A Week at the Lake (7 page)

The doctor nodded. “How long will it take them to get here? Or shall we set up a conference call?”

“The conversation can take place pretty much anytime,” Serena said.

“Oh, good.” Mackenzie felt her shoulders relax slightly. “They're in New York?”

“Yes, they are.” There was an odd note in Serena's voice as she added, “The papers are being faxed to Dr. Brennan's office right now.”

“Do you know the person whom Ms. Michaels named as health care POA?” the doctor asked.

“Pretty well.”

“Serena,” Mackenzie said. “Enough with the suspense. Just tell us what's happened and who Emma named.”

“Well, it appears that Emma had an appointment with her attorneys to go in and update things after our week at the lake. But as of this moment, it's still me and you. Me first and you as backup
.
” There was both fear and relief in her eyes. “It's going to be up to us to understand the options and make informed decisions.” She whipped out Georgia Goodbody's imaginary fan and tapped the doctor lightly on the shoulder. “And the sooner the better, Dr. B. We need to get Emma well as quickly as possible. We have plans for a trip to the lake.”

T
hey left Zoe in the cafeteria staring without interest at a hamburger, a huge mound of French fries, and a Coke and joined Dr. Brennan in a small conference room just off the ICU. Pictures of Emma's brain along with graphs and charts and printouts of what looked like every breath and beat of her heart since she'd arrived were spread out before them. Mackenzie hadn't slept the night before her flight out of nervousness; last night fear for Emma and the ridiculously uncomfortable waiting room chairs had left her wide eyed. The caffeine she'd been ingesting all day surged through her bloodstream and sped up her heart, but it didn't seem to have clarified her thoughts. Serena didn't look any more rested. Not an optimal state for absorbing life-and-death situations.

“Ms. Michaels came in with multiple contusions including a small one to the lung, a bruised heart, a large laceration on her left thigh, and a deep gash on the right side of her head.” He paused. “Initial scans show a two-millimeter shift from right to left and a Glasgow scale of eight. The bruising on the brain here”—he pointed to a section of what looked like a large gray cauliflower—“has caused swelling and increased intracranial pressure.”

Mackenzie couldn't catch her breath as she tried not to picture Emma's brain all bruised and swollen.

“Look, Doctor, I'm an actress,” Serena said. “Mackenzie is a fashion and costume designer. I've avoided maths and sciences as much as possible my entire life. You're going to
have to explain this stuff in terms we have a shot at understanding. You know, I'm thinking fourth- or fifth-grade-level science, tops.”

“This is not an elementary school kind of situation,” Dr. Brennan replied quietly.

“We know. But you're going to have to dummy this down to a level we can understand.”

Unable to speak, Mackenzie nodded her agreement. This was Emma's brain they were talking about. Emma's life.

“Okay,” the doctor said. “Traumatic brain injury causes the brain to swell—just like the swelling that happens when you injure a knee or an elbow. But the brain is trapped inside the skull and as swelling increases, it can raise the pressure inside the head. If it gets high enough it can cut off the blood flow to the brain. That results in brain death.”

They nodded carefully.

“Steps have already been taken to alleviate the pressure. Dr. Markham, her neurosurgeon, has inserted an external ventricular drain, or EVD, which is inserted through a hole in the skull.”

Bile rose in Mackenzie's throat at the thought of a drill piercing Emma's skull. She saw Serena swallow. A hand fluttered to her throat. Mackenzie prayed she wasn't going to make some sick joke about the use of power tools. Serena remained mercifully silent.

“What happens next?” Serena asked.

“For now our best course is to continue doing everything possible to reduce the swelling and to keep the brain as inactive as possible while we monitor everything carefully.”

“And what are her chances of a full recovery?” Serena asked the question Mackenzie was afraid to.

He studied their faces. “Every individual and every set of injuries responds in a different way. Many people with coma from head injuries do make a full recovery.”

They sat for a few long moments trying to absorb all that Dr. Brennan had said.

“Can she hear us?” Mackenzie finally managed to ask. “Even though she doesn't react, can she hear what's going on?”

“We don't know. There are reports of patients waking after coma and mentioning things that they heard or even saw, though often in some sort of skewed way or as part of what they experienced as a nightmare.”

He looked at them and added, “If you want my advice, I suggest you leave. Have a shower, some real food, and a better night's sleep than you can get in the family lounge.”

“We don't want to leave Em alone,” Mackenzie said. “I mean, what if something happens and we're not here?”

“We'll call you. Her vitals are good. She's relatively stable. And I promise you she's in good hands. If she worsens in any way, the nurse on duty knows to call you right after she beeps Dr. Markham and me.”

T
he car took them to the Carlyle, where they checked Emma and Zoe out of their suite, retrieved their luggage, then drove to Serena's brownstone in the Village where the driver, unlike that long-ago cabdriver who delivered Serena to her first New York apartment, carried their luggage to the appropriate bedrooms. Emma's suitcases were tucked into the back of Serena's walk-in closet so that Zoe wouldn't have to deal with or stare at them.

They were tired and raw, the worry about Emma written on all their faces. Serena was grateful when Mackenzie turned their attention and conversation to their surroundings.

“This place is gorgeous,” Mackenzie said when they reassembled in the kitchen, which dominated the great room and opened onto a walled garden. “It's light years from that walk-up over on Bleecker that you and Emma were living in when we
first met. And it's so much bigger than your last place.” Although they'd spoken on occasion, there had been no get-togethers once the lake house retreats had stopped. Serena had had no reason to visit Indiana, and if Mackenzie had been in New York she'd never said so.

“Thanks.” Serena had not grown up poor and Charleston was certainly no shirker in the historic home arena, but she could still hardly believe the 1901 West Village brownstone belonged to her. “It was only partially renovated when I bought it and there were times during construction that I wondered what the hell I'd been thinking. But I fell in love with the high ceilings and the windows and although I've murdered more plants than I've saved, I love the garden.”

“Is that rosewood?” Mackenzie eyed the floors appreciatively.

“Yes.”

“It's so spacious but manages to be cozy at the same time.”

“Thanks.” Her home was near the intersection of Bank and West Fourth streets, not far from the brownstone where
Sex and the City'
s Carrie Bradshaw had lived. Every time Serena walked in the front door, she was reminded of just how much Georgia Goodbody had given her. “Have a seat. Anybody want a cold drink?”

They dropped onto the nearby sectional while Serena took stock of the contents of her refrigerator, not that there was much to take stock of. She brought a tray with Diet Cokes and bottled waters and small bowls with nuts and pretzels. Zoe, who'd been extremely quiet on the ride from the hospital, yawned as she reached for a bottle of water and a handful of pretzels.

“The cupboard's pretty bare since we were headed out of town. I'm going to run out for a few things,” Serena said. “Any requests?”

Zoe was chewing with her eyes closed. Mackenzie slumped into the sofa. Serena was exhausted too, but oddly restless.
She couldn't stop thinking about Emma lying there so lifeless. What if she never woke up? She couldn't sit here any more than she could sit in the hospital.

“I'm going to shower and head out to run some errands. I think you guys should catch a nap. Why don't I pick up Thai food on my way back?”

They nodded sleepily then followed her upstairs.

Thirty minutes later Serena was cabbing to the studio where
As the World Churns
was recorded. She waved hello to Catherine Stengel at the reception desk, walked past the booth where a red light glowed to indicate recording was in progress, then slipped into the control room. Lauri Strauss, a twentysomething blonde whose character, Dahlia, was far younger and dewier than Georgia Goodbody, was recording with Wes Harrison, who played Georgia's current love interest both on-screen and off. They stood at side-by-side microphones, the monitor positioned where they could both see it. Serena's eyes lit on Wes, who had pursued her for months before she'd finally slept with him. His broad shoulders strained against the fabric of his shirt. His jeans hugged a great butt and an even more impressive pair of thighs. The craggy features and whiskey-colored eyes didn't hurt, either. Despite her exhaustion and worry, she felt a small tingle of sexual awareness as she remembered their lingering farewell just two nights ago.

This evaporated when Lauri looked up at Wes as if he were God's gift to the female universe. Her heart thumped uncomfortably in her chest when Wes stared back at her as if he agreed.

“Rolling playback.”

Lauri was so busy fluttering her eyelashes at Wes that she flubbed her next line. “Sorry,” she giggled.

“No problem,” Wes said as if her screwup was somehow endearing. Then he smiled at her in a way Serena had always thought he reserved for her. And possibly, on occasion, for his wife.

“Rolling.”

This time the two made it through the scene without further screwups. Serena's jaw clenched each time they smiled at or touched each other. Wes had acted so disappointed that she'd be gone a whole week. “Acted” was apparently the operative word.

She was preparing to slip out as quietly as she'd come in, when Ethan Miller entered the control room. He'd been only thirty-five eleven years ago when the series was green-lighted. Even now he could have passed for late thirties, an impression that was reinforced by his laid-back personality and clothing choices that rarely strayed from Levi's and T-shirts. His feet were typically laced into running shoes.

“Hi. I heard you were here.” He was of average height and build. Even his brown hair was of average length and color—as if unwilling to declare itself. He'd been a skit writer and cast member at Second City in Chicago before joining
SNL
's “not ready for prime time players.”
As the World Churns
had grown out of several characters he'd created on his comedic journey.

When his face was in repose, he looked like the boy next door. Or the nice-enough-looking guy you sat next to in math class through high school but whose name you'd forgotten as soon as you graduated. But his unremarkable features were made of rubber and could stretch into almost any expression or look—all of them funny.

“I'm sorry about your friend,” he said now.

“Thanks.” Serena watched out of one eye as Lauri cracked up at something Wes said. She tensed as he laid a hand on her upper arm.

“I saw the story on the news last night,” Ethan continued. “It looked like a pretty big pack of paparazzi out in front of Mount Sinai.”

“Yes. Way too big.” They'd had the car pick them up at the back of the hospital today and made Zoe duck down until they'd rounded the corner.

“How is she?”

“Not good. Her head was hit pretty hard. She's in intensive care.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Ethan's tone left no doubt that anything she asked for would be immediately taken care of. She'd learned the first year of the show not to sit at a table with him while sipping anything that might be spewed on others. But when he wasn't trying to make you laugh, he was unfailingly polite and sincere.

“No, but I really appreciate you asking.” She tried to maintain eye contact, but couldn't quite stop stealing peeks at the recording session.

“Well, if you need more than the week off just let me know,” Ethan said. “We can record remotely if that would help. And I can probably cut your lines together from earlier shows if necessary.”

“You're a good guy,” she said, accepting a hug, surprised at the warmth and strength in the sinewy arms and lean frame. “A real mensch.” She threw out one of her few Yiddish words.

“Well, that's high praise coming from a gorgeous shiksa like you,” he said in an exaggerated voice that could have belonged to Jackie Mason or any other borscht belt comedian. Still in character, he bussed her lustily on the cheek then slung an arm around her shoulders as he walked her to the control room door.

Oddly comforted, she took a last peek through the plate glass window and was rewarded with a punch-in-the-gut view of Wes Harrison standing way too close to the adoring Lauri Strauss.