Yes, she couldn’t have asked for more. Would that she could always leave the tissue transplants and the tumors to others. She thrived on crisis. She needed it. She’d go home in a little while only because it was healthy to do so, healthy to rest her eyes and her feet and her brain, of course, and to be someplace besides here for the weekend; to be on the Sweet Christine, at sea.
For now, rest in this great ship called the hospital, for that is exactly what it felt like-a submarine, traveling without sound through time. The lights never went out. The temperature never varied. The engines never shut down. And we, the crew, are bonded together, in spite of anger, or resentment, or competition. We are bonded and there is a form of love whether we acknowledge it or not.
“You’re looking for a miracle!” the supervisor in Emergency had said to her at six this evening, contemptuously, glaze-eyed with exhaustion. “Wheel this woman over against the wall, and save your juices for somebody you can do something for!”
“I want nothing but miracles,” Rowan had answered. “We’re going to get the glass and dirt out of her brain, and then we’ll take it from there.”
No way to tell him that when she had placed her hands on the woman’s shoulders, she had “listened” with her diagnostic sense to a thousand little signals; and they had told her, infallibly, that the woman could live. She knew what she’d see when the bone fragments had been carefully lifted out of the fracture and frozen for later replacement, when the torn dura mater had been further slit and the bruised tissue beneath it magnified by the powerful surgical scope. Plenty of living brain, unharmed, functioning, once she’d sucked the blood away from it, and cauterized the tiny ruptured vessels so that the bleeding would stop.
It was the same infallible sense she’d had that day out on the ocean when she’d hoisted the drowned man, Michael Curry, onto the deck with the winch, and touched his cold gray flesh. Yes, there is life in there. Bring him back.
The drowned man. Michael Curry. That was it, of course, that was what she had made a note to remember. Call Curry’s doctor, Curry’s doctor had left a message for her both at the hospital and on her machine at home.
It had been over three months since that bitter cold evening in May, with the fog blanketing the distant city so that not a single light was visible, and the drowned man on the deck of the Sweet Christine had looked as dead as any corpse she’d ever seen.
She stubbed out the cigarette. “Good night, Doctors,” she said rising. “Monday, eight o’clock,” she said to the interns. “No, don’t stand up.”
Dr. Larkin caught her sleeve between two fingers. When she tried to pull loose, he held tight.
“Don’t take that boat out alone, Rowan.”
“Come on, Chief.” She tried to free herself. Didn’t work. “I’ve been taking that boat out alone since I was sixteen.”
“Bad news, Rowan, bad news,” he said. “Suppose you hit your head out there, fall overboard.”
She gave a soft polite laugh, though she was in fact irritated by this talk, and then she was out the door, heading past the elevators-too slow-and towards the concrete stairs.
Maybe she should take one last look at the three patients in Intensive Care before she made her exit; and suddenly the thought of leaving at all oppressed her. The thought of not coming back until Monday was even worse.
Shoving her hands in her pockets, she hurried up the two flights of stairs to the fourth floor.
The gleaming upper corridors were so quiet, so removed from the mayhem inevitably going on in Emergency. A lone woman slept on the couch in the darkly carpeted waiting room. The old nurse at the ward station only waved as Rowan passed by. There had been times in her harried intern days when, on call, she had strolled these corridors in the middle of the night rather than try to sleep. Back and forth she’d walked, covering the length of one floor after another, in the belly of the giant submarine, lulled by the faint whisper of countless machines.
Too bad the chief knew about the Sweet Christine, she thought now, too bad that desperate and frightened, she’d brought him home with her the afternoon of her adoptive mother’s funeral, and taken him out to sit on the deck, drinking wine beneath a blue Tiburon sky. Too bad that in those hollow and metallic moments, she had confessed to Lark that she didn’t want to be in the house anymore, that she lived on the boat, and sometimes lived for it, taking it out alone after every shift, no matter how long she’d been on, no matter how tired she was.
Telling people-did it ever make things better? Lark had piled cliché upon cliché as he tried to comfort her. And from then on everybody at the hospital knew about the Sweet Christine. And she wasn’t just Rowan the silent one, but Rowan the adopted one, the one whose family had died out in less than half a year, who went to sea in the big boat all alone. She had also become Rowan who would not accept Lark’s invitations to dinner, when any other single female doctor on the staff might have done so in an instant.
If only they knew the rest of it, she thought, how very mysterious she really was, even unto herself. And what would they have said about the men she liked, the stalwart officers of the law, and the heroes of the fire brigade hook and ladder trucks whom she hunted in noisy wholesome neighborhood bars, picking her partners as much for their roughened hands and their roughened voices as for their heavy chests and powerful arms. Yes, what about that, what about all those couplings in the lower cabin of the Sweet Christine with the police-issue.38 revolver in its black leather holster slung over the hook on the wall.
And the conversations after-no, call them monologues-in which these men with the desperate need so similar to that of the neurosurgeon’s relived their moments of danger and achievement, of moxie and dexterity. Scent of courage on their pressed uniform shirts. Sing a song of life and death.
Why that kind of man? Graham had once demanded. “You look for them to be dumb, uneducated, thick-necked? What if one of them puts his meaty fist into your face?”
“But that’s just it,” she’d said coldly, not even bothering to look at him. “They don’t do that. They save lives, and that’s why I like them. I like heroes.”
“That sounds like a fool of a fourteen-year-old girl talking,” Graham had replied acidly.
“You’ve got it wrong,” Rowan had answered. “When I was fourteen I thought lawyers like you were the heroes.”
Bitter flash of his eyes as he’d turned away from her. Bitter flash of Graham now, over a year after Graham’s death. Taste of Graham, smell of Graham, Graham in her bed finally, because Graham would have left before Ellie’s death if she hadn’t done it.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t always wanted it,” he’d said to her in the deep feather mattress in the bunk of the Sweet Christine. “Damn your fire fighters; damn your cops.”
Stop arguing with him. Stop thinking about him. Ellie never knew you went to bed with him, or why you thought you had to. So much that Ellie never knew. And you are not in Ellie’s house. You’re not even on the boat Graham gave you. You’re still safe here in the antiseptic quiet of your world, and Graham is dead and buried in the little graveyard in northern California. And never mind how he died, because nobody knows the story on that, either. Don’t let him be there in spirit, as they say, when you put the key into the ignition of his car, which you ought to have sold long ago, or when you walk into the damp chilly rooms of his house.
Yet she still talked to him, still carried on the endless case for the defense. His death had prevented forever any real resolution. And so a ghost of him had been created by her hatred and her rage. It was fading, yet it still stalked her, even here in the safe hallways of her own domain.