Читать книгу The Doctor Delivers - Janice Macdonald - Страница 9

“JOSH GILLESPIE, right.” Catherine cradled the receiver between her ear and shoulder and consulted the scrawled jottings on her notepad. “Eight years old,” she said, reading from a sheet of yellow paper. “Life-Flighted here about seven this morning. Hit by a car as he was crossing the road. We need a condition report for the media.” She hesitated a moment. “A couple of reporters want to speak to the parents.”

“Josh is in surgery.” The voice of the nurse in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit was abrupt. “He’s—” She stopped, a hint of suspicion evident now. “Who did you say you were?”

“Catherine Prentice. Public Relations.”

“I don’t know your name.”

Catherine drew a square around the boy’s name. If she’d sounded more confident, would the nurse have questioned her? She pushed the thought away. Her head ached, her stomach felt as if she’d swallowed a lump of lead. And the Professional Match producer had called again. Now she’d have to go plead with Martin Connaughton to see if she could get him to change his mind. Which might have been easier if she hadn’t called him Scrooge. All of this when what she really wanted to do was go and pick up her kids, start a new life somewhere where Gary and Nadia would never find them.

“I’ve just started working here,” she told the nurse. “You can call me back to verify if you want.”

“I’ll take your word,” the nurse said. “He’s critical. On life support. The mother’s here, but—” she lowered her voice “—she’s pretty hysterical. Try back in an hour or so.”

After she’d hung up the phone, Catherine stared at the small framed picture of Peter and Julie on her desk, wondered how she’d cope if anything happened to either of them. A sudden superstitious dread washed over her as though she’d tempted fate by even contemplating the possibility. She touched the picture: first Peter’s face, then Julie’s.

Like a tornado, the divorce had hurled her around, ripped away the sheltering protection of domesticity, battered her confidence and self-esteem. In the aftermath, she’d looked at the transformed landscape and recognized nothing at all that was familiar. Even now, she couldn’t get rid of this image of herself, standing Dorothy-like on a Kansas plain, her two children sheltering under her skirts. Winds whipped around her and, off in the distance, was another tornado just waiting to strike.

She shook her head to dislodge the image and dialed the NICU. Connaughton was off-site, the clerk told her, so she left a message for him then called Professional Match to say she was still working on getting someone. After she hung up, she tried to focus on another project, but her thoughts kept drifting to Gary’s demand for custody.

What she didn’t know was just how far he would go. He had a habit of threatening her just to keep her a little concerned and insecure. Like the time when Julie was two months old and he’d gone on a white-water rafting trip with a couple of his buddies. He’d complained that he was unhappy and stifled, that she’d let herself get fat, that she cared more about the children than him. Without the trip to restore his spirits, he would walk out of the marriage, he’d said. The third time he used the same threat, she’d called his bluff, forcing him to find new material.

Office noises drifted around her. The low hum of conversation in the next room, the whoosh of a file drawer sliding shut, a burst of laughter from the reception desk. In the coffee area, a microwave oven pinged its readiness and, seconds later, the whiff of hot popcorn filled the air. In her first week at Western, she had decorated her office with pictures of the children, a couple of trailing green plants, a small amber lamp and a glass bowl which she kept constantly replenished with jelly beans. It was her thing, creating nests.

She stared at the computer screen, tried to think of a snappy lead for the release she was working on, but nothing came to mind. Somehow it was difficult to concentrate on promoting a bunch of wealthy, golf-playing doctors when she was worried about losing her kids. A movement in the doorway made her look up and she saw Derek, cellular phone in one hand, a bran muffin in the other.

“Forget about Connaughton,” he said around a mouthful of muffin. “The producer called me just now, they’ve found someone else.”

“Derek, I’m sorry, he just refused—”

“What about the kiddie on the trike?”

“Bike.” Catherine corrected. “He’s in surgery.”

“There’s a TV crew camped outside the E.R.,” he said. “See if you can get mommy to talk.”

“I already tried,” Catherine said. “The nurse said to call back later.”

“The nurse isn’t on deadline.” He finished the muffin, crumpled the paper wrapping into a ball and aimed it at her trash bin. It missed. “Reporters are. That’s why you’re here. Never mind, I’ll take care of it.” As he walked away, his cell phone rang and he grabbed a pen and yellow pad from her desk and started scribbling notes. Moments later, he clicked the phone shut and looked across the desk at her, an expression on his face she couldn’t quite discern.

“Big media event. One of our docs delivered triplets on the Long Beach Freeway this afternoon. He stayed until the air ambulance arrived then took off like a bat out of hell. Said he was in a big hurry.” He glanced at his notes. “Babies and mommy are on their way here. Security says the press are already swarming all over the lobby. I’m going to get them corralled in one of the conference rooms. Once the kids are stabilized, we’ll arrange for some pool footage.”

Catherine followed him out of the office, eager for an opportunity to redeem herself. “Do you want me to put some background stuff together?”

“Later. Right now, everyone wants to talk to this guy. What I need you to do is find him and get him down to the conference room, pronto.”

“Sure,” Catherine agreed. “What’s his name?”

“Martin Connaughton,” Derek said. “And don’t drop the ball this time.”

SHE GAVE HERSELF a pep talk as she made her way up to the NICU. You can do this. You will overcome Connaughton’s resistance. You will prove Gary wrong about Nadia being the only reason you got this job. And tonight, to celebrate, you will take the kids out for pepperoni pizza without thinking about the calories. Then after they’re in bed, you will have a bubble bath and, maybe, a glass of wine, because you will have deserved it. Go do it, girl.

Outside the unit, a dark-haired reporter with glossy red lips and a tightly fitting suit in matching crimson, flashed Catherine a smile that appeared and disappeared as precisely as if a button had been pressed.

“Selena Bliss,” she said. “I’m looking for Dr. Martin Connaughton.”

“Connotun.” Catherine smiled as she corrected the reporter’s pronunciation. “I’m looking for him, too.” Not sure how Selena and her cameraman had managed to escape both security and Derek’s corral, she figured that if you looked like Selena Bliss, a lot of things might be possible. “You need to be in the conference room,” she said. “In a few minutes we’ll be giving a briefing.”

“I’d rather wait here for Dr. Connaughton,” Selena said.

“I’ll bring him down to the conference room.” She maintained her smile. “That’s where he’ll be doing the interviews.”

The reporter glanced at the cameraman standing nearby, then looked at Catherine. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.” The smile began to feel forced. “Ready?”

“Maybe you’re not aware of it, but that’s not the way I work.” Selena Bliss smiled again. “Derek Petrelli said I could have an exclusive with Dr. Connaughton.”

“Derek never mentioned an exclusive to me,” Catherine said. “But I’d be glad to check it out with him. If that’s the case, we can set something up. For now though, if you’ll go down to the conference room—”

“I’m not hanging around a conference room waiting,” Selena said. “I’ll wait here.”

Struggling for a way out of the impasse, Catherine heard a voice behind her and turned to see Nate Grossman, chief of pediatric neurosurgery. Ignoring Catherine, he stuck out his hand to the reporter, his face a beam of delight.

“Selena Bliss! Do I have a story for you! Have you heard about the new surgical technique that we’ve perfected here at Western to—”

“Actually, I’m here to interview Dr. Connaughton,” Selena said.

“Connaughton?” Grossman’s face darkened. “Why would you want to talk to him?”

“He’s quite the hero of the hour.” Selena summarized the freeway rescue. “So we want to talk to him about what he did. How he felt at the time. How the babies are doing, that sort of thing.” She smiled. “It’s a really nice heart-warming story.”

“Tell you what,” Grossman said. “How about I take you into the unit and let you get some shots of the babies? Meanwhile, I’ll fill you in on the new procedure. It was written up in the New England Journal—”

“Excuse me, Dr. Grossman.” Catherine felt the situation slipping out of her control. “We wanted to avoid having camera crews in the unit, so we’ve arranged for pool footage of the babies.”

“Oh, Selena doesn’t want pool footage.” Grossman winked at the reporter as if to say he knew her lingo. “Come with me, I’ll have someone get you a gown.” He looked at Catherine. “If anyone complains, tell them to talk to me.”

Selena gave her a triumphant little smile and followed Grossman into the unit. May you go on the air with lipstick on your teeth, Catherine thought as she tied on a protective cotton gown and made her way down to the end of the unit where Grossman was holding forth for the benefit of the camera.

“The tall one is Connaughton.” He pointed to a figure in scrubs whose hair and lower face were covered by a surgical cap and mask. “Right now he’s putting in a breathing tube. He’s already wired up the other two.”

“Everyone seems kind of tense.” Selena looked at him. “Is the procedure complicated?”

“No, but it’s kind of tricky—like threading a needle, but a lot more exacting. The baby can’t breathe while it’s being done and the heart slows down.” He chuckled. “There’s always the risk you’ll get ’em properly tubed, but dead.”

Posturing idiot. Angry, Catherine saw Selena’s eyes widen, saw her scribble something else in her notebook. “Of course, that sort of thing doesn’t happen here at Western,” she added quickly.

“Of course it doesn’t,” Grossman agreed. “That was just a little joke. In our intensive care unit—” he tapped the reporter’s notebook “—we care intensively. You can quote me on that.”

God, this guy was truly insufferable. Catherine saw Connaughton look up and stare at the camera, then turn his attention back to the baby.

“Heart rate dropping,” a voice said from the cluster around the bassinet. “Heart rate sixty—fifty.”

The cameraman began filming.

“Heart rate forty.” The voice was urgent. “Come out now.”

Catherine saw a hand whisk something from the baby’s face. Someone else started pumping a black rubber bag. Moments later people began moving away from the bassinet. Connaughton said something to a nurse, then pulled his mask around his neck and walked over to where she stood with Selena Bliss and Grossman.

The cameraman followed with his lens.

“Dr. Connaughton.” As she moved toward him, Catherine felt the blood rush to her face. “Catherine Prentice. I met you this morning. I, uh…is the baby okay?”

“Turn that damn thing off.” He gestured at the camera. As he wiped his forehead with his mask, he looked from the reporter to Catherine. “The baby’s fine.” His face darkened. “What the hell is going on here?”

“You’ve created quite a stir.” She smiled at him. “There’s a whole conference room full of reporters downstairs all waiting to talk to you. Including—” she nodded toward Selena still standing with her microphone outstretched “—this reporter here—”

“Perfect opportunity for a nice little plug for Western,” Grossman said. “I’ve been telling Selena about some of the work we’re doing.” He winked at her. “Including, of course, some of our state-of-the-art neurosurgery—”

“Excuse me, Dr. Grossman.” Catherine looked from the surgeon to Connaughton and saw the strain of the past few hours evident in his eyes. Empathy vied with demands of the job. She motioned Selena Bliss and her crew to stay put and drew him aside. “Are you okay?”

“Okay?” With a glance at the reporter and cameraman clustered out of earshot on the other side of the unit, he stared at her as though he’d forgotten why she was there. “Sorry?”

“You look kind of…” Self-conscious, she decided to take a different approach. “How are the babies?” It wasn’t an idle question, she really wanted to know, but nerves made her plow on. “And the mother? I hear she’s up on postpartum. God, what an ordeal. Lucky for her you were there.” His eyes, a dark blue, were fixed on her, but she sensed his mind was elsewhere. Across the room, Selena Bliss pointedly glanced at her watch. “Look, I’m sure talking to the press is the last thing you want to do, but—”

“The press?”

“Every reporter in town wants to talk to you.”

“Tell them I have nothing to say.”

She smiled, although something told her he wasn’t joking. “Dr. Connaughton, I realize that you probably thought the request this morning was, uh—”

“Frivolous?” The faintest flicker of a smile crossed his face. “Well, I suppose you’d expect Scrooge to think that way, wouldn’t you?”

“Ah.” She tried to smile. “About that. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it.”

“It’s hardly the most damning thing I’ve ever been called.” He pulled off his surgical cap, ran his hands through unruly reddish-brown hair. “Look, I can’t discuss this now.” He started off down the corridor at a fast clip. “I missed an important meeting.”

“Okay then.” She ran along beside him. “When would be more convenient?”

“Never.” He reached the door to the emergency stairwell, pulled it open and started up the stairs. “Nothing’s changed. I don’t talk to the press.”

“Look, Dr. Connaughton…” She tried another tack. “What you did this afternoon, delivering those babies, was a wonderful, humanitarian gesture. People are really interested in that sort of thing. And with the babies here at Western, it’s really great public relations.”

“That’s what you said about Professional Match.”

“Right.” She thought quickly. “I know I did, but that was kind of fun PR. This is different. It’s terrific exposure for Western’s NICU. We could spend millions and not get better advertising.”

“I’m sorry.” He took the stairs, two at a time, glanced back at Catherine who trailed a step or two behind. “I don’t want to do it. Humanitarian gesture or not, had I known that helping would create all this attention, I’d probably have stayed in my car.”

“Just a minute, Dr. Connaughton.” She reached him on the top landing. “People want to know how the babies are doing. Can’t we at least do a brief condition update?”

“Two of them should be fine. I’m very concerned about the smallest one.” He pulled open the stairwell door and headed for administration. “If you want to relay that on my behalf, feel free to do so.” With that, he disappeared through the polished wooden doors into Paul Van Dolan’s office suite.

“HOW THE BLOODY HELL can he be tied up?” Martin looked from the chief financial officer’s secretary to the clock on her desk and tried to banish the image of Catherine’s dismayed expression. Surely it was his right not to talk to the press? “It’s five past four,” he told the secretary. “My presentation was at three. It was supposed to last for two hours. If I’d been there, we’d be right in the middle of it at this moment—”

“But you weren’t there, were you, Dr. Connaughton?” The secretary bared her teeth in a tight smile. “So Mr. Van Dolan made another appointment. He’s a very—”

“Busy man. I know, you already told me.” Later, he would stop by Catherine’s office and apologize, he decided. Explain that he’d been under pressure. “When is he available?” he asked the secretary.

“He’s tied up with budget meetings for the next two weeks.”

“All I need is half an hour, forty-five minutes.”

“He’s tied up with budget meetings for the next two weeks.”

“Are you telling me that from the time he comes in to the time he goes home, he doesn’t have thirty minutes to spare?”

“Dr. Connaughton.” The secretary sighed. “Mr. Van Dolan is a very busy man.”

“Did you check his calendar?”

“It isn’t necessary, he’s tied up with budget meetings for the next two weeks.”

After he left the administrative suite, Martin used a phone in the hospital lobby to call Van Dolan’s secretary.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” he drawled. “I’m Randolph Manwell with the Mallinkamp Foundation. As you know, Western’s a top contender for the medical humanities grant—”

“Yes, Mr. Manwell—”

“Just flew in from Houston and ah know it’s kinda last minute an’ all, but ah sure would like to have a few minutes of Mr. Van Dolan’s time this afternoon.”

He heard a rustle of paper

“You’re in luck, Mr. Manwell,” the secretary said. “Mr. Van Dolan had a cancellation. If you could be here at, say, four-forty, he could talk to you for a few minutes.”

“Why, thank you, ma’am, ah sure am obliged to you.”

He hung up, called the NICU and asked for Tim Graham, another neonatologist.

“Is it all clear up there, Tim? No more bloody reporters?”

Graham laughed. “For now, but I’d take the back stairs if I were you. You’ve suddenly become a celebrity. Everybody’s talking about what you did.”

“Listen, Tim.” He hesitated. “If that woman from public relations, Catherine her name is—”

“Long braid? Stacked?”

“I, uh…right. Anyway, if she stops by, tell her…never mind. I’ll tell her myself.” On the way back to the unit, a woman called his name.

“Dr. Connaughton. Mrs. Edwards, Parking Enforcement. I understand you failed to affix a sticker to your car. All cars parked in the physicians’ lot must have a parking sticker affixed to the left side of the rear bumper. It’s hospital policy, Dr. Connaughton. After tomorrow, security is instructed to tow away cars without stickers.”

Martin gave her a blank look.

“Your parking sticker, Dr. Connaughton. Where is it?”

“I think I’ve lost it.” Aware of the double meaning, he couldn’t suppress a grin. With a what-the-hell abandon, he added, “The dog ate it.”

“Dr. Connaughton, you might find this amusing—” the woman’s tone made it clear she didn’t “—but we have these rules for a reason. It makes it very difficult when people don’t take them seriously.”

“I’ll go and have a look for the sticker.” Martin wanted only to terminate the exchange. “If I can’t find it, I’ll come and get another one. Don’t tow my car though, okay?”

Her pert little smile suggested the triumph that comes with having the last word. “As long as it has a sticker, Dr. Connaughton.” She started to walk away, then called his name. “You know, I just thought of something.” Her eyes narrowed. “Weren’t you the doctor who delivered those babies on the freeway today?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Different doctor.”

“I’M WONDERING if you were aggressive enough with Connaughton.” Derek gave Catherine an appraising look. “You’ve got to be tough with these doctors. Insistent. They’ll sniff out any weakness, just like a dog, and then they’ll walk all over you.”

“He didn’t walk all over me.” Catherine pictured Connaughton’s eyes as he’d refused her entreaties—eyes exactly the color of the cobalt blue in Julie’s box of Crayola—and wondered whether he had, but then dismissed the thought as nonproductive. “Short of bodily dragging him down there, I don’t know what else I could have done. He just plain doesn’t want to talk to reporters.”

After he’d eluded her for the second time, she’d achieved a temporary save by having one of the other neonatologists deliver a medical update. That, and an interview with the triplets’ parents, had mollified Selena Bliss and the rest of the press corps. Derek, to her relief, also seemed satisfied—at least he’d dropped no more hints that her job was in peril. The problem was that everyone still wanted to talk to Connaughton about his role in the rescue.

“So.” Derek slumped down in the chair in front of her desk. “What we need to do now is rethink our strategy. Regardless of what he says, Connaughton wants to be on TV. They all do. It’s an ego thing. Sooner or later they all succumb.”

“I honestly don’t think he will,” Catherine said. “He made it pretty clear what he thinks of talking to the press.”

Derek shook his head. “He’s no exception. Trust me. You just didn’t go about it in the right way. Here’s what I want you to do. Call a news conference for tomorrow morning around ten. Alert everyone that Connaughton will be there ready to spill his heart out about his heroic deeds.”

Catherine frowned. “I don’t understand. He’s already said—”

Derek held his hand up. “But you didn’t offer him an incentive, did you?”

“An incentive?”

“Of course. Something he wants very badly and for which he’ll willingly pay the price.”

“Talk to the press, you mean?”

“Exactly.” Derek beamed. “Your learning curve is impressive.”

“But, Derek…” She watched him amble out of the office. By the end of the day, especially when she was tired, Derek’s theatricality got on her nerves. “Come back here. How am I supposed to know what he wants?”

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Well, that’s what you have to find out, isn’t it?” A few minutes later, he stuck his head around her office door. “By the way, the holiday party at the Harbor House tonight? Are you going?”

“Oh Jeez.” She ran her hand across her face, thought of the pepperoni pizza and the bubble bath. The two hours of quality time she’d actually penciled in on her calendar. “I wasn’t really planning to be there. I thought you were going.”

“I am, but, politically, it would be a good idea for you to attend as well. Jordan takes it rather personally when he holds these bashes and people don’t show up.” He dug into the glass jar of jelly beans she kept on her desk, popped a handful into his mouth. “Anyhoo, I’m splitting. See you later.”

Catherine looked at her watch—five-fifteen. On days that Gary didn’t collect the children from school, her mother picked them up and baby-sat until she got home, usually around six. Twice in the past week though, Derek had wanted her to attend evening meetings and she’d had to call and extend the baby-sitting hours, which inevitably prompted her mother to suggest that what she really needed to do was look for a husband so she could stay home full-time and be a proper mother.

With the tips of her fingers, Catherine massaged her forehead, tried to clear her brain enough to figure out what might get Connaughton to cooperate. And, while she worked that out, how to give her kids enough quality time that she could honestly believe they were better off with her than Gary. A moment later, as she picked up the phone to call, she noticed the pink message slip, half hidden under a stack of papers. Written in her secretary’s neat round handwriting, the note said:

(1) Your ex called to remind you he needs a decision pronto. He said you’d know what he meant. (2) Your daughter wants to remind you that you’re supposed to go shopping for her ballet-recital dress tonight. DON’T BE LATE!!!

IN THE CORRIDOR outside the NICU, Martin pushed some coins into the vending machine. Two Snickers bars, a package of cheese and crackers and an orange. Lunch and dinner. The day before, one of the dietitians had caught him having a similar meal and hinted that a more balanced diet might improve his disposition.

Doubtful. Although he’d made it in to see Van Dolan, he could have saved himself the trouble. Essentially, he’d been told the chances of WISH funding were slim to nonexistent, which pretty much resolved the Ethiopia question. Tomorrow he would tell the group to count him in. Why stick around?

He watched a young couple walk hand in hand past the nursery windows, the girl in a cotton hospital gown stretched tight over her extended belly. As though it were yesterday, he saw his wife’s heavy, late-pregnancy walk, the baggy blue cardigan of his that she’d worn because he’d still been in medical school and they couldn’t scrape up the cash for maternity clothes, the way she’d smiled when…a thought flashed into his consciousness.

Catherine Prentice reminded him of Sharon.