The Breakthrough (6 page)

Margaret reached him and put her hands on his shoulders, steering him down the hall. “There’s nothing we can do but pray,” she said.

He knew that was true too, and he hated it with all that was in him.

By the time Florence reached her building, she was afraid she was going to faint. She grabbed the handle of the glass doors leading into the lobby and forced herself to stay upright, despite how light her head felt. She just knew Willie was snoring in front of the TV.

But no, here he came.
Thank God.

“Miz Quigley!” he said. “What’sa matter?”

“Dizzy.”

He was a wiry man, older than Florence, but she felt much better supported with his arm around her waist than she had with Scooter. “Let’s get you in here. You’re burnin’ up.”

“Need water.”

“Where’s the boy and the soldier?”

“Out for a ride. They’ll be back soon.”

Willie situated her in a saggy easy chair near the counter and made sure she wouldn’t pitch onto the floor before he rushed to the washroom. He emerged with two plastic cups of water in one hand and a bunch of soaked paper towels in the other.

Florence took a cup in each hand as the man dabbed her forehead and face with the towels. “Just sip,” he said. “Don’t overdo it.”

“You’re a dear,” she said. “Can you do me one more favor?”

“Anything, ma’am. You know that.”

“Could you get my pills from my flat? I think I forgot this mornin’.”

“That’s no good.”

“I know. I keep them on the counter in the kitchen, next to the sink. Just bring the whole dispenser box. You need my key?”

“My master’ll work, ma’am. Can you get to the phone if it rings while I’m gone?”

“Oh, go on, Willie. You told me yourself nobody ever calls here.”

“Got a call for you just a few minutes ago. Woman said the boy’s mother was in some sorta accident and could you keep him a few days if necessary.”

“Oh no! What happened? Car wreck?”

“That’s all I know, ma’am. Lady seemed in a hurry. Said she would bring you more clothes and such for him if you could do it.”

“Well, ’course I can. I just hope Haeley’s all right.”

No surprise, when Jack arrived with the Galloways, he took charge. “Listen, Boones, we’ve got the logistics all figured out. Here’s what’s going to happen. We brought your car. It’s in valet parking; here’s the ticket. Fletch and Dorothy will run Margaret and me back to our cars at your place, and I’ll bring back whatever you tell me to bring for you. Margaret will take stuff to the sitter’s for Max.”

“You got in touch with Florence?” Boone said, fishing his house key out of his pocket for Margaret. “She can keep him a few days?”

“You know she will. Margaret talked to someone at her building.”

“We wanna be here for you, Boone,” Fletcher Galloway said, “but we’d best be on our way and get Jack and Margaret back to their cars. We’ll keep in touch and we’ll be praying.”

“Yes,” Dorothy said, embracing Boone. “We will.”

“Let’s not leave till someone shows up to be with him,” Margaret said.

“I’m all right,” Boone said. “You can go.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “Not till your doctor friend or your pastor get here.”

As if on cue, they entered together. As the others left, Boone shook hands with Dr. Sarangan and Francisco Sosa. “We’ve got to quit meeting like this,” he said, and he wasn’t kidding. Sitting in the waiting room of a trauma center with these two brought back memories he had fought to whip into submission.

“They’re allowing me to assist,” the doctor said, “so let me scrub up and get in there. I’ll tell you everything as soon we get her stabilized.”

“Don’t let them give up on her, please!”

“Giving up is not on the agenda, Boone,” Dr. Sarangan said as he hurried out.

“Let’s sit,” Pastor Sosa said, worry and compassion in his eyes.

“I can’t, Francisco. And don’t think you and I need to pray together either. I’m praying every second, and I don’t know what else to say or ask. If I sound bitter, I am. I don’t know how much of this I can take. I barely survived last time.”

“This isn’t about you, Boone.”

“You think I don’t know that? But who’s it going to be about if I lose her? What am I going to tell Max?”

Boone broke down and Francisco embraced him. “I don’t pretend to know what to say, Boone,” he whispered. “Just know that everybody who stood by you before is with you again, come what may.”

Boone pulled away and paced. “Come what may? They’re going to be a big help if I wind up a single father to a boy who just took my name. And you! What was with that last Bible verse you sent me?”

“What was it?”

“
You
don’t remember?”

“Sorry. I send those to people when the Lord prompts me. Just remind me what it was about or where it was—”

“Job! Job, Francisco! I couldn’t imagine encouragement coming from that godforsaken book, and I was right. Something about man being born to trouble. Well, you were right; I sure was. Am I Job now? Does God have to strip everything from me again? Why?”

Boone read the pain in Sosa’s face. “I’m sorry, Pastor. This isn’t your fault.”

“I can take it. Fire away. Just don’t take it out on God.”

“Who else is there?” Boone said.

“Exactly.”

“Don’t get cute. But tell me, what was the Job passage all about?”

“You missed it, that’s all.”

“Missed what?”

“The passage in its entirety.”

“Enlighten me.”

Francisco pulled out his phone and seemed to be scrolling. “Found it,” he said. “You missed the little
ff
after the reference. My fault. I should have been clearer. The
ff
means ‘and following.’”

“I know what it means, Pastor, but I wasn’t reading that closely.”

“Well, I can see how that one verse, about man being born to trouble as surely as sparks fly upward, would be a head scratcher. What follows makes it make sense. I can read it to you if you’re at a place where you can concentrate.”

“Not sure I am.”

“I totally understand.”

The door cracked open and the ER nurse said, “Pastor Sosa, a moment?”

Boone had to fight the urge to tackle Francisco. What could it mean that she wanted to see him alone? Had Haeley already died, and did Francisco need to be briefed so he could break the news?

Boone slid onto a leather couch and buried his head in his hands. Was he ready for this? The same dark feeling came over him that had when he lost Nikki. The only difference was that he had no son to worry about then, as Josh had died in the fire too. The only light at the end of this tunnel was that Max would need his adopted dad as never before. What kind of shape would he be in to raise that boy alone?

Alone and helpless and pleading with God, Boone felt at the end of himself. What was he to do right now? Nothing? Wallow in hopelessness? This had to be what a death row inmate felt during his last hours.

Boone pulled out his cell phone and brought up his mobile Bible. He scrolled to Job 5, this time to see that sobering passage in its full context.

For affliction does not come from the dust,

nor does trouble sprout from the ground,

but man is born to trouble

as the sparks fly upward.

As for me, I would seek God,

and to God would I commit my cause,

who does great things and unsearchable,

marvelous things without number:

He gives rain on the earth

and sends waters on the fields;

He sets on high those who are lowly,

and those who mourn are lifted to safety.

He frustrates the devices of the crafty,

so that their hands achieve no success.

He catches the wise in their own craftiness,

and the schemes of the wily are brought to a quick end.

They meet with darkness in the daytime

and grope at noonday as in the night.

But he saves the needy from the sword of their mouth

and from the hand of the mighty.

So the poor have hope,

and injustice shuts her mouth.

Behold, blessed is the one whom God reproves;

therefore despise not the discipline of the Almighty.

For he wounds, but he binds up;

he shatters, but his hands heal.

He will deliver you from six troubles;

in seven no evil shall touch you.

Well, that made a little more sense, but just then it didn’t offer more comfort, and Boone knew it was a passage that would take a long time to digest.
“Despise not the discipline of the Almighty”?
What was he being disciplined for?

Right now all he wanted was for Francisco to return with anything but bad news.

“Well, now that’s somethin’,” Florence said, squinting as she studied her plastic pill box. “Looks like I did take my pills this morning. I hate getting old. Don’t you, Willie?”

“I quit getting old years ago, Miz Quigley. I’m what you call levitatin’.”

She shook her head. “Now where are those boys?”

“I ’spect they’ll be along directly,” he said. “You feeling at all better?”

“Getting there.”

“You want to try to get yourself upstairs?”

“No. I’ll wait for ’em here. Least they can do is walk me up after what they put me through.”

Francisco Sosa must have seen the fear in Boone’s eyes, as he quickly disabused him of the notion of dreaded news. “Just the church wondering why I was ignoring my cell phone,” he said. “I told ’em no more calls until they heard from me.”

Boone let out a huge breath.

“You okay?” Sosa said. “I mean, considering?”

Boone nodded. “Trying to talk myself out of ‘despising discipline.’”

“Not easy, is it? Just remember the beauty of the next four lines.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see.”

“And remember, if it turns out you are being reproved, you’re also blessed.”

“Sorry, not feeling it right now. Just hanging on.”

Florence may not have been educated, but she was anything but stupid. Something wasn’t right. Too much time had passed. She searched her mind. It would be just like Max to beg for a longer ride, and from what little she knew of his uncle, it might be like him to give in. Maybe he had tried to call her and let her know, but did he even have her number?

“Willie, can I ask one more favor?”

“I done told you, Miz Quigley, I’m just here to serve.”

“My cell phone’s on the couch up there, and—”

“Say no more. I saw it and shoulda thought to bring it down.”

Murari Sarangan arrived with his surgical cap and mask in his hand, and Boone leapt to his feet, frantically searching the doctor’s face. The doctor looked him in the eye—which was encouraging, and while he wasn’t smiling, he didn’t appear defeated either.

“She’s not out of the woods yet, Boone, but we do not believe we’re going to lose her.”

Boone dropped to his knees, and Francisco and Dr. Sarangan had to help him to the couch. He shook his head, nearly unable to speak. “Thank you,” he managed.

Sarangan pulled up a chair and sat before him. “I’m not telling you anything you don’t know when I say she suffered a severe injury. We’re not even certain how severe yet, but we were able to stabilize her.”

“Is she conscious? When can I see her?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. There must be much progress before she will be conscious. It could be days.”

“Days?”

“She’s very lucky in many ways. The specialist said that if she had fallen from any higher than her own height or had landed an inch or two to her right or left, it’s unlikely she would have survived the ride here.”

While Boone was silently thanking God, he was also reeling. “How bad is it? Can she fully recover?”

Again Boone hated the hesitation.

The doctor rose, tossed his mask in the trash, tucked his cap in a pocket, and sat again. “Let me be frank, Boone. I confess that remaining professionally objective in this case is not easy for me. I forced myself to stay focused in the OR, but when Haeley was being wheeled into the recovery room, I was perhaps more optimistic than was warranted.”

“What are you saying?”

The doctor raised his brows and straightened. “I’m afraid that while asking Sam—that’s the specialist, the neurosurgeon—what I could tell you, he immediately noticed that I appeared unrealistically positive.”

“Meaning?”

“I couldn’t hide that I thought things went as well as could be expected. He made me promise not to get your hopes up.”

Boone recoiled. “You already have! What do you mean?”

“Just that he reminded me it’s way too early to determine what brain functions may have been affected, let alone which might be completely restored.”

“You mean memory, speech—?”

“Boone, really, it could be a long time before we know what may have been affected, how seriously, and whether we can expect progress.”

“Then what are you telling me? Should I be preparing for a vegetative state, in-home care, rehab, what?”

“There’s no need to jump to conclusions. Our sole goal at this stage was to save Haeley’s life. That we were able to stabilize her was a major accomplishment, and I’m just thrilled to tell you that we expect her to survive.”

Boone sat back. “Whoa. For now I’ll take what I can get. Do you have a few more minutes?”

“I do. I’m planning on being here for about four more hours to monitor her.”

“I appreciate that. Listen, Francisco here will tell you that I can be a little detail oriented.”

Dr. Sarangan appeared to fight a smile. “I don’t need our pastor to tell me that. What do you want to know?”

“Just everything. What am I dealing with here? Can you give it to me in layman’s terms?”

“Sure. Haeley’s in a coma caused by blunt force trauma to the brain. A coma can be caused by bleeding, swelling, or not enough oxygen or blood sugar to the brain. Are you familiar with the RAS—the reticular activating system?”

“Uh, no.”

“It’s like your body’s on-off switch for automatic reflexes like respiration, heartbeat, even blood pressure. When someone slips into a coma, the first thing we have to determine is whether the RAS has stopped or both hemispheres of the brain have shut down for some reason. The specialist thinks Haeley’s RAS malfunctioned because of the fall.”

“I’m still trying to figure out why she fainted. Do you think she’s pregnant?”

“We should know that in a matter of minutes. We sent blood to the lab. Frankly, I hope she is, because otherwise we need to diagnose what else might have caused her symptoms.”

“But wouldn’t pregnancy be bad while she’s trying to recover?”

“It would certainly add an element of risk for her and for a baby. But comatose women have delivered healthy babies before.”

Boone stood. The relief that Haeley was still alive was one thing, but the prospect that she might be pregnant was almost too much. “So what exactly happened to her brain when she hit the ground? What does blunt force trauma mean?”

“The brain is fragile, not intended to absorb a lot of force. That’s why it’s protected by six layers of tissue, including bone. With nothing apparently blocking her fall, Haeley’s impact with the concrete effectively penetrated all those layers. I hate to use this medical term, but the neurosurgeon called it a ‘pre-death event.’ Ironically, the best thing that happened, all things considered, is that the shattering of the skull allowed the injured brain to swell without pushing down on the stem, where the RAS is headquartered. Had this occurred without anywhere for all the blood and fluid to go, we would have had to reduce the pressure by drilling a hole. Otherwise the swelling could push down on the stem enough to result in permanent shutting down of the RAS.”

“The on-off switch. So, death.”

“Correct.”

“Never thought I’d be thankful for a cracked skull.”

Sarangan nodded. “A minor blow to the head can knock someone out, but in most cases the brain is able to turn itself back on. In this case, the impact rendered Haeley unable to respond. Fortunately we don’t have to worry about edema because of the damage to the posterior skull.”

“English?”

“Edema is the swelling, and because the back of her head is open for now, the additional fluid has somewhere to escape rather than compressing the brain against the skull. Of course, she lost a lot of blood, and we had to replenish that.”

Boone nodded. “So, how long till you can get her out of her coma?”

“Oh, we must not do that yet. In fact, the specialist gave her meds that will keep her in an induced coma that will allow us to treat every affected area. If she were to regain consciousness now, there’s no telling what damage the body might do in an attempt to heal itself.”

“We don’t want the body to heal itself?”

“Not yet. Sometimes the body will perform a sort of triage and shut off blood to damaged areas. We don’t want that. There will be swelling, and the more swelling, the deeper the coma, but because the injury has helped us with the extra fluid, she’s stable. And the best part about moving her from a trauma-induced coma to a medically induced one is that it is reversible when Sam decides it’s time.”

“So you didn’t repair the fracture? It felt pretty bad.”

“The skull will be reconstructed eventually, but for now it’s left more elastic for our purposes. She won’t be able to rest on the back of her head, and she won’t look her best for a while, but for now, she’s right where we want her to be.”

“I can’t ask for more than that.”

“And we have no idea how far back she can come functionally.”

“If at all?”

“Oh, I think she’ll return to the person you knew, but it could be a long, slow process, and she may never be 100 percent. On the other hand, some patients completely recover. But I am making no promises.”

Florence quickly scrolled through her phone messages and found only the one from Margaret about her keeping Max a few more days. She wanted to call Margaret back and let her know she was more than happy to keep Max and also to find out what had happened to Haeley. But she had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to know where Alfonso had taken Max, and she wanted to know right now.

“Willie, you put on some sort of recordin’ for when you have to be away from the desk, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am, but management doesn’t like me to use it much, and neither do I.”

“Well, it’s time to turn it on. I got a job for ya and no time to argue about it.”

“But, Miz—”

“Willie, you know me! Now set it up and do what I tell ya. I wouldn’t ask lightly, and you said you’d do anything for me. This is an emergency.”

He fiddled with the buttons on the phone at the desk while Florence worked herself out of the easy chair.

“You ought not to be standin’, ma’am,” Willie said.

“Jes’ come with me. We gon’ find my Max.”

As Willie helped her outside, Florence felt much better. She didn’t know if it was the water and the rest and the evidence that she had indeed taken her meds that morning, or whether it was because her need to lay eyes on that boy made her forget her ailments. She got herself shuffling down the sidewalk to where Willie had to hustle to keep up.

And there was Scooter again. “You got a couple for me like you said?”

“I got ten for you by tomorrow if you help us.”

“Ten? I’ll help you knock over a bank for that!”

“I’m looking for Max, little white boy, blond hair. White tennies, blue shorts, red shirt. He’s with a Army Ranger in a camouflage outfit. Drives a big old dark-blue Buick with South Carolina tags on it. You go that way; Willie and me’ll go this way. You find ’em, Scooter, and we’re talkin’ twenty.”

“Twenty! I’m on it!”

“What you’re telling me,” Boone said, “is that when I do get to see her, she won’t even know I’m there.”

“Not likely for at least a week,” Dr. Sarangan said. “That’s not to say there isn’t value in touching her, talking to her, sitting with her. It certainly can’t hurt. There’s a lot we don’t know about the comatose patient. When she’s out of the recovery room, she’ll be in neuro-ICU. I’ll let you know as soon as she’s settled in.”

The Mount Sinai PA system came alive, and Dr. Sarangan was summoned to the lab. “That’s going to be the pregnancy-test results,” he said, rising.

“Any reason I can’t come with you?” Boone said. “I’m going to be jumping out of my skin in here.”