Hooked Up: Book 3 (43 page)

“Mr. Chevalier, it just happened five minutes ago. She was fine, just fine and then—”

“What? What’s wrong? The babies?”

“No, your wife. I tried calling you but your cell was off. I’ve alerted the doctor—maybe Pearl had a sort of seizure. I called the doctor,” she repeated.

“Well done.” I rushed inside and Pearl was lying on the sofa, stretched out, her lids closed, her face alarmingly pale—compared to the healthy-looking tanned girl this very morning. My heart started hammering—fear and adrenaline spiked through my body into my fingertips, numbing me. “What the fuck is going on?”
My Pearl . . . my belle Pearl . . .

“She’s not responding but her heart’s beating,” Joy said, trembling. The cook was there with the children, and everyone stared at me, and then back to Pearl. I leaned down and felt Pearl’s pulse. It was normal. Well, ‘normal’ wasn’t the right word. Something was ominously wrong but I wasn’t a medic so I had no idea what.

“What happened?” I demanded. Madeleine began to cry at the sound of my shrill voice. Joy swept my baby up into her arms to placate her and said, “Pearl tripped and fell down, walking upstairs a few hours ago. Bumped the front of her head. Not long after you’d left. But she was fine. She even laughed about it afterwards. She didn’t even have a cut. Nothing. Then about half an hour ago she said she had a headache and went to lie on the couch. I went to make her a cup of tea, I heard a sort of groan, and when I came back she was out. At first I thought she was sleeping, but she wouldn’t wake up.”

“Did she hurt her stomach when she fell?”

“No, I don’t think so. She slipped and bashed her head but she didn’t think it was anything to worry about.”

I felt a shockwave of fury surge through my veins. Laura was fucking haunting us. First Elodie, miraculously being able to tie that sailor’s knot and kill a man, and now Pearl, falling on the fucking stairs, repeating history. I could hear Laura now, manically laughing, thinking the whole thing was hilarious as she pulled her marionette strings from her armchair in Hell.

I looked at Joy. I was stumped. Horrified.
This isn’t happening!
But not only was it happening, it had already fucking
happened.
“You called the doctor, you say?”

“She’s on her way. Luckily, the number was on the fridge.”

I smoothed my hand over Pearl’s brow and noticed the swell of a bruise and discoloration there. It looked as if she had a concussion. I lifted her body up a touch to see if she’d react; if her muscles would clench, but she was as limp as a rag doll. She didn’t stir.
Jesus, surely she couldn’t be in a coma . . . could she?
I got out my cell.

“Pearl doesn’t just need a doctor, she needs a fucking ambulance. No, she needs a helicopter.” I called 911.

The next fifteen minutes were a blur. The doctor arrived, and while we waited for the helicopter, she took Pearl’s blood pressure, pinched her nose, shone a light pen into her eyes and pricked her arm. No reaction from Pearl. The doctor confirmed the worst.

I heard Joy mumbling to herself, “Like that famous actress—what was her name? She tumbled while skiing on the beginner slopes—didn’t have a bruise on her—she sent the medics away, saying she was fine. She die—”

I cut her off, “Pearl. Will. Be. Okay,” I enunciated, glaring at her. “I can hear the helicopter now.”

The medics rushed inside and laid Pearl on a stretcher. While they worked they asked us what had happened and words, overlapping, came tumbling out of our mouths at once; all of us trying to accept that what was taking place before our eyes was real. That was the irony of it all; a silly fall had gotten her into this unimaginable state. They always say accidents happen close to home but this was absurd! I had never seen Pearl so immoveable. Her skin was now looking marbled—it was as if they were about to carry away a valuable Greek statue that needed to be restored.

I put my hand on the shoulder of one of the paramedics to catch his attention—he was so involved in his task; putting an oxygen mask on Pearl, and then hooking her up to a drip, that it was an effort for him to even speak to me, let alone explain. All I knew, by their manner, was that this was one hell of an emergency.

He said, “They’ll need to access your wife’s neurological status—her Glasgow Coma Scale, to predict her ultimate outcome.”

“What’s normal?” I demanded.

“The score ranges from three to fifteen. Fifteen is normal, three is . . . ” He didn’t even finish his sentence.

Score—what a shit choice of words; as if someone in a coma had won something.
“She’s in a full-blown coma then?” I asked, double-checking. “This isn’t just a temporary concussion?” I had been hoping that the doctor had somehow made the wrong diagnosis.

“Your wife has suffered head trauma and yes, she’s in a coma.”

“But it was just a silly fall!” I exclaimed, as if we could rewrite the past, as if my outburst could make a fucking difference.

“We’re used to dealing with dive accidents, even golfing accidents, here in the Bahamas, but this really
is
unusual.”

“Will the baby be okay?”

“I wouldn’t like to say; they’ll run tests.”

At least he was being honest, although it was the last thing I needed to hear. “How can she be in a fucking coma from a little fall?” I persisted.

The medic adjusted Pearl’s oxygen mask. “Often a person’s immediate injury is not what does the most damage. More often than not, there’s a secondary injury to the brain that can occur hours, even days, later. The patient, as in your wife’s case, is unaware—may not even feel pain. Internal bleeding. That’s why she suddenly had a headache.”

I looked at him blankly. Not because I couldn’t understand but because I felt as if I were floating through some surreal nightmare.

He took my vapid expression as miscomprehension and added, “The brain moves around in the skull, causing damage to nerve fibers and blood vessels. It causes the brain to swell which, in turn, blocks the flow of blood, causing tissue death.”

Death.
The word caused a rush of nausea to wash over me. “Not allowing oxygen to get to the brain?”

“Exactly, sir. That’s why your wife is in a coma—it’s the body’s natural defense mechanism.”

“So what now?”

“In all the cases I’ve seen like this, the patient needs intervention as soon as possible.”

“Intervention?” My accent sounded more French than usual. Normal—I was out of my mind with fear.

“I’m 99% sure your wife’s injuries are neurosurgical, but the neurologist will determine her prognosis and the best course to take. Our job is to stabilize her and keep her alive until we get to hospital; I can’t say what will happen next.”
Keep her alive?
The reality was sinking in fast. If it weren’t for them, she might be dead by now, all from a goddamn stupid fall.
Things like this do not happen!
Why pick on us for this freak-statistic-one-in-a-million kind of an accident?

Before I could say another word, they rushed Pearl out through the doors to the helicopter, which was waiting on the lawn for them like a giant wasp, chopping up the wind.

I ran after them.

I
HAD ENVISIONED Pearl in the hospital—giving birth—but not this. I had been by her bedside now for ten hours straight. She’d been in OR and had come out still alive, so I was hopeful. Joy and the twins were in a hotel nearby.

The neurosurgeon—apparently one of the most talented in Miami, and even in the whole country, had done his best. Now all we could do was wait. I observed Pearl’s face. She looked like a beautiful doll, although she had plastic tubes connected to her nose and mouth; the wheezing ventilator puffing in and out, ominously sounding like Darth Vader, feeding her oxygen, helping her breathe, saving her
life.
Wires also ran all over the place and electrode pads on her chest, monitoring her heart. I stared at the green lines on the cardiac monitor in a trance.

I looked away and conjured up a vision of my Pearl, the Pearl who laughed so hard she’d wipe a tear from her face. Or scream at me the few times she got angry, or smother the babies in kisses from their heads to their toes, singing or chanting nursery rhymes. And then I’d look back at the statue of her. Still. Serious. Expressionless, and my eyes filled with burning tears.

Why? Why Pearl? Why not some schmuck who has it coming to him? Or someone who doesn’t have the will to live? Why Pearl, of all people?

As I was wallowing in the injustice of it all, the nurse came by to give Pearl a sponge bath and set her IV pumps, saying she wanted to show me how to massage her. Up until now, I was scared of even touching her too much, as if by one wrong move I could cause her to stop functioning. The nurse had no extra news from the surgeons, other than that Pearl and the baby were “stable” (e.g. alive). The neurologist, she assured, was on his way to talk to me. The last time we spoke, I hardly took in a word he said. All I knew was that Pearl had made it.

For now, anyway.

“Don’t be nervous about massaging her,” the young nurse insisted, as if reading my mind. “She’s not made of glass.”

But she is!

She took Pearl’s slim arms in her fleshy brown hands, and in a soothing voice said, “We need to keep her body supple so her muscles don’t waste or her limbs might get locked into one position. It’s important. The medical term is muscle atrophy—we don’t want that to happen. Here, give me your hands.” She took my large, awkward hands and placed them on Pearl’s legs. “Go on, give her a good massage.” But all I could do in that moment was bury my head in her thighs and weep. The Pearl Elixir had been replaced with a clinical, medical aroma—the odor of cleanliness and iodine, or whatever they used to swab her down with before she went into surgery.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” the nurse said discreetly, leaving me to my inner-turmoil.

I stayed that way for a good five minutes but then sat up with a jolt.
Get it together, Alexandre!
I believed that coma patients could feel and hear, despite what they told me, and I didn’t want Pearl to sense my anguish.

Even though I rarely prayed and never went to church, I was brought up a Catholic and that shit sticks with you, whether you like it or not. Suddenly God was getting my undivided attention. I’d felt furious with Him (Her?) all day but I reckoned I needed to be a little more amenable if I were to receive any special favors.

So I took a big breath and prayed. I prayed my fucking heart out.

“Please bring Pearl and our beautiful baby back to me. I’ll do anything you want.”

Anything.

T
HE NEUROSURGEON came by on his rounds, ten minutes earlier than I expected, and woke me up from a doze. He was cool, professional—a tall, almost gangly man, with a gentle stoop. I guessed he must have been about fifty. Although I knew he would have done everything possible, it unnerved me that this was just his day job. It wasn’t his
life.
If Pearl didn’t make it, he’d feel bad, would have tried his darned best, but it wouldn’t
destroy his world
. I wanted everyone to feel my pain, my fear, my anguish. I wanted everyone here to be as invested in Pearl as I was. But when they got home after work, they had their own lives to lead, their own families and problems. Pearl was not their number one priority. They were mere human beings. What if someone fucked up?

My face was a mask as the surgeon explained the operation. How a substantial amount of blood was removed because the tissue had swelled against the inflexible bone. How they had to relieve the pressure inside the skull by placing a ventriculostomy drain to eliminate excess cerebrospinal fluid. He was trying to speak in layman’s terms so I’d understand. I was grateful for that; right now my mind was holding too much fear to think coherently. He told me how they’d removed a tiny piece of skull to accommodate the swelling, which they’d re-implant at a later date. He talked about measuring pressure, inserting valves, and a dozen other medical procedures.

“What about the baby?” I asked. “Won’t the anesthesia have harmed the baby?”

The man was calm. I didn’t know whether to feel grateful for his cool, professional demeanor, or furious. Good, he was in control of the situation. Bad, he was dispassionate, as if Pearl were just another patient. Because, let’s face it, she was . . .
just another patient
to him. His patients were his profession but were they
his world? His life?
His Universe would not come tumbling down if Pearl didn’t live.

He looked down for a second, took a breath, looked me in the eye and then said succinctly, “Obviously, our first priority is with the mother, with Pearl, but there is no evidence that babies born to mothers who had surgery during pregnancy have a higher incidence of birth defects. We adjusted the dose accordingly—our anesthesiologist is the best in his field, don’t worry. We’re doing all we can.” His last sentence spoke volumes.
We’re doing all we can.
And I detected a glint of sympathy that flickered in his gaze. The last thing I fucking needed.

I looked away because I didn’t want him to see that tear fall. The tear that told him I was almost a broken man. I turned from him, wiped my face and focused on a huge white bunch of lilies that Sophie had sent. The sweet cloying aroma was wafting about the room and for a second, it made me feel appeased. Pearl loved white lilies. Our engagement cake when I took her to the Empire State was garnished with fresh white lilies. She loved the smell of them, the elegant shapes they made.

I needed to be strong. For Pearl. For my children.

For myself.

I
T WAS EARLY in the morning when Daisy slipped into the hospital room as noiselessly as a cat burglar. I sat up from my recliner with a jolt. At first I didn’t recognize her—she looked taller than before—but on a double take I noticed that she must have lost weight, and her extra height was just an illusion. Her fiery red hair had lost some of its wildness too.

“I came as soon as I could,” she whispered. Her eyes were swollen and red, her eyelids enflamed. But her expression now was brave and her attitude chirpy as if everything were quite normal.
Nice try, Daisy.
Still, I appreciated the effort.