Authors: Sharon Woods Hopkins
Killerwatt (7 page)
Within twenty minutes, Rhetta was standing in front
of the emergency room admissions counter at St. Mark’s Hospital, Cape’s only
trauma hospital. The blue-haired senior volunteer in a pink-and-white striped
apron held up an index finger in a signal to wait. She had a phone pressed to
her ear. Rhetta scribbled Randolph’s name on the notepad lying on the counter
and held it up in front of the aging candy striper.
The woman nodded and penned
Room 4
under his
name, then pointed. Rhetta raced down the hall, skidding to a stop in front of
a pair of stainless steel doors labeled, “Trauma Room 4.” Following the
instructions printed on a laminated sign across the doors, she punched the big
red button on the wall. The doors opened silently toward her. She flew through and
then stopped abruptly.
The smells of alcohol, Lysol, and vomit greeted her
amid a sea of medical personnel. Some of the staff were holding clipboards,
while others clad in green or blue scrubs or white smocks wore stethoscopes
around their necks and rushed in and out of curtained areas.
“Excuse me,” she called to a slim black woman
wearing a lab coat and carrying a tray of glass vials. “I’m looking for my
husband, Randolph McCarter.”
The woman nodded, set her tray down, and studied a
printout on the unmanned desk nearby.
“Right over there, ma’am.” She pointed to an area
enclosed by white curtains. Rhetta thanked her and threaded her way to the
cubicle.
The metal rings along the top of the white privacy
curtain rattled as she slid it along the track. Rhetta gasped, raising her fist
to her mouth to silence herself. Covered in a white sheet, Randolph lay
motionless on a stainless steel gurney. Caked blood matted his dark hair and
streaks of blood covered his face. His eyes were swollen shut, and she could
barely discern his raspy breathing over the hum of machines. A young physician
clad in green scrubs looked up. “Mrs. McCarter?”
She nodded.
“Please sit. I’ll be with you in a moment.” He waved
a latex-clad hand smeared with blood toward a blue plastic chair, a few feet
away.
“If it’s all right, I’ll just stand.” If she sat,
she wouldn’t be able to see what was going on. The doctor nodded and returned
to Randolph.
Plastic bags containing various liquids hung from a
nearby metal pole. Tubes snaked from them into one of Randolph’s arms. On the
other arm, a black blood pressure cuff strapped around his bicep began
inflating, while an electronic box recorded the reading. Nearby, an LED monitor
displayed three screens with lines that looked like a six-year-old’s sketch of
the Rocky Mountains. The difference was these mountains kept moving. That they
were moving, she reasoned, was a good thing.
When she spotted a short, stainless-steel rod
protruding from Randolph’s head, she swallowed bile from her lurching stomach.
The doctor murmured to a nurse, then peeled off the
latex gloves and flung them into a tall trashcan with a red biohazard diagram.
He offered her his hand. “Mrs. McCarter? I’m Doctor
Sylvan.”
Accepting his hand, she asked, “How’s my husband?”
Then when she had her hand back, she pointed to Randolph’s head. “What’s that
rod sticking out of his head?”
“I’m afraid your husband suffered a serious head
wound, but he’s stable. The rod is called a bolt, and that was inserted to keep
the swelling down. He’s still unconscious. We did a C.A.T. scan, and should
have the results any minute now. We’ll be able to tell from that if he’ll
require surgery.”
She couldn’t find her voice.
Head trauma? Bolt?
Surgery?
Her head began to spin. She edged toward a chair hoping to sit
before she toppled.
A short, slender man with a dark complexion, thick
black eyebrows, and wearing a white lab coat entered the area. He inserted a CD
into a computer. All Rhetta could make out on his nametag was Doctor Hasan
something-or-other. She couldn’t see the rest of the name.
Doctor Hasan Whomever and Doctor Sylvan huddled
together in front of the monitor, which quickly filled with images. They spoke
softly, but loudly enough that Rhetta could discern that Hasan spoke with an
accent. Doctor Sylvan motioned Rhetta over.
“There is hemorrhaging, here.” Sylvan pointed to a
dark area on the image. “His brain is swelling from the blow to the head. We
need to get him right into surgery to relieve the pressure.”
“Does he need brain surgery? Will you be the one
operating on him?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s actually not brain
surgery. We need to install a drain to relieve the pressure on his brain from
the trauma. I’m the emergency room physician. Doctor Reed is the neurosurgeon
on call this evening. He’s on his way.”
Rhetta squeezed her eyes shut and sent a quick
prayer heavenward. It had been awhile since she had conversed with God. She
hoped He wouldn’t hold that against her. Doctor Kenneth Reed was the best
neurosurgeon in the area, besides being a friend. “Thank you, God,” she
murmured, hoping He was listening.
Rhetta edged to the side of the gurney, clasped
Randolph’s limp hand with both of hers, and whispered, “I’m right here, Sweets.
You’re going to be all right.” She prayed she wasn’t lying to him. “Kenneth
will be operating on you.” She brushed his hand with her lips. He moaned,
although she wasn’t certain he could hear her. His eyes remained closed.
Doctor Sylvan touched her shoulder. “We need to get
him right upstairs, Mrs. McCarter. The surgery unit is on the third floor.
There’s a private family waiting room up there called the Surgical Unit Waiting
Room. That’s where Doctor Reed will come to get you following the surgery.”
She released her husband’s hand. It flopped limply
to his side.
She let the tears stream down her face.
*
* *
Rhetta
paced the hall outside the waiting room, unable to sit still any longer. It had
been over four hours and Kenneth Reed had yet to appear. She couldn’t get an
update from any of the nurses who’d come to the room to bring news to the other
families also waiting there for word on their respective loved ones.
When she first arrived, there had been nearly a
couple dozen people there, some reading, others talking together quietly.
Gradually, the others all received news borne by the respective surgeons or
nurses. The small groups, two to five people at a time, eventually cleared out
of the waiting area, leaving her alone. Unable to concentrate on CNN news, she
left the waiting room so she could walk off her nervous energy.
At 10:35, a figure in dark blue scrubs stepped off
the elevator and crossed the hall to the waiting room. She raced after him.
The short, balding man in wrinkled scrubs and a mask
that dangled around his neck turned around to face her. “Mrs. McCarter?”
“Yes, I’m Rhetta McCarter.”
“My name is Doctor Helderman. I’m the
anesthesiologist,” he said, extending his hand. She accepted his handshake.
“Your husband has just been taken to the recovery
room. He’ll need to stay there for a bit, possibly the rest of the night,
before he can be moved to a post-op room.”
Before she could answer, the door opened and Kenneth
Reed strode through.
She flew to him.
He took both her hands in his. “Randolph took quite
a blow to his head. We removed a lot of fluid from his brain, and installed a
drain. It doesn’t appear that his brain suffered any damage, but we’ll keep him
sedated for a day, maybe two.” Reed found a seat and motioned her to sit. She
collapsed into the chair next to him.
Reed said, “Doctor Helderman will monitor his
condition.” Rhetta nodded and glanced toward the anesthesiologist who stood
near the waiting room door, holding an electronic pad.
Kenneth touched her arm and spoke softly. “Rhetta,
the highway patrol is investigating his accident. The blood alcohol test
indicated that Randolph’s blood alcohol level was point one zero.”
She blinked.
What had Kenneth just said? Blood
alcohol?
“What do you mean? Are you telling me Randolph was
drunk?”
“Very drunk.” Kenneth looked solemn. “His blood
alcohol level was well over the legal limit.”
“That’s not possible.” Rhetta shook her head
vigorously. “I’d been on the phone with him just before the accident, and he
sounded just fine.” She stood and began pacing. “How can that be? I would’ve
been able to tell by his voice if he’d been drinking that much.”
Helderman tucked the iPad under his arm, and slipped
noiselessly out of the room.
“The paramedics said that when they got inside
Randolph’s truck, there was an empty bottle of Jim Beam on the floorboard.”
Kenneth’s words sent ice spiders scurrying down her
spine. She began shaking. She knew positively that her husband couldn’t have
been drinking before his accident.
Randolph hated Jim Beam.
The waiting room walls closed in. Rhetta couldn’t
breathe.
How is it possible that Randolph was drunk? How could there be a
Jim Beam bottle in his truck?
When they last talked, he gave no indication
that he’d been drinking. He told her he’d been with Billy Dan and he was
concerned about the locations of the substations. He hadn’t been at a tavern.
He’d gone to Merc’s Diner, where no alcohol was served.
Randolph was stone sober; she’d bet her life on it.
Then
why is his blood alcohol so high
? She didn’t have an answer for her own
question.
Kenneth said no more. He tilted his head and waited.
She had to compose herself.
This doesn’t make any
sense
. She closed her eyes and mentally regrouped. A headache was worming
its way across the back of her head to settle behind her eyes. She was sure,
now, that this accident was no accident. Someone connected to the schematic was
involved.
Finally opening her eyes, she gave Kenneth a long
look. Then she took a deep breath and willed herself to remain tearless.
“Randolph wasn’t drunk.”
From the look he gave her, Rhetta supposed he
thought she was in denial. Kenneth knew about Randolph’s history of excessive
drinking. That was just it—that was all in the past. Her husband no longer gave
in to binges.
Although he’d stopped bingeing, he hadn’t stopped
drinking altogether. Even though she suspected he’d tried to hide the fact, she
knew Randolph had partaken before coming to her office earlier that day. He
definitely wasn’t drunk when he got there, and she was confident that he’d had
nothing else to drink. Especially, he wouldn’t have been drinking Jim Beam.
Again, she asked herself how his blood alcohol could have tested so high
“Rhetta,” Kenneth began, “I’m going to check on
Randolph right now. If he’s stable, I’ll have someone bring you back so you can
see him. He’ll be quite groggy, but you can sit with him for awhile.”
After Kenneth left, Rhetta sat alone on the two-person
sofa, waiting for word that she could see Randolph. She tugged at a loose
thread. She walked around the room, replaying the recent events—from Al-Serafi’s
death in his car in the Diversion Channel, to the schematic, to Randolph’s
accident. It played like a movie continuously repeating in her head. The more
she thought about it, the more she was convinced Randolph’s accident was related
to his trip to see Billy Dan and especially to the schematic. This accident had
to be linked to the schematic. She just couldn’t make the connection.
A glance at her watch told her it was just after
eleven. She wanted to call Billy Dan and ask him whether they’d stopped for
drinks. Rhetta located a phone book on the counter in the waiting room. She
quickly found Billy Dan’s home number. Fortunately, he was the only Kercheval
in the book.
She rummaged through her shoulder bag and located
her cell phone.
No signal
. She walked to the window and held it aloft.
Barely two bars. She tried calling, but the call failed.
She’d call Billy Dan first thing in the morning and
get to the bottom of this.
*
* *
At
11:30, a nurse found Rhetta slouched sideways on the sofa, dozing. The ebony
skinned woman gently shook her arm. Awaking with a start, Rhetta jumped up.
“It’s all right, Mrs. McCarter. Your husband is
doing well. He’s beginning to come around. He’s been asking for you.” She
waited for Rhetta to gather her purse, along with her senses, then led her back
to recovery.
Inside
the small area where several patients lay on gurneys, separated by curtains,
she found Randolph asleep. Surrounding his gurney was a forest of poles holding
bags of liquid sprouting assorted tubes that snaked into his arms and hands.
Nearby were several machines that whirred and beeped. Rhetta studied Randolph’s
bruised face. Thank God, there’s no longer a rod sticking out of his head.
Pulling a
chair to the side of the bed that had the least machinery, Rhetta sat. She
closed her hand gently around Randolph’s. His eyes fluttered and his breathing
changed. He began to awaken.
“Hi
Sweets,” she whispered.
“Hi,” he
whispered, his voice hoarse. He blinked, as though trying to focus.
She
smiled. She didn’t want him to see her upset. Brushing her lips against his
swollen cheek, she asked, “How do you feel?”
“Hurts. .
. all over.” He spoke slowly, making every syllable count. His eyelids
fluttered.
“You had
an accident and a head injury, Sweets. You had to have surgery. Do you remember
any of that?”
He closed
his eyes, and mumbled.
“Don’t
try to talk. Get some sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.” She kissed him
again.
His head
lolled as he fell back to sleep.
*
* *
Shortly
before four in the morning, three nurses or orderlies—Rhetta wasn’t sure
exactly what they were—entered the cubicle and began preparing Randolph to be
moved.
“We’re taking him to a room in neurosurgery post
op,” said a tanned man with gelled hair. “You can come along with us while we
move him.”
She stood aside while they disconnected the
electronic machines and efficiently wound up hoses and tubes, preparing
Randolph for the trip. She followed the entourage as they wheeled the gurney to
the elevator. A male nurse stayed with Randolph, while the other two returned to
the recovery area.
“Is Doctor Reed still around?” Rhetta asked, as the
elevator glided noiselessly upward.
“He left about midnight,” offered the nurse whose
badge identified him as Ray Wilkerson, R.N. “Doctor Reed left orders. I’m sure
he will be in later this morning.”
It took nearly an hour of preparation before
Randolph was ensconced in a room on the floor above surgery, and all bags,
tubes and machines reconnected. Rhetta had waited in the small waiting area at
the end of the hallway. Assorted drawings courtesy of the local high school art
department adorned the walls. They served to cheer up the corner with bright
colors and images.
After a few minutes, Wilkerson opened the door and
motioned Rhetta in. After thanking the medical team, Rhetta dragged a chair
alongside the bed. She stared at Randolph’s sleeping figure, his battered face;
she took in the bags filled with lifesaving fluids, and the numerous machines
chugging and whirring, mapping his condition in a language she didn’t
comprehend.
Clutching his warm, unmoving hand, she laid her face
alongside his arm.