I’d imagined the light. Or it had been a reflection off the high north-facing windows.
I went along to my office, slid the key into its dead-bolt lock. When I turned it, the bolt clicked into place. Now that was wrong; I’d locked it when I left the office. We all made a point to do so because we had so many sensitive files in cabinets and on our computers.
I turned the key again and shoved the door open. Stepped inside and reached for the light switch.
Motion in the darkness, more sensed than heard.
My fingertips touched the switch but before I could flip it, a dark figure appeared only a few feet away and then barreled into me, knocked me against the wall. My head bounced off the Sheet-rock hard enough to blur my vision. In the next second I reeled backward through the door, spun around, and was down on my knees on the hard iron catwalk. As I tried to scramble away, push up and regain my footing, one of my groping hands brushed over some other kind of metal-
Sudden flash, loud pop.
Rush of pain.
Oh my God, I’ve been shot-
Nothing.
THURSDAY, JULY 17
SHARON McCONE
A thin bright line. Widening. Slowly.
Beige light.
What…?
My eyes began to focus.
A ceiling. I’m on my back looking at an unfamiliar ceiling.
A tube was thrust into my mouth, and from somewhere nearby came a rhythmic breathing sound. In my peripheral vision were other tubes, snaking in many directions. Metal bars to either side, like a baby’s crib.
I couldn’t move my head either to the left or to the right.
Straight ahead, a curtain. Beige and green-a leafy pattern.
Rhythmic beeping sounds from behind me.
Hospital room. I’m in a hospital!
But where…? What…? How…?
The light dimmed, narrowed-
The light returned, softer now.
Rustling noises and then, in profile, a face.
Nurse? Must be. Blue scrubs and a gentle, placid expression. Asian, probably Filipina.
She moved away.
Come back! I need to ask you-
Everything dimmed again.
Dark now, but a shaft of light slanting across the ceiling. Must be coming from a doorway. Faint sounds of men and women talking. No, one man and two women. Who…?
Hospital staff. A friend had once told me hospitals were noisy at night; no cessation of activity then. Nurses gave medications, responded to emergency situations and the ring of patients’ call buttons.
Call button…
It would be within easy reach. All I had to do was feel around for it-
My right arm wouldn’t move.
My calves and feet hurt, an ache that went straight to the bones. I couldn’t move them either.
Paralyzed!
No, that can’t be.
Frantically I willed some part of me to move-a finger, a toe, anything.
Nothing.
Total immobility.
A scream rose in my throat. A scream without voice.
I couldn’t make a sound.
What’s happening to me?
Cold, foggy night along the Embarcadero… Derelict coming out of the mist… Deserted pier… My office… Shadowy figure slamming into me… Flash, pop, pain…
Oh, God!
Panic shot through me. The scream rose to a high, shrill pitch, but only in my mind.
“… Appears comatose. As you know, it took quite an effort to stabilize her.” A stranger’s voice, grave. “But her blood pressure is finally in hand, essentially normal, she’s taking nourishment through the feeding tube, and is able to breathe well on her own since we began taking her off the ventilator yesterday.”
“Do you have a definite diagnosis yet?”
Hy! But what-?
“Traumatic brain injury, of course, but beyond that we can’t yet say. The CT scan shows the bullet entered the occipital lobe of her brain, carrying along with it bone fragments. A clot formed from internal bleeding, creating pressure.”
“And the prognosis?” Hy’s voice was tightly controlled, but I knew he was quaking inside.
“Too early to tell. It’s-if you’ll excuse my wording-a mess in there, which is why we can’t attempt surgery. She appears comatose and completely paralyzed, but the scan we took yesterday shows she has good brain wave activity.”
“So she’ll come out of this?”
A pause. “I do think you may have to face some hard decisions about your wife’s quality of life.” Rustling of paper. “I see here that you have her advance directive giving you medical power of attorney. Have the two of you discussed her wishes?”
“Yes.” Curt. He wasn’t ready to go there yet.
I’d been listening to the conversation dispassionately, as if they were talking about somebody else. Now my defenses crumbled, and I gave in to panic. The silent scream rose again.
The doctor said, “Have you given any further thought to transferring her to the Brandt Neurological Institute?”
“I spoke with them this morning. They have a room available and will admit her as soon as you give the go-ahead.” Hy hesitated. “Isn’t this the equivalent of giving up on her?”
“Not at all.” The doctor’s voice was too upbeat. “It’s an excellent acute rehabilitation center. Dr. Ralph Saxnay, who will be her attending neurosurgeon, is one of the best. In addition, it’s very quiet and private. No one needs to know she’s there.” A pause. “You must realize we’ve had difficulty with the media here. Your wife has made quite a name for herself in this city.”
Hy didn’t respond to the doctor’s comment. “I’ll make the final arrangements with the institute.”
Final arragements. It sounds as if he’s planning my funeral.
The doctor said a few more things in low tones, and then I heard him leave the room. Hy was still there, standing back and to the right of me; I couldn’t see him.
I tried to say something, to move something again. Couldn’t do anything. Paralyzed.
But not in a coma as the doctor had said.
Hy doesn’t know. I can’t communicate with him, even though I can hear every word he says.
Hy sighed heavily and placed his hand on my forehead. “Oh, McCone, I don’t know if you even realize I’m here.” His voice was twisted with pain.
Look at me! Look into my eyes! You’ll see I’m with you.
“If you can hear me, remember that I love you. Hold to that thought, and we’ll get through this together. Just like we always have.”
I love you too, Ripinsky.
HY RIPINSKY
He stepped out into the parking lot of San Francisco General Hospital and turned up his collar against the fog. Walked toward where he’d left his silver-blue 1966 Mustang, fumbling in his pocket for the keys. When he got to the classic machine, he had to curb a violent desire to kick it. This was not the time to give way to impotent rage.
Not yet, anyway.
Inside the car, he took out his cell phone and called the Brandt Neurological Institute’s admitting office. He told the clerk he’d arranged for his wife’s transfer, then set up a meeting with Dr. Ralph Saxnay, the neurosurgeon, for eleven the next morning. After he ended the call, he just sat there, staring out at the gathering mist.
Nothing more to be done today. Shar would be in good hands tomorrow. Not that there was anything wrong with SF General’s trauma unit-they’d saved her life with all the odds against her-or ICU; they were both excellent, but they’d done all they could and weren’t set up to handle a patient with a long-term… condition.