Raney & Levine (6 page)

12


L
ike planes landing at JFK, three women in labor had
been brought in. David sent Sam, Charlie Ortega, and Ramu Chitkara to one with
more time; to another he sent Gary Phipps and woke grumpy George Mackey, and to
the one in hard labor, he brought Woody, Jill and Tricia.

The patient had been brought in only thirty minutes before,
“ready to pop,” a nurse said. In the labor room Jill and Trish had to rush the
history and physical, assess the labor and check the degree of cervical
dilatation.

Then the nurse helped them push the bed from the labor room
into delivery, where a circulating nurse was helping David and Woody, already
scrubbed, into their surgical gowns. Jill and Tricia got into surgical gowns
too, and helped hoist the moaning woman onto the table.

Dilatation was already a full ten centimeters. The head was
visible. The mother was pushing and moaning loudly.

“Almost there!” Woody said.

“Um, not so sure.” David frowned over his mask. “The head
isn’t coming. The kid’s stuck.”

He slid one gloved hand in alongside and past the baby’s
face. “Great,” he grimaced. “The cord’s around the neck.”

Jill and Tricia both darted looks to the fetal monitor.
“What now?” asked Tricia.

“Come see.”

“I’ve only done this once,” Woody said.

The three watched David slide in his second hand, and
manually rotate the baby a quarter turn, from face down to a position where the
shoulders were vertical. Then, very gently, he pulled the shoulders first
downwards, and then upwards, until the baby and the umbilical cord were partway
out.

“This isn’t rare,” he told the others. “You need to do it
fast, or the cord will be compressed by the mother’s pelvic bone, which will
cut off the baby’s oxygen supply. The cord can also act like a noose and
strangle the baby.”

Woody quickly clamped the cord, still pulsating, in two
places close to each other. David nodded, and Jill used sterile scissors to cut
between the clamps.

“That’s it,” he said. And more brightly, looking up: “Momma,
you’re doing great.”

Momma smiled at him, gasping.

The rest of the baby, slippery with amniotic fluid, slid
right down into his hands, one hand at the junction of the neck and shoulder,
the other under and supporting the lower back. It was a girl. “Oh, beautiful!”
he said, holding the child up by her ankles while Tricia unwound what remained
of the cord, wiped the tiny face with a sterile cloth, and used a rubber bulb
syringe to suction her mouth and nostrils.

The newcomer began to breathe on her own, and let out a
lusty wail. Woody hooted and the others beamed as they put her, howling, on her
joyous mother’s chest. Jill tied the cord, and Tricia removed the clamps.

The rest - checking the placenta, administering Ergotrate to
contract the uterus - took just a minute. The whole birth had taken fourteen
minutes.

A welcome respite for Jill from her brooding. She even
smiled for David as they left the delivery area.

“Let’s see how Jenna’s doing,” he said, scrubbing out.

When they left he had his arm around her. Had seen her gloom
in the cafeteria, and in the elevator kissed her, lovingly and fully.

On the surgery floor, they made their way to neurosurgery
and Jenna Walsh’s ICU room - and a surprise.

She lay, eyes closed, on pillows with her bed slanted up and
her head swathed in bandages. A blue sheet and blanket covered her up to her
chin. Wires protruded from under her blanket to a beeping monitor. Her IV pole
by the monitor hung its tubing down to a vein on the back of her hand.

And seated sprawled across the bottom of the bed was a woman
with her face in her arms. She was crying softly. A man was seated next to her,
his head down, his arm across the woman’s back.

The man looked up as they entered. Blinked at their scrubs,
and blinked again as they approached. His bloodshot eyes saw their OB/GYN
nametags.

David and Jill introduced themselves.

“Oh,” said the man. “We’re Paul and Susan Sutter. The…baby’s
parents. Jenna was our surrogate.”

Susan Sutter was frail-looking with short, pale blond hair.
Her eyes were raw and her face was strained, but she struggled for composure.
Apologized, even, for crying, and thanked them for their efforts. Her hand
gripped her soggy tissue.

“Jenna’s not doing well,” Paul Sutter said, glancing back at
the pretty, comatose face on the pillows. “The surgeon was in a while ago. He
said there’d been damage to her brain. Hopefully only temporary.”

“Hopefully,” David said softly, peering at Jenna. “No
ventilator, she’s breathing on her own...”

“Is that a good sign?” Susan Sutter asked.

David hesitated. “It’s favorable,” he said carefully.
“There’s still been brain damage. Something like this, you just have to wait
and see.”

They’d both just lost a child, and they were still here,
deeply concerned about their surrogate. Jill knew David was thinking the same.

“You were close with Jenna?” she asked, putting her hand on
the bed rail. David was studying the nurses’ chart hanging at the bottom of the
bed: pulse, blood pressure, respiratory rate and temperature. He inhaled, let
it drop.

Susan Sutter wiped an eye again and nodded. “She was a
friend,” she said. “The sweetest person you can imagine. Big-hearted, giving…”
Her voice cracked.

Her husband gulped, “Whoever did this…I don’t understand
such evil.” He shook his head incredulously. “A few times Jenna had morning
sickness bad, and
worried more about Susan
. My wife’s an unstable type 1
diabetic. Adoption became impossible because if one parent is deemed ill…”

He made a futile gesture, handed his wife another tissue,
and swallowed. “Jenna cared so much about others. She used to fret about Susan
losing consciousness during her sugar lows. ‘Eat a cracker, have a donut!’
she’d say. They’d go for walks together and Jenna always brought raisins, fruit
drinks in those little box lunch packs because she was afraid Susan would
faint.”

David’s cell phone rang. He excused himself and stepped out
to the hall.

Jill’s breath caught. David might have said Don’t bother
them, but she surprised herself by leaping at his absence; looking feelingly
from Paul to Susan Sutter.

“Any idea who could have done this?” she asked gently. “Did
Jenna have enemies?” Her heart pounded. She and David hadn’t heard what the
Sutters told the cops.

“Her brother Brian,” Susan said bitterly; and Paul Sutter
said. “We found out belatedly that he’s obsessed with the Church, harangued her
that surrogacy was a sin and she was going to burn in hell. He wasn’t gentle
about it, he really
hurt
her. She finally told him to get lost, and told
us not to worry.”

He really hurt her
. Jill gritted her teeth, managed
to restrain her anger. If someone profoundly believes something, there are
kinder ways to persuade. Jenna was brave, giving, and had suffered.

On the bed rail, Jill’s knuckles went white. “Did he ever
threaten her? Or, like, stalk her?”

The Sutters’ eyes met. “Not that we know of,” Susan said
slowly, looking back at Jill. “He called her one last time during the summer.
Spent the whole call screaming at her. She hung up on him.”

“Did she have friends? Any kind of support group?”

Paul looked uncertain. “One good friend named, uh, Mary?”

“Mari,” Susan said. “Mari…something on Bleecker Street.
Jenna also belonged to an online group called SurroMomsForum. She found a lot
of comfort there. Talked to other people dealing with the same…issue.”

It occurred to Jill that it was doing the Sutters good just
to talk. Susan’s face had actually brightened a little when she described Jenna
finding comfort.

“Jill.”

David was back, excusing himself again. “We’ve been called,”
he said. Delicately, Jill noticed. Nothing about delivering babies.

Paul Sutter stood and gave Jill and David each the Sutters’
card. Jill glanced at it. They owned an interior design company.

“We’re limited to visiting hours here,” Paul said. “But if
we miss you, please call us if…anything. We want to help. This shouldn’t happen
to good people.”

They thanked him and made for the door, David saying they’d
be checking regularly on Jenna.

“Hope to see you again,” Jill said with a little wave.

The Sutters smiled bravely back.

13


J
ust outside, Jill let her anger out. Whispering
fiercely, she filled David in on Jenna’s hostile brother, the whole story.

“Brian Walsh,” she said. “The cops interviewed him while I
was with that breech and you were doing Jenna’s surgery.” She stopped for a
second. “What was that call?”

David was frowning back toward Jenna’s room. “Something
Holloway’s gonna take,” he said low. “I don’t like the sound of brother Brian.
They should have a police guard-”

He stopped as they saw a figure rushing toward them. A young
nun in modern habit, looking bereft. Feet away, she stopped to check the
patient’s I.D. plaque and room number.

“Ah, Sister?” David said.

She turned with tearful eyes to them. They explained who
they were.

“You know Jenna?” Jill asked.

The young nun said yes, she was an old friend of Jenna’s,
and asked worriedly about her condition.

David gently told her.

She put her hands to her face, half-turned away, and burst
into muffled tears. “I’m Cathy Riley,” she managed, turning back, pulling
tissues from her pocket and scrubbing her face. “Now Sister Catherine, please
call me Cathy. I’m…oh, I just can’t
believe
this,” she said in a high,
tremulous whisper. Her words rushed. She needed to talk. “Jenna’s been my
lifelong friend. I’m four years older. I used to
babysit
for her, then
she grew up and…we volunteered at charities, chopped veggies for soup kitchens,
laughed and giggled a lot...”

David said, “Sister-”

“Cathy, Cathy.”

“Okay, Cathy. Maybe have a seat before you go in?”

On a bench just down from Jenna’s room, they sat her between
them and told her about the attack - including Brian’s reported hostility but
leaving out the snake. Listening, she went from sitting slack-jawed and frozen
to rocking forward with her face in her hands.

“Brian…do
tha
t? Kicking and punching her belly?” she
said in a muffled voice. “I can’t believe it. I know he’s a pain and…” She
floundered.

“Obsessed with the Church?” Jill said as delicately as she
could.

Cathy raised her chin. “In the past few years, yes. But he’s
mean
about it. Drives people away, actually.”

“But you don’t think he could have done this?” David asked
quietly.

Sister Cathy straightened, her strained face slack. Finally
she said, “I
can’t
think that. I mean, Brian yells, he’s got a
temper…but this?”

She mopped more tears. “He’s mean but not crazy. Anyone who
uses his religion as a pretext to harm is just plain nuts. Psycho.
No
priest would condone harming anyone. It
can’t
be Brian
...”

Her voice trailed as if she were re-thinking it, troubled.
She shook her head helplessly.

Jill asked, “Did you know Brian as well as you did Jenna?”

A swallow. “Not since childhood.” A frown. “Actually, even
then he was a hard kid to know. Always in his room studying, or just avoiding
people if you ask me. He got good marks, but Jenna used to say he studied by
memorizing
,
not understanding.”

“Do you know his wife?” David asked.

“Barely. Saw her at the wedding four years ago and maybe
twice since. She isn’t gregarious either. Jenna said they’d been fighting
lately, and she apparently finds her only comfort in the Church. Brags and
brags
how she’s never missed a Mass. Even I’d want to say, Enough already.”

Cathy’s eyes turned suddenly alarmed. “Not Brian…I can’t
believe... There must be some maniac out there.”

They told her the police were on it.

“Working as we speak,” Jill said; and David said, “The
surrogate couple is in there now with Jenna. Grieving for their lost child, but
also worried about her. Staying with her.”

“That’s so kind,” Cathy murmured.

“You must have known about Jenna’s surrogacy?” Jill asked -
again, delicately.

“Yes.” Sister Cathy pulled in a shaky breath. “I wasn’t in
favor of it, but her mind was made up. I’ve never met the Sutters but she said
she loved them, felt so bad about the type 1 diabetes. Truthfully, I didn’t
know
how
I felt. I mean, God loves
all
children, and this baby
was to be raised by his or her loving parents and God loves families.” She
shrugged and gestured. “I often feel torn.”

They nodded, smiled a little.

Cathy was quiet for a moment, then searched David’s eyes.
“Is there any chance Jenna might recover? Partially at least?”

“There’s significant brain damage,” he said quietly. “But
there’s always hope.”

“And
prayer.
I’m going to pray my heart out.”

Sister Cathy rose, wiping a tear. “Thank you for telling me,
preparing me.” She glanced feelingly toward Jenna’s room. “The Sutters must be
in so much pain. Maybe I can comfort them.”

Jill said, “It does help them to talk, have company. They’re
feeling very alone.”

“I’ll go to them now.”

The figure was stooped. Wore a dark, cheap coat, leather
gloves, and a kerchief over her blond hair.

It should have looked odd: stiff, bleached-looking hair on a
tall figure who walked bent over - but at one in the morning, who’d notice in a
hospital chapel?
It’s nearly deserted anyway
, the figure thought.
Just
one man in a pew near the front, weeping.

Head bowed, the figure moved into a pew several rows behind
the man. Placed a battered black purse on the floor, and next to it, a brown
paper bag and a Macy’s shopping bag. She kept her coat and gloves on, her chin
down and her hands clasped, as if in prayer.

The kerchief was pulled forward, which hid most of the face.
Still, the figure was careful not to look up.
These days, they might even
have security cameras in a chapel. Which makes it a fake chapel, right? Another
modern trick of the devil.

Only God watches in a truly sanctified place. So what I’m
about to do will be alright.

After ten minutes, the weeping man in front rose from his
pew. Moved to the altar and knelt before it on both knees, crossing himself,
then re-clasping his hands, weeping more.

The figure kept her head bowed but raised her eyes; watched
through narrowed slits.
Hurry up, fool. You’re wasting your time. Satan’s
probably laughing his head off.

The praying man was overweight. Groaned and cried and had a
hard time hauling himself back to a standing position. Finally crossed himself
again, and turned.

The figure hunched further forward, as if in more intense
prayer. Watched sideways as the man’s old shoes moved past, and waited till he
was out the door.

Now, quick. Nighttime’s full of weepers in hospitals.

The figure picked up her purse, Macy’s bag, and brown paper
bag. Both bulged.

Moving slowly, head still bowed, the figure carried her bags
to the altar. Then hesitated. If they had security cameras, there’d probably be
one behind the altar, aimed out at the pews.

That was okay. Precautions had been taken for that, too.
Makeup could do the most amazing things.

Sounds in the hall. Someone approaching or just passing
by?

Suddenly quick, the figure put the brown paper bag on the
altar. Turned and moved back out a bit faster, head still down, body bent as if
in pain.

Moved like that through the hospital lobby, too. It was
almost as busy as daytime. Patients coming in looking for the emergency room,
crying relatives, doctors and nurses coming on or going off shift.

Nice that the chapel was just off the lobby. Not so nice
that security cameras would be out here for sure.

Head down, the figure moved bent and stiffly to the street.
Did not straighten until reaching two blocks away, and even then kept the
kerchief pulled forward.

Three blocks away, a trash can beckoned. Lose the black
purse? No, keep it. It was an old plastic thing, bought in a thrift store like
the coat, which would stay on for now. It was a moonless, gusty night with a
cold rain starting.

Good. Extra cover to get the next one! And this time
REALLY kill. I have spoken with God. He said it was okay if they’ve
relinquished their souls.

Yesss! On such a perfect night with such a perfect getup?
Give ‘em two! She’ll be sleeping, but I have my lock pick!

The figure pressed her Macy’s bag to her and hurried to the
downtown subway, thinking,
Oh so busy I am! God’s chosen warrior, and
tomorrow the world will be forced to confront its sins!

Inside the hospital chapel, the brown paper bag sat on the
altar. It bulged.

And then moved. Not enough to fall off, but it moved again.

Poked at some air holes punched in the bag.