Read Online Dead Certain by Gini Hartzmark - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gini Hartzmark
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got a clear look at his face, pouring sweat and in a rictus of agony, I realized that what was happening was infinitely worse. As if to confirm my worst fears, Bill Delius suddenly staggered as if he’d been struck in the chest, let out a feral cry of agony, and then collapsed to the pavement like a dropped marionette.
Even before he hit the sidewalk I began calculating the alternatives: the distance to the ballroom where the computer wizards were still dining and the likelihood that there was a physician among them; the time it would take for an ambulance to respond to a 911 call; the chance of the paramedics finding us amid the hundreds of doors to the sprawling convention center; and, of course, the probability of my being able to keep him alive using CPR until they did.
I knew a little bit about heart attacks. While I was still their chief legal counsel, Stephen’s company had been seeking FDA approval for a portable defibrillation device, the equivalent of jumper cables for the heart, designed to be used in situations just like this one. While I wished desperately that I had one now, the information gleaned from that time all came back to me with startling clarity. I knew that CPR alone would not restart his heart. The only way to save him was to get him to the hospital.
To this day I don’t know how I managed to get Delius into the car. Even though he was thin, he was well over six feet and he was dead weight. It took all my strength to just drag him the few steps to the car and shovel him into the front seat. Within ten seconds of shutting the passenger door behind him, I was on my way to Prescott Memorial Hospital with the gas pedal to the floor, putting the limits of British engineering to the test.
I dialed 911 from my car phone, weaving wildly through the late-night traffic, struggling to make myself understood to the police dispatcher through my agitation. Passing Soldier Field, I caught sight of flashing lihts in my rearview mirror and slammed my hands Against the steering wheel in frustration, thinking the ponce meant to pull me over. It took me a couple of seconds and the dispatcher’s reassurance to realize that the patrol Car was there to hasten, not hinder, our progress to the trauma center.
When I pulled up beneath the bright lights of the emergency room entrance, the trauma team was already assembled and waiting like the pit crew at an Indy race. Even before I came to a stop, they swarmed the passenger side and had Delius out of the car and onto a gurney. I got out of the car and watched the rapid grace and military precision with which every person went about their job. The whole transition—from car to gurney to hospital-* happened so fast that it wasn’t until the automatic doors had closed behind them that I realized that it was my roommate, Claudia, who was on the other end of the stethoscope pressed against Bill Delius’s chest.
On the street, Prescott Memorial Hospital is called the Knife and Gun Club—something I hadn’t known until Claudia told me. It wasn’t the kind of thing they put in the glossy brochures they send out when they’re looking for donations. It’s also a piece of information that I’ve never felt the need to pass along to my mother. Her vision of Prescott Memorial was of a sunlit clinic where crippled children learned to walk again. While I understood that it was in no one’s best interest to disillusion her, passing through the double doors to the emergency room I found myself wondering how she’d managed to believe the fiction all these years.
Tonight the waiting room was filled with the usual bad-news ER crowd. Babies cried, drunks complained, and the air was filled with clashing odors characteristic to all hospitals: the salt smell of blood and the acid stench of vomit mingled with cleaning solution and the unmistakable scent of fear. A young woman in black fishnet stockings and a miniskirt so short it seemed to come up to her throat leaned against
Even before he hit the sidewalk I began calculating the alternatives: the distance to the ballroom where the computer wizards were still dining and the likelihood that there was a physician among them; the time it would take for an ambulance to respond to a 911 call; the chance of the paramedics finding us amid the hundreds of doors to the sprawling convention center; and, of course, the probability of my being able to keep him alive using CPR until they did.
I knew a little bit about heart attacks. While I was still their chief legal counsel, Stephen’s company had been seeking FDA approval for a portable defibrillation device, the equivalent of jumper cables for the heart, designed to be used in situations just like this one. While I wished desperately that I had one now, the information gleaned from that time all came back to me with startling clarity. I knew that CPR alone would not restart his heart. The only way to save him was to get him to the hospital.
To this day I don’t know how I managed to get Delius into the car. Even though he was thin, he was well over six feet and he was dead weight. It took all my strength to just drag him the few steps to the car and shovel him into the front seat. Within ten seconds of shutting the passenger door behind him, I was on my way to Prescott Memorial Hospital with the gas pedal to the floor, putting the limits of British engineering to the test.
I dialed 911 from my car phone, weaving wildly through the late-night traffic, struggling to make myself understood to the police dispatcher through my agitation. Passing Soldier Field, I caught sight of flashing lihts in my rearview mirror and slammed my hands Against the steering wheel in frustration, thinking the ponce meant to pull me over. It took me a couple of seconds and the dispatcher’s reassurance to realize that the patrol Car was there to hasten, not hinder, our progress to the trauma center.
When I pulled up beneath the bright lights of the emergency room entrance, the trauma team was already assembled and waiting like the pit crew at an Indy race. Even before I came to a stop, they swarmed the passenger side and had Delius out of the car and onto a gurney. I got out of the car and watched the rapid grace and military precision with which every person went about their job. The whole transition—from car to gurney to hospital-* happened so fast that it wasn’t until the automatic doors had closed behind them that I realized that it was my roommate, Claudia, who was on the other end of the stethoscope pressed against Bill Delius’s chest.
On the street, Prescott Memorial Hospital is called the Knife and Gun Club—something I hadn’t known until Claudia told me. It wasn’t the kind of thing they put in the glossy brochures they send out when they’re looking for donations. It’s also a piece of information that I’ve never felt the need to pass along to my mother. Her vision of Prescott Memorial was of a sunlit clinic where crippled children learned to walk again. While I understood that it was in no one’s best interest to disillusion her, passing through the double doors to the emergency room I found myself wondering how she’d managed to believe the fiction all these years.
Tonight the waiting room was filled with the usual bad-news ER crowd. Babies cried, drunks complained, and the air was filled with clashing odors characteristic to all hospitals: the salt smell of blood and the acid stench of vomit mingled with cleaning solution and the unmistakable scent of fear. A young woman in black fishnet stockings and a miniskirt so short it seemed to come up to her throat leaned against
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