Read Online Dead Certain by Gini Hartzmark - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gini Hartzmark
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the wall holding a clump of bloody gauze to a laceration on her head. In an adjacent hallway a couple of drunks were sleeping it off on gurneys. I looked around to get my bearings and realized that compared to my office at Callahan Ross, my roommate went off to work every day into the Black Hole of Calcutta.
I felt at loose ends and wasn’t quite sure what to do. I knew that I should probably try to call the Icon suite at the Four Seasons, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was still trying to convince myself to pick up the phone when the mechanical doors to the business end of the ER whooshed open and a young man in the short white coat of an intern hurried over to me. He looked barely old enough to shave.
“Were you the one who brought in the coronary arrest?” he demanded without preamble.
“Mr. Delius? Yes. I brought him in,” I stammered, alarmed by the raw urgency in his manner.
“Then you’d better come with me,” he instructed. “The doctor has some questions.”
I opened my mouth to say that I hoped that I would be able to answer them, but by the time my mouth began to form the words I was already looking at his back, retreating through the doors that separated the waiting area from the treatment rooms. I hurried up and followed him into the first room—trauma one—a bad sign. This was Claudia’s kingdom, the room they held open for the most serious injuries, the place where they kept all the heavy-duty equipment pumped and primed and ready to go.
Nothing had prepared me for the tumult—the bleeps of monitors, the scrape of gurney wheels, and the shouts of the medical personnel that formed an indecipherable cacophony. Through the open doorway I could see that the small room was jammed with people, all focused with a terrifying sense of urgency on the inert form of Bill Delius.
“Does he have a history of heart disease?” demanded the intern who’d come to fetch me.
“I don’t know.”
“Diabetes?”
“I don’t know, I don’t think so,” I stammered.
“What medications is he currently taking?”
From over his shoulder I could hear Claudia asking for the defibrillator paddles as matter-of-factly as if she were asking a dinner companion to pass the salt. Even though we’ve all seen it reenacted so many times on television, that it’s practically become a cliché, there’s nothing hackneyed about the actual drama of watching somebody try to jump-start the human heart. Even the intern paused in his questions at the sound of my roommate’s voice, suddenly commanding and adrenalized, warning everyone to clear.
Bill Delius went asystole after the second attempt. His heart no longer had enough electrical life in it to even squiggle uselessly. The face that stared up at the ceilings was that of a dead man. Claudia straightened up and took a step back from the gurney, her eye catching mine for the first time.
“A friend?” she demanded.
“A client,” I answered, feeling ridiculous.
Claudia blinked and then turned to the nurse standing at her side. “Thoracotomy tray, please,” she said. “I’m going to open his chest, perform internal cardiac massage, compress his aorta, and see if we can’t get some blood going to his head until cardiac surgery gets here.”
“Sounds good to me,” replied the nurse calmly.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave now,” announced the intern, taking me by the arm as Claudia; picked up the scalpel.
“She can stay,” said my roommate, never taking her eyes off Delius. “Just make sure you stay out of the way.” She turned to the intern. “Come here and give me a hand. I’m going to crack his chest. I’ll intubate, seven-point-five tube. Call respiratory therapy. Six units, type and cross match. Convert that eighteen-gauge to an eight French. Fluid wide open. Begin with O-negative blood as soon as it arrives.”
Claudia bent over my client’s lifeless face and opened his mouth with her gloved hand. She began snaking
I felt at loose ends and wasn’t quite sure what to do. I knew that I should probably try to call the Icon suite at the Four Seasons, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was still trying to convince myself to pick up the phone when the mechanical doors to the business end of the ER whooshed open and a young man in the short white coat of an intern hurried over to me. He looked barely old enough to shave.
“Were you the one who brought in the coronary arrest?” he demanded without preamble.
“Mr. Delius? Yes. I brought him in,” I stammered, alarmed by the raw urgency in his manner.
“Then you’d better come with me,” he instructed. “The doctor has some questions.”
I opened my mouth to say that I hoped that I would be able to answer them, but by the time my mouth began to form the words I was already looking at his back, retreating through the doors that separated the waiting area from the treatment rooms. I hurried up and followed him into the first room—trauma one—a bad sign. This was Claudia’s kingdom, the room they held open for the most serious injuries, the place where they kept all the heavy-duty equipment pumped and primed and ready to go.
Nothing had prepared me for the tumult—the bleeps of monitors, the scrape of gurney wheels, and the shouts of the medical personnel that formed an indecipherable cacophony. Through the open doorway I could see that the small room was jammed with people, all focused with a terrifying sense of urgency on the inert form of Bill Delius.
“Does he have a history of heart disease?” demanded the intern who’d come to fetch me.
“I don’t know.”
“Diabetes?”
“I don’t know, I don’t think so,” I stammered.
“What medications is he currently taking?”
From over his shoulder I could hear Claudia asking for the defibrillator paddles as matter-of-factly as if she were asking a dinner companion to pass the salt. Even though we’ve all seen it reenacted so many times on television, that it’s practically become a cliché, there’s nothing hackneyed about the actual drama of watching somebody try to jump-start the human heart. Even the intern paused in his questions at the sound of my roommate’s voice, suddenly commanding and adrenalized, warning everyone to clear.
Bill Delius went asystole after the second attempt. His heart no longer had enough electrical life in it to even squiggle uselessly. The face that stared up at the ceilings was that of a dead man. Claudia straightened up and took a step back from the gurney, her eye catching mine for the first time.
“A friend?” she demanded.
“A client,” I answered, feeling ridiculous.
Claudia blinked and then turned to the nurse standing at her side. “Thoracotomy tray, please,” she said. “I’m going to open his chest, perform internal cardiac massage, compress his aorta, and see if we can’t get some blood going to his head until cardiac surgery gets here.”
“Sounds good to me,” replied the nurse calmly.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave now,” announced the intern, taking me by the arm as Claudia; picked up the scalpel.
“She can stay,” said my roommate, never taking her eyes off Delius. “Just make sure you stay out of the way.” She turned to the intern. “Come here and give me a hand. I’m going to crack his chest. I’ll intubate, seven-point-five tube. Call respiratory therapy. Six units, type and cross match. Convert that eighteen-gauge to an eight French. Fluid wide open. Begin with O-negative blood as soon as it arrives.”
Claudia bent over my client’s lifeless face and opened his mouth with her gloved hand. She began snaking
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