“Yes. You should have.”
“I’m sorry.”
A text blooped. My mother and I looked at each other expectantly.
“This the man with the car?” The tone did not bode well for an intelligent conversation. If I had just learned to stop calling myself a whore, my mother hadn’t. She was in a depressive phase but that could change on a dime.
“No it’s his sister, probably.”
I looked. It was a text from Margie, as I expected.
—Where the f**k are you?—
The next one came immediately after.
—He’s bleeding into his chest. Bad suture ripped tissue—
It took me sixty seconds to say goodbye to my mother, promise her I’d do my best for her, scoop up the papers, and get in the car.
CHAPTER 15.
MONICA
I texted Margie that I’d be there in two hours. It was getting dark already, and I’d hit Los Angeles right around rush hour, which would literally double the time it would take me to get to Sequoia. The hospital was inside a knot of traffic arteries that made it hard to move toward or away from during peak hours. Either poor planning for the sake of the ambulances and women in labor, but if you wanted a central, urban hospital accessible from the five points of LA, it was prime real estate.
And Jonathan was in the middle of the best cardiac unit in the country, if the internet was to be believed. Whatever happened, I was sure it would be rectified in no time at all. I worried that he might face unpleasantness, and that I wouldn’t be there for him. But he’d be fine. I was sure, positive as a matter of fact, that it wasn’t a big deal.
I finally got into the waiting room at 7pm, and was redirected to intensive care. I didn’t shake, nor did I panic, because in ten years, this was going to be funny.
But when I got to intensive care, it didn’t look like anyone was laughing. Fiona blew past me without greeting. Deirdre smiled at me, but she wasn’t like the rest of them. She couldn’t hide her concern. Sheila, who always came off motherly and kind was talking to Margie like she wanted to bite her head off. Doing my own roll call, I counted off. Carrie not coming. Leanne in Asia. Theresa hadn’t been around in days. Eileen stood by Margie, twisting her diamond ring around her finger with her thumb. Her pumps had been traded for sneakers days ago, when her medication had been upped. She waved to me, but didn’t call me over.
Margie’s presence made me bold. I walked forward.
“This is unacceptable,” Sheila spoke in clipped vowels and hard consonants, he finger pointed at Margie’s throat. “And you treat it like another day in the park. This hospital f**ked up. They as good as killed him.”
I gasped, and the three of them paused, glanced, ignored.
“Thanks for the drama,” Margie said to Sheila. “It’s exactly what we need.”
“You need to start a filing a malpractice suit immediately.”
“Like hell.”
“You’re losing your guts.”
“I want us focusing on Jonathan. Not legal battles. Let them do an inquiry—
“And start the cover-up.”
“This is not TV—“
“I’ll hire my own counsel.”
“Exactly what he needs.”
“You—“
“I agree with Margie,” I said. Six light eyes turned to face me and I got my first ever case of stage fright. “It’s going to take years to sue. A week isn’t going to make a difference.”
Sheila turned her head, but didn’t commit the rest of her body to face me. She’s been kind to me from the minute I met her, but I had the feeling that was about to change.
“Who are you?” she spit out.
She knew goddamn well who I was. Nobody.
I walked away and wasn’t followed. Good. Fucking Drazens, all of them. Except the one.
I didn’t know the nurses in the ICU, so I went to the desk and put a harmless look on my face.
“Hi,” I said to the dark-skinned woman with an armful of charts. “I’m looking for Jonathan Drazen’s room?”
“He’s down in x-ray. Come back in an hour.”
I had two choices. Go back and try and find out what I needed from the Family Drazen, or wait in the cafeteria until Jonathan came back. I knew Margie would tell me everything once she shook Sheila, and Sheila herself might even calm down enough to be nice to me. But there was no reason I had to stand there and be abused while I waited.
As I walked into the cafeteria, I saw Daddy Drazen sitting with a long-haired man in sandals, who had his two year-old daughter on his knee. The man was talking fast with his head down. Declan leaned into hear, and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. He didn’t quite seem like a sociopath, which didn’t mean much of anything. I wasn’t an expert on either Declan or abnormal psychology.
I got in line for a cup of tea. A song percolated in my head. I went to get my notebook, but dig as I might, it wasn’t in my bag. I must have left it home. Damn it. I took out a Sharpie and got ready to write it on my arm.
“Monica?”
I heard my name as I spaced out to the music in my head, trying to get words and rhythm to match.
“Dr. Thorensen. I mean, Brad. Hi.” He had a white lab coat over his suit, with a nametag clipped to the lapel. “I’ve never seen you at work before.”
“What are you doing down here?”
“Getting something to eat. I just got in.”
He took me by the elbow and sat me down at an empty table. We sat knee to knee on the same side of it.
“What?” I said.
“I just had to open a transplant assessment of Mr. Drazen.”
I don’t know what I must have looked like. Maybe blank, because a sort of vacuity took hold of me, where I expected more information to be poured into my brain. Or maybe I looked puzzled.
“I don’t understand. It was a bad suture. I know Sheila’s pissed but....”
But I’d assumed she was flying off the handle. But I’d thought he got x-rays all the time. But I thought it was a complication, not ruination. But I was hanging on to my optimism because I missed it.
He glanced around, then back to me.
“Say it,” I said. “I don’t want to hear it from anyone else.”
“It was a suture inside his heart. The tearing’s very bad. He’s bleeding faster than they can pump it out. If they go in and patch him up...well. They can’t. There’s no room. And the tear has moved into his left ventricle.”
“Are you going to fix it?” I panicked. It was the panic of someone whose anxiety was a show, because I knew everything was going to be okay. For sure, there was an easy fix for all this, and Jonathan and I would laugh about how silly I was to worry so much. I couldn’t wait for that laughter. I told the story in my head over an imaginary Thanksgiving dinner, describing the goosebumps on my arms, the dry feeling in my mouth, the sudden breathlessness in my lungs. I’d wax dramatic about holding back tears, and Jonathan would laugh that laugh from deep in his chest, and tears would stream down his own face.