Читать книгу In Hot Water - Mary Baxter Lynn - Страница 7

Two years later

The disinfectant smell of the O.R. seemed more tainted than usual with the metallic odor of blood. Added to the normal tension surrounding a difficult surgical procedure was an almost tangible panic among the assistants to Seymour Ramsey, the tall, silver-haired doctor who alone appeared unaware of the frantic beeping of various monitoring devices. The only visible sign that he might be concerned was the profuse amount of perspiration that saturated his surgical cap and face.

“Doctor, are you all right?” A nurse’s voice broke the tense silence.

Seymour swore under his breath and turned a glassy-eyed look at her. “Yes, dammit. And don’t ask me that again.”

The nurse muttered, “Yes, sir.” But the rigid set of her jaw and the sudden flush in her cheeks revealed her desire to say much more, especially when she stole a glance at the other members of the surgical team.

No one responded to her silent plea. They all continued with their assigned jobs.

A few minutes passed before the anesthesiologist announced, “His blood pressure is dropping, Doctor. He can’t afford to lose much more blood.”

The assisting surgeon glared at Seymour, “What the hell—”

“Just shut up, Chastain.” Seymour’s tone was as harsh as his words. “I know what the fuck I’m doing.”

Silence once again reigned over the room as the nurse mopped Seymour’s wet brow. She jumped slightly when he growled, “I just need one more minute.”

“Better make it a fast minute,” the anesthesiologist countered as he watched the rapidly falling blood pressure of the man on the table. “I’m doing all I can here,” he added with a horrified look on his face.

Moments later, Seymour stepped back and jerked off his mask. “There. It’s done.” He cast a glance toward his fellow surgeon. “Sew him up.”

Seymour stalked out of the O.R. into the doctor’s lounge where he immediately leaned over the sink, turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face. He sensed rather than heard someone approach from behind him. He looked up and saw Chastain’s face in the mirror. Seymour whipped around, slinging droplets of water on the other doctor. “What do you think you’re doing? You’re supposed to be closing my patient.”

“He’s in no hurry, Seymour.” Chastain’s tone matched the cold fury in the older surgeon’s eyes. “He died right after you walked out of the room. He lost too much blood.”

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Seymour pounded his fist on the edge of the sink.

“The family’s in the waiting room,” Chastain said in an accusatory tone. “You’d best go talk to them. They’ve already waited a long time.”

Minutes later, Seymour shuffled toward the waiting area where the three members of the Dodson family sat, their hearts registering in their eyes.

“Doctor Ramsey?” Michael Dodson rose, fear in his voice. “How’s Dad? Is he—”

Seymour forced himself to face the younger man. “There’s no easy way to say this, son. Your father didn’t make it. I’m sorry—”

“But what happened?” Michael asked in a screeching voice as his mother and sister broke into hysterical sobs and moans. Michael advanced until he was within touching distance of Seymour, his stance threatening. “You said he’d be all right.”

Seymour stepped back, then began trying to explain, but words failed him. He mumbled something about blood pressure.

“Sir,” Michael interrupted, “you’re not making any sense at all. In fact, you’re slurring your words. What’s wrong with you? You’re acting crazy.” he said incredulously. “Don’t tell me you operated on my father in this condition.”

Seymour rubbed his forehead. “I did no such—”

The sentence was never completed. Seymour’s eyes rolled back in his head and he hit the floor.