient. He hurried away again, to call a neurosurgeon he wanted available if needed, and a nurse came to ask her if she wanted coffee.
“No, thanks, I’m fine,” she said softly, but it was obvious that she wasn’t. She looked as desperate as she felt, as worried about her son as she had once been about her husband. And all she knew was that she couldn’t lose this time. It was more than she could bear just thinking of it, and every time she did, she leaned over and spoke softly to Peter.
“Come on, Peter … wake up … talk to me … it’s Mom … open your eyes … talk to me … it’s Mommy, sweetheart … I love you … Wake up …” It was a mantra she said over and over and over again, praying that wherever he was, in the distant recesses of unconsciousness, he could hear her.
It was two-thirty in the afternoon by then, and at four, nothing had changed, and the doctor came back and talked to her again. They were going to give Peter another hour to regain consciousness on his own, and reassess the situation then. She nodded as she listened. He hadn’t stirred since he came in, but she and the doctor both agreed that his color was a little better. The doctor noticed at the same time however that hers wasn’t, but he didn’t say anything about it. She looked awful. And he mellowed a little bit this time as he spoke to her, but not much. He only asked if she had called the boy’s father, and she shook her head, and didn’t offer to explain it to him.
“You probably should,” he said cautiously, there was something in her eyes that made him hesitate, maybe a bad divorce, or some awkward situation. “He’s not out of the woods yet.”
“His father died eight months ago,” she said finally. “There’s no one else to call.” She had already called home and told everyone he was still alive but she wouldn’t call again until she had more news about his condition. She sounded calmer than she felt. All she could do was pray now that Peter would not join his father. She was praying that the doctor could prevent that.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and disappeared again, as she looked intently at her son, and although she would have died
before she told anyone, she was beginning to feel the room spin slowly around her. It was all too much for her, too terrible, too terrifying. She couldn’t lose him. Couldn’t. She wouldn’t let him leave them. She put her head down as far as she could, and felt better, and then went back to talking quietly to Peter. And as though he had heard her prayers, he moved ever so slowly, and tried to turn his head, but they had put a neck brace on him and he couldn’t. His eyes still didn’t open. She started talking to him in a stronger voice then, urging him to open his eyes and talk to her, or blink if he could hear her, squeeze her hand, move his toe, anything. But there was no sign from Peter, until at last he let out a soft moan, but it was impossible to tell if it was a sound he had made unconsciously, or in response to what she was saying to him. And a nurse came running as soon as she heard him. She checked his vital signs again, looked at the monitors, and ran to get the doctor. Liz couldn’t tell if it was a good sign or not, but she kept talking to him, and begging him to hear her. And just as the doctor came back again, Peter moaned again, and this time his eyes fluttered open as she stood next to him, looking down at him with hope and terror.
“Mmmmmmmmoooommmmmm …” he said in a long agonized sound, but she knew what he had said, and so did Bill Webster. He had said “Mom,” though with excruciating effort. And tears were pouring down her cheeks as she leaned closer to him and told him how much she loved him. And when she glanced back at the doctor, much to her amazement, he was smiling.
“We’re getting there. Keep talking to him. I want to run some more tests on him.” Peter’s eyes had closed again, but he opened them as she continued to talk to him, and he let out a horrible moan this time and squeezed her hand almost imperceptibly. But he was coming around, and moving ahead, by millimeters, if nothing more.
“Owwwwwwww,” he said, looking at her with a frown. “Owwww …” he said again, and she moved toward the doctor.
“He’s in pain,” she said softly, and Bill Webster nodded.
“I’ll bet he is. He’s got one hell of a headache.” He was putting something in Peter’s IV as he spoke to her, and a technician took more blood. And a few minutes later, the neurosurgeon came to see him. “We’re getting there.” Bill Webster told him, and looked encouraged. Dr. Webster shared the latest data with him, and they told Liz that they weren’t going to do surgery yet. And with luck, and some more progress, maybe they wouldn’t have to. It was six o’clock by then, and she hadn’t left Peter’s side for an instant. “We’ll keep an eye on him if you want to get a cup of coffee,” Webster offered, but she shook her head. She had no intention of leaving Peter until things had improved further, no matter how long it took. She hadn’t eaten anything since that morning, but she couldn’t have eaten at that point if she’d tried.
It was another hour before Peter made another sound, but this time when he did, he said “Mom” again, a little more clearly. “Hurts,” he finally added to it in a voice that was barely more than a croak, but he lifted his hand this time, and squeezed hers as much as he could. He was hardly stronger than a baby. They didn’t want to give him anything for the pain and risk his slipping back into a coma. “Home,” he said finally, while the doctors watched him.
“You want to go home?” Bill Webster asked as Peter looked at him, and ever so slightly, Peter nodded. “Good. We want you to go home too, but you’re going to have to talk to me some more before you go anywhere. How do you feel, Peter?” He spoke to his patient far more gently than he had to his patient’s mother. But she was grateful now for what they were doing for him.
“Terrible,” Peter said in answer to his question. “Hurts.”
“What hurts the most?”
“Head.”
“Does your neck hurt?” He nodded again and then winced, it obviously pained him to move anything, and with good reason. “Does anything else hurt?”
“No … Mommy …”
“I’m here, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Sorry …” he said, looking at her, and she shook her head. He had nothing to be sorry about at this point. “Stupid.”
“Yes. Very.” The doctor answered for her. “You’re lucky you didn’t wind up a quadriplegic from something like this.” And then he asked him to move his legs and arms, and hands and feet, and Peter did, but he could barely squeeze the doctor’s fingers. But Webster and the neuro-surgeon were pleased with his progress. And at nine o’clock they told Liz they were moving him to the Trauma ICU to continue to monitor him closely. “I think you can go home and get some rest. He’s moving steadily in the right direction. You can come back in the morning.”
“Can I sleep here?”
“If you really want to. He should go to sleep eventually. We might even give him something to make him sleep, if he makes a little more progress. You can use the rest, you’ve had quite a day here.” In spite of himself, he felt sorry for her. As a rule, he tried not to get too involved with his patients, but Liz looked like she’d been through the wringer. “Do you have other kids at home?” he asked, and she nodded. “You might want to go back to them. They must be worried. He was in pretty bad shape when he came in. Did they see it happen?”
“I think so. I’ll call and let them know he’s better.” There had been nothing to say to reassure them until then.
“Why don’t you go home for a while? I’ll call you if anything happens.” Webster sounded firm.
“Will you be here?” She didn’t like him, but she was beginning to trust him.
“All night and until noon tomorrow. I promise.” He smiled at her, and she was surprised to realize that he was actually decent-looking when he wasn’t running roughshod over her, or scowling as he checked the monitors and the chart.
“I hate to leave him,” she said honestly.
“It’ll do you good, and we’ll be busy moving him in a little while. You’ll just get in the way here.” He had a way with words, and she couldn’t help smiling at him. And then she told Peter she’d be back soon, she was going home to the other children.
“I’ll be back as fast as I can, I promise,” she said to Peter and he smiled.
“Sorry, Mom,” he said again. “Really stupid.”
“You’re really lucky. And I love you. So just hurry up and get better.”
“Tell Jamie I’m okay,” he said with real effort, but also real progress. It was the longest sentence he’d said since he woke up and started talking to them.
“I will. I’ll see you later.”
“I’m okay.” He was trying to reassure her, which was a good sign. He was cognizant, and not only aware of his surroundings, but the subtler implications of what had happened. She couldn’t even bear to think of what it would have been like if he hadn’t come out of the coma, or worse, hadn’t survived. It didn’t bear thinking.
“I expect to see you running up and down the hall when I get back. Okay?” He laughed at her, and she walked slowly out into the hall after she kissed him, and the doctor followed.
“He’s a very lucky boy,” he said, looking impressed by her. She hadn’t faltered for a single moment. “For a while there, I didn’t think he was going to come out of it without surgery, and certainly not this quickly. He’s young and healthy, and who knows, maybe you made a difference, talking to him like that.”
“Whatever it was, thank God he came out of it when he did.” Her legs went weak as she thought about it.
“He’s going to be here for a couple of weeks, I suspect, so don’t wear yourself out all at once. If you want to come back in the morning, he’ll be fine.”
“I’d rather sleep here. But I’ll go home and check on the other children and then come back in a couple of hours.”
“How many do you have?” He was curious about her. He didn’t know who or what she was, but one thing was obvious to him, she was a wonderful mother and loved her son deeply.
“Five,” she answered him. “He’s the oldest.”
“Leave your number at the desk. I’ll call if a
nything comes up. And if you decide to stay once you get home, don’t feel guilty about it. The others may be pretty upset, particularly if they saw it happen. How old is your youngest?”
“Ten. They’re ten, eleven, thirteen, and fourteen.”
“You’ve got your hands full.”
“They’re good kids,” she said, and he wanted to say they had a good mother, but he didn’t. Instead, he went back to check on Peter again, and she left. It was after nine when she got home, and all the children were still up. The girls were sitting at the kitchen table, crying, and Jamie was sitting on Carole’s lap, looking exhausted and pale. They looked like orphans from a war zone, and they jumped at her the minute she walked in the door, trying to read her face, but she was smiling, although she looked worn out and disheveled.
“He’s going to be okay. He’s got a terrible concussion, and a hairline fracture of a vertebra in his neck, but he’s going to be okay now. He’s very lucky.”
“Can we see him?” They asked as a chorus.
“Not yet,” Liz said, as Carole put a plate in front of her with leftover meat loaf from dinner, but Liz couldn’t eat a thing.
“When can he come home?” Megan asked, looking anxious.
“Not for a couple of weeks, maybe longer. It depends how fast he recovers.” They wanted to know everything, but she spared them the horrors of that afternoon. All they needed to know was that he had survived. They sat together for an hour, and when they went upstairs, Carole told her how sorry she was. She felt entirely responsible for what had happened.
“Don’t be silly,” Liz said, almost too tired to talk to her, let alone assuage her guilt, but she felt she owed it to her to calm her down. “You can’t control everything. They obviously got too rough. He’s just damn lucky it didn’t kill him, or paralyze him.”
“Oh, my God,” Carole said, as tears rolled down her cheeks and she blew her nose. “Will he really be all right?”
The House On Hope Street Page 10