Despite extensive surgery and therapy, Grant Richot, brilliant surgeon and wonder boy, could not work a potato peeler with efficiency much less a scalpel in a patient’s cranium. He was given the position of Assistant Professor of Pediatric Neurosurgery and while the hospital tried to find a surgical replacement, it proved near impossible to discover a candidate with even half the qualities and skill of Grant Richot.
Then McMahon Children’s Hospital discovered Jack. They courted, they promised, they cajoled, throwing opportunity and money at him in great quantities. The only drawback was Grant Richot and his role at the hospital which meant Jack reported to him. McMahon Children’s Hospital promised Grant would stay out of the operating room. Jack accepted the position though he felt partly guilty for winning by default. Richot never mentioned the surgery days or the competitiveness between them, and certainly not his dead wife. Jack and Grant were like two pacing lions waiting for the other to make a fatal move. There were days Jack sensed the man studying him, looking for a way to steal his ability to perform surgery, thus placing them on equal ground once again.
Leslie tried to temper the strain between them and sometimes she was almost successful. She only wanted the best for the two men she loved, that’s what she told Jack every time he called her brother a tight ass or other equally vulgar name. She maintained Grant needed a woman and made it her second job to find him one. Not that the man needed any help. Half the nurses were in love with him, the other half hated him, but only because he’d summarily dated and discarded them.
“What do you need, Grant? I’ve got a case in an hour.”
Grant Richot smiled, a tight smile that made Jack want to smear it off his face.
“Nathan Menden,” he said, and slid an open file across the desk. He reserved the right hand for gross motor movements not involving specific fingers. Permanent nerve damage in a person’s hand and fingers was a nightmare, but to a surgeon, it was unimaginable. “I’d like to see a report on Nathan Menden by tomorrow morning.”
“Are you accusing me of negligence? You can talk to Bernie Kalowicz, or any of my team, for Chrissake, see what they say.”
“I will certainly do that.”
“Good.” Grant Richot might have screwed up his operating days, but he was not going to cut out Jack’s. “When you have a real case and real questions, come back to me. Other than that, I’ve got to prep for surgery.”
Chapter 15
“Please, Jack. Please save my baby.”—Audra Wheyton
Audra sat on the edge of the bed, staring at Christian’s loafers lined up side by side next to the chair which held the last minute items he’d planned to pack for the trip to Holly Springs—lint brush, two books on the history of the Cold War, Dramamine for Kara. She hadn’t had the will to unpack his suitcase or clear away memories of the planned trip, as if by ignoring the task, she might erase that fateful morning.
She sighed into the filmy blackness of early night. Sooner or later, she would have to unzip the suitcase and touch the neatly folded polos and khakis, the socks and underwear. The Aramis cologne. She squeezed her eyes shut but the tears came anyway, sprouting from her soul, pouring out grief and loss as she contemplated nights and years without Christian.
“I need you,” she whispered into one of his cashmere sweaters, a powder blue that made his eyes sparkle. She bunched the fabric in her hands and clutched it against her chest. “Kara’s been having these headaches. Bad ones, worse than the time you picked her up from school.” More tears fell, scalding her cheeks, her chin, her neck. “I’m so scared. Peter and I are going to see the doctor tomorrow to get her MRI results. It was of the back of her brain, where the headaches are.” She smoothed the cashmere along her cheeks, inhaled Christian’s scent. It gave her strength to say the words she’d only thought. “What if it’s a tumor? What if I lose her, too? Dr. Gressling said not to worry until we had the results, but I saw his face. Something’s wrong.”
In the six days since she’d brought home the headache chart, she’d thought of phoning Jack at least as many times. Once, she even dialed the hospital number but hung up when the receptionist answered. If she confided in him about Kara’s headaches, he might want to become involved in her care, or at least speak with the doctor, maybe even insist she come to New York for treatment. She knew he had an outstanding reputation as a pediatric neurosurgeon, but the West Coast had their share of specialists, too and Peter was already making inquiries for second opinions.
She would contact the Wheytons once the diagnosis and treatment, if required, were complete. She didn’t want them nosing in or offering suggestions, and certainly not hopping a plane to sit in a doctor’s office or surgery waiting room. Not that Jack would stand by without interrogating the entire staff. It would be too unsettling to tell Alice and Joe Wheyton their granddaughter was sick. Let them think Kara had settled back into a normal existence.
But thirteen hours later, clutching Peter’s hand as she stared into the sympathetic eyes of Dr. Gressling, Audra knew nothing in Kara’s life would be normal again.
“I don’t understand.” I refuse to believe this is happening.
“Kara has a condition known as Chiari malformation. It’s a congenital condition in which the skull is formed too small or smaller than normal. When this occurs, the cerebellum and brain stem are pushed downward and compressed, disrupting the normal flow of—”
“Pushed downward and compressed? Where?”
He hesitated a half second too long. “They actually slip into the spinal canal.”
“How could this happen?” She pulled her hand from Peter’s and clutched the edge of the desk. “She’s eight years old. She can run and do cartwheels and round offs better than anyone on her gymnastics team. And she’s a straight A student.”
Dr. Gressling’s eyes grew wider and kinder. “We don’t know how it happens or why. As I mentioned, it’s congenital. Some say the skull is too small for an ordinary size brain. And there’s a possibility it could be hereditary.”
“Hereditary?” She hated that world.
“We’ve found cases where one or more siblings share certain characteristics of Chiari malformation, with the severity ranging from occasional headaches to daily pain. A grandparent or aunt may have it, but a parent won’t. Or a parent could have it and pass it along to a child. There just isn’t enough research out there right now to give definitive answers or prognoses. Chiari malformation is often associated with another condition called, syringomyelia. This is a spinal cord disorder brought about by the presence of cerebral spinal fluid in the cord. As you know, cerebral spinal fluid is normally found outside of the spinal cord and brain. But when fluid is in the cord, it forms a cavity known as a syrinx.”
No, she didn’t know where the spinal fluid was supposed to be. Why would she? Kara could run and flip and twirl. How could her brain be slipping?
“Does Kara have this syringomyelia?” Peter asked.
“We’ll need to do an MRI of her spine to confirm this, but it’s a distinct possibility.”
“Where do we go from here?” There was a faint quiver in Peter’s voice as he asked the question, but at least he could get the words out.
“I recommend a posterior fossa decompression surgery to make room for the brain.”
“What would that do?” Peter asked.
“Three things. A craniectomy to remove part of the skull, a laminectomy to remove some of the vertebrae, and then a duraplasty to cover the dura with a patch.”
Foreign words. Terrifying by implication. “How successful is it?”
“Most children recover well and are able to return to full activities.”
Peter grasped her hand and squeezed. “We’ll get her the surgery, Audra. She’ll be fine.” He squeezed harder, as if willing his words to suffuse her body, one syllable at a time. “She will be fine,” he enunciated again.
“I have a list of surgeons in the area—”
“I want the best,” Audra said. “I don�
�t care if he’s on the other side of the country, I want him. Or her.”
Dr. Gressling adjusted his glasses and opened a folder. “There are two in the Los Angeles area and one in Chicago.” He scanned each page carefully. “Another in Boston. Ah...interesting.”
“What?” Audra wanted to know everything about the surgeon who would operate on her daughter’s brain.
Dr. Gressling looked up and smiled. “Perhaps it’s karma, but the doctor who would be my first choice has the same name as you. Wheyton. Jack Wheyton.”
***
The call came at 7:15 p.m. The events leading up to that exact moment would remain seared in Jack’s mind for many sleepless nights to come. He’d been grilling a tuna steak, drinking a Michelob, and watching the Yankees and the Red Sox. Blissfully alone. Leslie had a charity with her father tonight, eating spaghetti and meatballs and praying for Tommy Singlioni’s blood cell count to rise.
When the phone rang, the Yankees had just hit a double. Jack planned to let the answering machine take the call, but once Audra’s frantic voice filled the room he grabbed the phone. “Audra? What’s wrong?” In a million years she wouldn’t call him unless something was very wrong—or she’d found a way to scratch him out of her life forever and had called to gloat.
“Jack. Thank God you’re home.”
Now he knew something was really wrong. She’d never mention his name or God’s in the same sentence unless she were cursing him. “What’s the matter?” There had never been preamble between them, not in conversation, bed, or after.
“I need your help. Kara’s sick.”
“Sick? Did you call the doctor?” Clearly, the woman wasn’t thinking straight. He was a brain doctor, not a general practitioner.
“The doctor gave me your name.”
The oxygen swished from his head so fast it made him dizzy. Jack grasped for the couch, stumbled to the side until he slumped into it. He opened his mouth to speak but the words refused to formulate.
“He said you were one of the best for her condition.”
She sounded groggy and desperate but at least she could string a sentence together. Jack handled pediatric neurology cases. He also specialized in congenital anomalies. He closed his eyes and forced out the question, “What kind of condition?” It took her so long to respond, he asked again, “Audra, what kind of condition?”
“The doctor called it Chiari malformation.”
Jack pushed aside their history and switched to doctor mode. “Did he say anything else?” Better not to offer symptoms or outcomes.
Audra sobbed into the phone, tear-filled gasps that yanked his insides and made him wish he could tell her everything would be fine. “He mentioned syringo something or other. Help her. Please, Jack. Please save my baby.”
***
Alice dipped the spatula in pink frosting and swirled it on top of the sugar cookie. In three hours, Kara would be here and Alice wanted to be ready with a cold glass of milk and her granddaughter’s favorite cookies.
“So, why are they coming here again?” Marion asked, glancing up from the knitting in her lap—a fuchsia sweater for her seven-year-old great niece.
“It does seem a might strange,” Joyce added, shaking pink sprinkles on the cookie Alice handed her. “I mean, it’s not like that woman would come here under normal circumstances, like a visit for the sake of it.”
Alice had wondered the same thing but pushed the niggling doubts away with her rosary beads and daily Hail Mary’s. What did it matter how her granddaughter made it back to Holly Springs? She was coming back. She would sleep in Rachel’s room. Eat homemade pasta and meatballs. Watch On Eden Street with Joe. “Kara’s been having headaches and since Jack’s in that field, her mother thought it best to bring her here.”
“Two thousand miles to diagnose a headache?” Tilly squinted her smallish eyes. “With the price of a plane ticket?” She shook her frizzy head. “Makes no sense to me. None at all. Unless...”
Dang that woman. Alice really disliked when Tilly played superior and started tossing out suppositions and theories based on life according to Matilda McNally. She was the most pessimistic soul Alice knew and one of these days, Alice would set her straight and tell her to just be glad for what she had and stop trying to find things wrong with her life and everyone else’s. Yes, indeed, one of these days, she’d let it all fly, Christian woman or not. And if Tilly didn’t shut her mouth this second, it would be sooner rather than later.
“Tilly, stop.” Joyce shot her a warning look. “We don’t need your rainy day comments that do nothing but make a body miserable and worrisome.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Well don’t.”
The beginnings of a headache pinched Alice’s right temple. “Ladies. Please.” She scanned the table, meeting the gazes of the women she’d known since her boys were children. “I’m not asking any questions right now. Jack called last night to tell me Kara and her mother were coming this afternoon and he’s going to do some tests. For all we know, it’s related to losing her father.” It was much easier to talk about Audra and Christian if she assigned them generic names such as mother and father. It felt less personal that way. Less tragic. The women nodded, even Tilly, though it was just a slight half dip.
“How long will they stay?” Marion clacked clacked her knitting needles as she sped through another row of fuchsia.
That was a question her son had carefully avoided. He’d given her answers but they told her nothing. Depends on the testing. It’s hard to say. We’ll need to compile the results. She’d been too afraid to ask about the testing. What exactly was he looking for? Why travel all this distance when Audra had not visited Holly Springs in nine years and apparently did not hold Jack or any of the other Wheytons in high regard? Why now?
“Alice? How long will they stay?”
She studied a gob of pink frosting. Tomorrow she’d make Kara cream puffs and the next day a beef roast with mashed potatoes. On Wednesday, she’d thaw the dough for homemade pizza. She’d planned Kara’s favorite meals and treats for the next twenty-one days. Twenty-one was a good number. A lucky number, though Alice had no room for superstition. Even so, right now her faith needed a little boost to keep her granddaughter safe. If pointing at numbers helped, so be it. She worked a smile on her lips and said, “Twenty-one days, give or take.”
Tonight she’d pray to St. Jude and beg him to heal Kara from the source of her headaches. Heal them all, from the source of their pain and sorrow, a pain and sorrow which could not be seen but most certainly could be felt every second of every breath.
Chapter 16
“No man will ever leave me again, trust me on that.”—Leslie Richot
She stared at the blinking cursor on her laptop and wished she could lose herself in the world on cyberspace. Howard had called three times since she’d returned to the east coast. Twice to voice his concern over what he called a ‘damn bad deal’ and a third time to tell her as long as she still produced material, even from the other side of the country, he’d make things work on his end.
Most of her hospital dealings had been with Jack’s partner, Bernie Kalowicz, a stocky ex-linebacker with a hearty laugh and twinkling blue eyes. The man had a way of placing patients and their families at ease, starting with a joke, often lame but delivered with such sincerity, the response was universal—laughter. Whether the laughter resulted from the joke itself or Bernie’s own reaction to the joke, remained a mystery. No one cared. In a time of such uncertainty, here was a doctor who could make them forget their plight, even for a brief moment. And as they all realized once they reached the neurologist’s office, life was nothing more than a series of brief moments strung together.
Bernie had been the one reassuring Audra while Jack reviewed Kara’s chart and checked with radiology. She’d known from the moment she saw him bent over his medical books, Jack would be a wonderful doctor, but she never expected he’d be operating on her child.
Jack sent h
er to the doctor’s lounge while Kara had an MRI done. Being around him still made Audra queasy but if he didn’t pin her with those silver eyes, she could breathe and respond with a modicum of civility and calm. Nine years had not erased the feel of his hands on her body or the burn in her belly when he offered up one of his rare smiles—not to her, of course. He never smiled at her, but she saw his mood lighten when he was with Bernie or the rest of the medical staff.
Leslie Richot floated through the doctor’s quarters with an air of ownership and efficiency. Word had it she was the one every parent wanted to care for their sick child. She appeared shortly before noon carrying a tray stacked with sandwiches, waters, and two bowls of watermelon.
“I brought lunch,” she said, kicking the door shut with her foot.
“Thank you,” Audra managed, “but I’m really not hungry.”
Leslie set the tray on the table and sat on the couch next to her. “You have to eat. You have to be strong for your daughter.”
Audra sat up straighter. “Have you heard anything?”
“No. It’ll be a little while yet. Come on”—she handed Audra a ham and Swiss sandwich—“you’ve got to eat something and no sense waiting for Jack. Once he gets wrapped up with his patients, he forgets everything else. You might not see him for hours.”
Not seeing him for another nine years would be fine if he weren’t the one carrying news of Kara’s MRI. Audra accepted a sandwich and unwrapped the plastic. “Thank you.”
“Welcome.” Leslie popped a chunk of watermelon in her mouth. She was tanned and voluptuous with Caribbean blue eyes and full lips. “You know I hated you for years.” She laughed at Audra’s shocked expression. “Just thought we should get that out there. It didn’t help that my father is a minister and huge proponent of turning the other cheek. I wouldn’t though, not until I figured out the reason you got Christian and I didn’t.”
Pulling Home (That Second Chance) Page 10