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Authors: Barbara Claypole White
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was not moving.
“I should text Harry. Say good morning.” Ella grappled for her cell phone, and it clattered to the floor.
Katherine dove down to retrieve it. She placed the phone out of reach on the chair. “Harry’s fine. He’s in school with Velcro Max, and you, missy, need to rest and get your strength back. Your mission, should you wish to accept it, and you will, or else”—Katherine raised her eyebrows—“is to focus on no one but yourself. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ella adjusted the bed so she was sitting up.
“Want me to help you freshen up? I hear the cardiologist is a hottie. Dr. Beau Carlton Beaubridge, what a heroic name.”
“You spent last night eavesdropping by the nurses’ station, didn’t you?”
“I couldn’t help myself. The CCU is fodder for character research. I may have to give my next heroine a heart attack. Okay, I’m outta here. Love ya.” Katherine paused in the doorway to greet the doctor. Not exactly a hottie, but he was good-looking in a bland, predictable way.
“Good morning. May I come in? I’m Dr. Beaubridge, your cardiologist.” He closed the door and moved to her bedside with a confidence that stated, I own this place. A young nurse followed in his wake.
“How are you feeling?” He whipped the stethoscope off from around his neck and warmed it on his hand.
“Like I was run over by a freight train,” Ella said. “Possibly a whole battalion of them.”
“Yes, it was a substantial heart attack.”
Dr. Beaubridge began to examine her in efficient silence. When he pulled up her gown to inspect the site of the catheter insertion, she looked toward the nurse.
“Nice work,” he muttered. “Dr. Wilson did this?”
The nurse nodded.
Dr. Beaubridge sat next to the bed and read Ella’s file. Her mind wandered to Harry in his dress-up scrubs, the ones he’d worn to kindergarten every day for a week—until a brute of a five-year-old had ripped them in a playground incident. Calhoun Junior, Cal for short. She’d memorized the names of all of Harry’s bullies.
She would listen and obey; she would do whatever Dr. Beaubridge told her to do so she could get home to Harry. But first, she had to ask the question.
“I have a disjointed memory from the plane. At least, I think it’s a memory, not a nightmare.” Ella stared up at the ceiling tiles, found a focal point, and kept staring, despite the prickling dryness of the air. “My heart stopped and I was shocked back to life. Is that true?”
“Yes.” Dr. Beaubridge rustled papers. “It happened again in the ambulance.”
“My husband won’t be able to handle this. He mustn’t know. Please don’t refer to it if he turns up before you leave.” Dr. Beaubridge had been late; Felix would be early. The chances were high that they would meet.
“There’s no reason why he should know unless you choose to tell him. You’re of sound mind and able to make your own medical decisions. What your husband does or doesn’t know is between the two of you.”
“I need to understand something.” She glanced at the door. Felix could walk in at any time. “Was this incident”—she couldn’t say the words heart attack; they belonged to her mother—“life-threatening?”
“Yes, you dodged a bullet, Ella. The STEMI—or ST segment elevation myocardial infarction—had a proximal location such that the area of the heart muscle provided for by this artery was quite large. Maybe greater than fifty percent of the heart muscle of the left ventricle, which, as you probably know, is the pumping chamber of the heart.”
Ella nodded.
“When the blockage is very proximal—which means before any branches come off that artery—it’s sometimes called a widow-maker lesion. For good reason. A blockage at that site can be high risk.”
Widow-maker, widower-maker.
“But you were also extremely lucky. The plane was close to landing, and you were brought to one of the best heart centers in the country. I’m not
“I should text Harry. Say good morning.” Ella grappled for her cell phone, and it clattered to the floor.
Katherine dove down to retrieve it. She placed the phone out of reach on the chair. “Harry’s fine. He’s in school with Velcro Max, and you, missy, need to rest and get your strength back. Your mission, should you wish to accept it, and you will, or else”—Katherine raised her eyebrows—“is to focus on no one but yourself. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ella adjusted the bed so she was sitting up.
“Want me to help you freshen up? I hear the cardiologist is a hottie. Dr. Beau Carlton Beaubridge, what a heroic name.”
“You spent last night eavesdropping by the nurses’ station, didn’t you?”
“I couldn’t help myself. The CCU is fodder for character research. I may have to give my next heroine a heart attack. Okay, I’m outta here. Love ya.” Katherine paused in the doorway to greet the doctor. Not exactly a hottie, but he was good-looking in a bland, predictable way.
“Good morning. May I come in? I’m Dr. Beaubridge, your cardiologist.” He closed the door and moved to her bedside with a confidence that stated, I own this place. A young nurse followed in his wake.
“How are you feeling?” He whipped the stethoscope off from around his neck and warmed it on his hand.
“Like I was run over by a freight train,” Ella said. “Possibly a whole battalion of them.”
“Yes, it was a substantial heart attack.”
Dr. Beaubridge began to examine her in efficient silence. When he pulled up her gown to inspect the site of the catheter insertion, she looked toward the nurse.
“Nice work,” he muttered. “Dr. Wilson did this?”
The nurse nodded.
Dr. Beaubridge sat next to the bed and read Ella’s file. Her mind wandered to Harry in his dress-up scrubs, the ones he’d worn to kindergarten every day for a week—until a brute of a five-year-old had ripped them in a playground incident. Calhoun Junior, Cal for short. She’d memorized the names of all of Harry’s bullies.
She would listen and obey; she would do whatever Dr. Beaubridge told her to do so she could get home to Harry. But first, she had to ask the question.
“I have a disjointed memory from the plane. At least, I think it’s a memory, not a nightmare.” Ella stared up at the ceiling tiles, found a focal point, and kept staring, despite the prickling dryness of the air. “My heart stopped and I was shocked back to life. Is that true?”
“Yes.” Dr. Beaubridge rustled papers. “It happened again in the ambulance.”
“My husband won’t be able to handle this. He mustn’t know. Please don’t refer to it if he turns up before you leave.” Dr. Beaubridge had been late; Felix would be early. The chances were high that they would meet.
“There’s no reason why he should know unless you choose to tell him. You’re of sound mind and able to make your own medical decisions. What your husband does or doesn’t know is between the two of you.”
“I need to understand something.” She glanced at the door. Felix could walk in at any time. “Was this incident”—she couldn’t say the words heart attack; they belonged to her mother—“life-threatening?”
“Yes, you dodged a bullet, Ella. The STEMI—or ST segment elevation myocardial infarction—had a proximal location such that the area of the heart muscle provided for by this artery was quite large. Maybe greater than fifty percent of the heart muscle of the left ventricle, which, as you probably know, is the pumping chamber of the heart.”
Ella nodded.
“When the blockage is very proximal—which means before any branches come off that artery—it’s sometimes called a widow-maker lesion. For good reason. A blockage at that site can be high risk.”
Widow-maker, widower-maker.
“But you were also extremely lucky. The plane was close to landing, and you were brought to one of the best heart centers in the country. I’m not
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