normal positions as possible. Now he was applying what could only be temporary bandages—bandages intended to bind Alex’s wounds only until the electroencephalogram went totally flat and the boy would be declared dead.
“What do you think?” Benny Cohen asked.
“Right now, I’m trying not to think,” Mallory replied. “All I’m doing is putting the pieces back together, and I’m sorry to say I’m not at all sure I can do it.”
“He’s not gonna make it?”
“I’m not saying that, either,” Mallory rasped, unable to admit his true thoughts. “He’s made it this far, hasn’t he?”
Benny nodded. “With a lot of help. But without the respirator, he’d be gone.”
“A lot of people need respirators. That’s why they were invented.”
“But most people only peed them temporarily. He’s going to need it the rest of his life.”
Frank Mallory glowered at the young intern, then softened. Cohen, after all, hadn’t known Alex Lonsdale since the day the boy was born, nor had Cohen yet lost a patient. When he did, maybe he’d realize how much it hurt to see someone die and know there’s nothing you can do about it. But Alex had survived the first emergency procedures, and there was still the possibilitythat he might live. “Let’s get him into the ICU, then start setting up for X rays and a CAT scan.”
Ten minutes later, still drying his hands with a white towel, Mallory walked into Marshall Lonsdale’s office. Both Marsh and Ellen struggled wearily to their feet.
“He’s still alive, and in the ICU,” Mallory told them, gesturing for them both to sit down again. “But it’s bad, Marsh. Real bad.”
“Tell me,” Marsh replied, his voice toneless.
Mallory shrugged. “I can’t tell you all of it yet—you know that. But there’s brain damage, and it looks extensive.”
Ellen stiffened, but said nothing.
“We’re setting up right now for every test we can give him. But it’s going to be tough, because he’s on a respirator and a cardiostimulator.” Then, as Marsh and Ellen listened, he described Alex’s injuries, using the dispassionate, factual tone he had learned in medical school, in order to keep himself under control. When he was done, it was Ellen who spoke.
“What can we do?”
Mallory shook his head. “Nothing, for the moment. Try to stabilize him, and try to find out how bad the damage is. We should know sometime early in the morning. Maybe by six.”
“I see,” Ellen murmured. Then: “Can I see him?”
Frank Mallory’s eyes flicked toward Marsh, who nodded. “Of course you can,” Mallory said. “You can sit with him all night, if you want to. It can’t hurt, and it might help. You never know what people in his condition know or don’t know, but if somehow he knows you’re there … well, it can’t hurt, can it?”
Barbara Fannon glanced up at the clock on the wall and was surprised to see that it was nearly five in the morning. To her, it seemed as if it couldn’t have been more than an hour since the ambulance arrived with Alex.
There had been so much to do.
There had been all the tests that needed to be set up, and it had fallen to Barbara to coordinate the testing so that Alex was subjected to the least amount of movement possible. Not only had she coordinated the X rays and CAT scan, but everything else Frank Mallory had requested. And, as far as Barbara could determine, he hadn’t forgotten anything: he’d ordered ultrasound imaging and a cerebrospinal tap, as well as an arteriograph and an EEG. The only thing he’d left out was a pneumoencephalograph, and Barbara knew the only reason he’d skipped it was that Alex would have had to be put in a vertical position to carry it out. In his present condition, that simply wasn’t feasible. It had taken Barbara nearly an hour simply to contact all the technicians necessary and get them to the Center. And then, of course, there had been the people in the waiting room.
They had thinned out
“What do you think?” Benny Cohen asked.
“Right now, I’m trying not to think,” Mallory replied. “All I’m doing is putting the pieces back together, and I’m sorry to say I’m not at all sure I can do it.”
“He’s not gonna make it?”
“I’m not saying that, either,” Mallory rasped, unable to admit his true thoughts. “He’s made it this far, hasn’t he?”
Benny nodded. “With a lot of help. But without the respirator, he’d be gone.”
“A lot of people need respirators. That’s why they were invented.”
“But most people only peed them temporarily. He’s going to need it the rest of his life.”
Frank Mallory glowered at the young intern, then softened. Cohen, after all, hadn’t known Alex Lonsdale since the day the boy was born, nor had Cohen yet lost a patient. When he did, maybe he’d realize how much it hurt to see someone die and know there’s nothing you can do about it. But Alex had survived the first emergency procedures, and there was still the possibilitythat he might live. “Let’s get him into the ICU, then start setting up for X rays and a CAT scan.”
Ten minutes later, still drying his hands with a white towel, Mallory walked into Marshall Lonsdale’s office. Both Marsh and Ellen struggled wearily to their feet.
“He’s still alive, and in the ICU,” Mallory told them, gesturing for them both to sit down again. “But it’s bad, Marsh. Real bad.”
“Tell me,” Marsh replied, his voice toneless.
Mallory shrugged. “I can’t tell you all of it yet—you know that. But there’s brain damage, and it looks extensive.”
Ellen stiffened, but said nothing.
“We’re setting up right now for every test we can give him. But it’s going to be tough, because he’s on a respirator and a cardiostimulator.” Then, as Marsh and Ellen listened, he described Alex’s injuries, using the dispassionate, factual tone he had learned in medical school, in order to keep himself under control. When he was done, it was Ellen who spoke.
“What can we do?”
Mallory shook his head. “Nothing, for the moment. Try to stabilize him, and try to find out how bad the damage is. We should know sometime early in the morning. Maybe by six.”
“I see,” Ellen murmured. Then: “Can I see him?”
Frank Mallory’s eyes flicked toward Marsh, who nodded. “Of course you can,” Mallory said. “You can sit with him all night, if you want to. It can’t hurt, and it might help. You never know what people in his condition know or don’t know, but if somehow he knows you’re there … well, it can’t hurt, can it?”
Barbara Fannon glanced up at the clock on the wall and was surprised to see that it was nearly five in the morning. To her, it seemed as if it couldn’t have been more than an hour since the ambulance arrived with Alex.
There had been so much to do.
There had been all the tests that needed to be set up, and it had fallen to Barbara to coordinate the testing so that Alex was subjected to the least amount of movement possible. Not only had she coordinated the X rays and CAT scan, but everything else Frank Mallory had requested. And, as far as Barbara could determine, he hadn’t forgotten anything: he’d ordered ultrasound imaging and a cerebrospinal tap, as well as an arteriograph and an EEG. The only thing he’d left out was a pneumoencephalograph, and Barbara knew the only reason he’d skipped it was that Alex would have had to be put in a vertical position to carry it out. In his present condition, that simply wasn’t feasible. It had taken Barbara nearly an hour simply to contact all the technicians necessary and get them to the Center. And then, of course, there had been the people in the waiting room.
They had thinned out
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