No Regrets (11 page)

“We don't know that for sure,” Reece argued.

Molly glanced up just in time to see Wagner glare across the supine body. “Are you challenging my diagnosis, Doctor?”

“Of course not,” Reece responded mildly. “But it wouldn't hurt to do an abdominal tap. After all, it'd be a real bitch if the guy codes on the surgery table for something we've missed down here. Especially since he's a cop. You know how the TV guys love showing the pomp and circumstance of cop funerals on the six o'clock news.”

There was a slight hesitation as the senior surgical resident considered how such an event could sidetrack his career. The room became unnaturally silent, the only sound the steady
beep beep beep
of the heart mon
itor. When Wagner shrugged, Molly knew Reece had won this professional skirmish.

She handed Wagner a scalpel, which he used to make an incision just below the navel. Without looking at her, he held out his hand. Molly immediately placed the small catheter into it.

Then Reece took over. He let a liter of fluid flow slowly into the abdomen. While everyone watched, he gently rocked it, then siphoned the fluid out again. It came out as clear as it had gone in, a sign there was no internal bleeding. Wagner's smirk suggested he'd never expected any other outcome.

“Satisfied, Doctor?” he snapped at Reece.

“Actually, I am,” Reece responded mildly.

The monitor sounded a shrill alarm. Molly looked up at the screen and saw the lines—like worms wiggling every which way—revealing a heart that had lost its rhythmic memory. She forced the green plastic airway into Alex's mouth, applied the mask, tilted his head back and began forcing oxygen into his lungs.

At the same time Reece began chest compressions in sync with the forced respirations, while Yolanda applied electrolyte gel to prevent burning from the defibrillator paddles.

“We'll start at two-fifty,” Wagner barked.

“Charging,” Yolanda called out as she turned on the machine. The seconds it took to charge to two hundred and fifty watts seemed an eternity.

Wagner placed one paddle under and to the left of Alex's left nipple and the other to the right of the sternum. “Clear!” He squeezed the trigger for the asynchronous shock.

The body lifted off the table. Nothing.

“Three-hundred.”

This time the line snaked violently, then settled to a weak, but steady rhythm. Everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief.

“The injuries to lower extremities must explain the blood loss and shock,” Wagner said. The heart problem settled, at least for now, he withdrew the catheter and sutured the wound closed. “Let's get these MAST trousers off the guy and see what we've got.”

The antishock trousers were designed to help stabilize patients with massive blood loss in the abdomen, pelvis or lower extremities. Once inflated, they maintained blood pressure by keeping blood in the more vital central parts of the body. The debate over whether the trousers were helpful or dangerous continued to rage in medical circles. However, since this emergency rescue crew had protocol orders to use them, the ER team had to be prepared to deal with any possible negative consequences.

Alex's left foot looked gray and felt cold to Molly's touch. That could either be a result of the trousers keeping blood from it, or a sign that the sharp edges of the broken femur had torn the large artery. If that were the case, deflating them could result in hemorrhaging.

“Both IV lines are in place and working, Doctor,” she said after checking them one more time. The scary part about deflating MAST trousers was at the beginning.

Reece took a deep breath. In no way did he reveal his personal dislike of the trousers. “Okay, boys and girls. Here goes nothing.” He undid the valve on the left leg, released the pressure slightly, then closed the valve again.

Molly grasped the left foot. “The pulse seems stronger.”

At that moment, Alex's blood pressure, which had risen to a weak, but life-supporting eighty, dived to seventy-two.

“Shit,” Wagner muttered.

Reece remained silent, his eyes, like everyone else's in the room, on the blood-pressure monitor.

“Reading stabilized,” he said as the numbers crept back up to eighty.

He opened the valve again. There was another pause as they all watched the blood pressure dip, then slowly rise.

Reece repeated the technique a third time. The team relaxed a bit. He finished deflating the trousers, then unfastened them.

Molly had to bite her lip to restrain an involuntary gasp. Both legs were hanging by shreds of skin and small strands of tendons. The left leg was clearly too crushed to be saved. And the right was horribly mangled.

Dr. Fong whistled softly. Then began administering anesthesia in preparation for the lengthy surgery that would take place upstairs, where a microsurgery and reimplantation team, orthopedic surgeons and a reconstructive plastic surgeon had already gathered.

And then Alex was whisked away.

Seven hours later, he had been moved to a room on the recovery wing of the surgical floor.

Molly sat beside the bed for a time, watching his vital signs. “You may as well go home and get some sleep,” the recovery nurse said. “We'll call you when he's awake and functioning.”

Molly knew Reece had made the decision to wait until he could break the news to Lena in person. And since Dan was transporting an extradited drug dealer back from Tennessee, he still hadn't been notified. There was no way she was going to leave until she'd talked to Alex and could assure them both that he was going to be all right. But there was something else…

“I'll be in the chapel,” she said.

The nurse shrugged. Molly bent down and brushed a kiss against Alex's ashen cheek. “I'll be back,” she promised.

She took the elevator down to the first-floor chapel, located around the corner from the gift shop. At this hour of the morning it was nearly deserted. Sunshine was streaming through the stained-glass window, creating dancing red, yellow and purple jewels on the white walls.

An elderly man was lighting a white votive candle at the front of the chapel; in a pew midway down the aisle, a young woman knelt, her fingers working their way through a set of dark brown rosary beads, the tracks in her makeup suggesting she'd been crying.

Under usual circumstances, Molly would have tried to comfort the young woman. However, these were far from usual circumstances. It was her first day back on the job, she'd stayed hours past the end of her shift and was physically, mentally, not to mention emotionally, exhausted.

The man she'd come to love like a father was upstairs struggling to hold on to life. And then, of course, there was her other little problem.

She dipped her fingers into the holy water at the font
by the door and made a sign of the cross, then slipped into the back pew, knelt with her hands clasped together, and gazed up at the stained-glass window depicting a colorful portrait of Christ healing the leper.

The window reminded her of the one that had dominated the chapel at the Good Shepherd Home for Girls, which had depicted Jesus carrying a sheep on his shoulders.

Feeling a great deal like that allegorical lost lamb, Molly began to pray. For Alex. And for all the other people of the world who would be needing strength in the days ahead.

Including herself.

Her eyes were closed, but that didn't stop her from sensing the person who'd joined her.

“You should be at home in bed,” Reece scolded quietly. “If I'd known you were going to overdo like this, I would never have let you come back to work so soon.”

“I'm all right.”

“Are you?” He paused, as if choosing his words. “It wasn't just my idea to come find you.”

Her eyes flew open. “Alex, is he—”

“He's fine,” Reece said quickly. “At least there's been no change.”

Cool relief flooded through her.

“But Yolanda told me you might need to talk to a friend.”

Molly sighed. She'd suspected she hadn't put anything over on the eagle-eyed nurse. “She's right.” She turned toward him, viewed the calm, unwavering reassurance in his eyes and understood, not for the first time, why Lena had married this wonderful rock of a man.

She took a deep breath, wanting to phrase her remarks carefully. Then Molly, who'd never been known for beating around the bush, decided it would be best just to say the words straight out.

“I'm pregnant.”

“P
regnant?” Reece stared at Molly as if she'd suddenly begun speaking some arcane language. “What the hell do you mean, you're pregnant?”

Molly understood Reece's inability to immediately grasp her dilemma. She had, after all, had more time to get used to the idea. From the time she'd missed her period ten days ago, she'd suspected this possibility.

At first, she'd reacted as she had in childhood, when her prayers had more often than not consisted of deals with her Maker: If he'd only let her get an A on her spelling test, she'd never talk back to Sister Celestine again; if he'd find a home where she and Lena could live with a real family, she'd dedicate herself to being a shining example of his goodness on earth. If only…

There had been hundreds, thousands of them. And whenever things had worked out as she'd hoped, Molly
had believed God had come through for her. When they hadn't, she'd struggled to believe the nuns when they'd assured her that God always answered prayers. But sometimes the answer wasn't the one you were seeking.

She'd had Saint Augustine's assurance to the faithful quoted to her so many times, she still knew it by heart: “Do not be troubled if you do not immediately receive from God what you ask of him, for he desires to do something even greater for you, while you cling to him in prayer.”

And so, although this time she'd been tempted to ask God not to give her such a trial, Molly was trying to focus on becoming emotionally strong enough to survive this ordeal.

“I'm going to have a child,” she said quietly.

“You can't be pregnant. You're a nun.”

“I'm a woman first,” she reminded him gently.

Molly could practically see the wheels turning in Reece's head as he processed this unexpected bit of information.

“Are you sure about this? I mean, you've had a huge shock to your system. It wouldn't be unexpected for you to miss a period or two.”

“The test came back positive.”

“Test results have been wrong before.”

“True. Which is why I made an appointment for an exam tomorrow. But I don't have any doubt, Reece. Because, although I know it sounds medically impossible, I can feel the new life growing inside me.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don't have any choice in the matter.”

“Of course you do,” he insisted. “This isn't the Dark Ages, Molly. My God, you've been raped. No one would expect you to carry the fetus to term.”

“I'm afraid this is one case where I'm going to have to disagree with you, Reece.” Molly covered her still-flat stomach with her hands in an unconscious gesture of maternal protection. The plain gold ring she'd received on her Profession Day gleamed symbolically in the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass window. “I could never—ever—forgive myself if I aborted this child.”

“But you're a nun,” he repeated.

“Unfortunately not the first one to get pregnant from a rape,” Molly said, thinking of the various sisters around the world who'd found themselves in similar conditions due to war or urban violence. “There are ways of handling this. I'll carry the baby to term, then it will be given up for adoption to a good home.”

She made it sound so cut-and-dried. But knowing Molly well, having witnessed countless examples of her warm and caring heart, Reece wondered if such a solution would prove as uncomplicated as she was making it sound. However, he decided this was no time to argue the point. “Well, one thing's for certain,” he said, “you're not going back to your apartment. You're going to move in with us.”

“But—”

“I'm not giving in on this one, Molly.” His tone was as firm as she'd ever heard it. “Your neighborhood is too dangerous.”

It was a familiar argument. “The Vatican doesn't write support checks anymore.”

“I understand that. But you have Lena and I who want you to stay with us. Lena couldn't bear it if anything else happened to you. Hell, neither could I.”

“All right,” she agreed reluctantly, too exhausted to argue. “But just for a little while. Until I can find another, more secure place to live.”

“Why don't we jump off that bridge when we come to it?” Reece suggested, smiling for the first time since he'd sat down beside her. Then he hugged her.

Molly had always known that Reece was a physically strong man. But now, as she felt his arms wrap around her in a gesture of protection that seemed as natural as breathing, she realized that he was emotionally strong, as well. His shoulder, upon which she rested her head, was wide, capable of carrying the strongest of burdens.

She could have stayed there forever, in that hushed place, in Reece's comforting embrace. For the first time since entering the chapel, indeed, since she'd first read those fatal words on the lab report, Molly felt warmed. Inside and out.

Was this how Lena felt when Reece took her in his arms? she wondered, as her mind drifted on soft waves of serenity. Did they share many such moments of pure and perfect harmony?

Molly almost found herself envying what her sister shared with this very special man. Then, realizing that she was coming horribly close to breaking the ninth commandment, she firmly closed her mind to the dangerous idea and moved away from Reece. But as she did so, Molly experienced a strange, undefinable sense of loss.

 

Sister Benvenuto had always been the most pragmatic person Molly had ever known. In this case, she did not disappoint.

“It's obvious you can't continue to work at Mercy Sam,” she declared upon hearing Molly's news.

“You can't make me stop work for eight months,” Molly argued, once again conveniently forgetting her vow of obedience. “I'd go crazy.”

The elderly nun gave her a scolding look from beneath beetled white brows. “Did I say anything about making you stop work?”

“No, but—”

“You've always had a regrettable flaw of jumping to conclusions, Molly McBride. I'd hoped that you'd outgrow such behavior, but I fear that the good Lord has His work cut out for Him when it comes to your impulsiveness.

“Of course you'll continue to work—the order needs you. However, everyone here knows of your vocation. How would it look, having a pregnant nun on staff?”

“I don't recall that you were ever overly concerned about appearances.”

“True enough. But the Church has received enough negative publicity lately. And short of a sign around your neck, explaining the circumstances of your condition, I fear that you'd just contribute to unpleasant gossip.

“No, the best thing to do is to transfer you to another hospital. Or, perhaps one of our grossly understaffed inner-city clinics.”

“And conveniently forget to mention I'm a Sister of
Mercy?” Molly challenged dryly. The idea of such subterfuge made her decidedly uncomfortable.

Molly's mentor chose not to answer the question directly. “After Vatican II, I recall several members of various orders being concerned that without their habits, they would no longer feel like sisters in Christ. But in all the years since abandoning our traditional garb, I've never found a single sister who felt less of a calling now that she's wearing street clothes instead of those heavy, restrictive habits.”

“So clothes don't make the nun,” Molly said. “What exactly, does that have to do with keeping my vocation a secret for months?”

“If our vocations truly come from our hearts and souls, there's no need to wear them on our sleeves, so to speak.”

Although she hated to challenge authority yet again, Molly was convinced that this ordeal facing her would be much easier to bear if she were surrounded by friends.

“I really would prefer to stay on at Mercy Sam,” she said quietly but firmly.

Sister Benvenuto gave her a long look. Then sighed her surrender. “I suppose we could give it a try.”

“Thank you.”

The nun's lips quirked. “You're welcome.” She reached out and touched Molly's still-flat stomach. “As much of a problem as this might seem at the moment, the creation of a new life is always a miracle. Of course it's never our prerogative to question God's plan for our lives. But I can't help but believe that this child, admittedly conceived under such horrendous circum
stances, is a very special gift meant to bring joy to a great many lives.”

Since Molly had begun experiencing morning sickness, joy was not precisely the term she would have chosen. However, she hoped that Sister Benvenuto was right. To believe that something good could come out of something so evil would make the coming months a great deal easier to bear.

 

Tessa had just turned off the shower when she heard the phone ringing. Since her money was almost gone, she couldn't afford an answering service. Nor could she afford to miss a call.

She raced into the adjoining bedroom and scooped up the phone. “Hello?”

“I like that breathless tone,” a familiar voice drawled. “It reminds me a bit of Marilyn in her heyday.”

Depressed it wasn't one of the agents she'd been hoping to hear from and unnerved as she always was whenever she had occasion to speak with Miles, Tessa sank down onto the lumpy mattress.

“Were you calling for some reason, Miles? Because I was in the shower and I'm dripping all over the bed.”

“You naked and wet on a bed. This is getting better and better. I don't suppose you'd be willing to recreate the scenario in my studio?”

“Not in this lifetime,” she shot back, embarrassed as she thought about the Polaroid shots she'd allowed Jason to take after her photo shoot.

“Too bad,” Miles said. “But I suppose having naughty photos in circulation might hinder your chances of winning a part in Darren Sands' new series.”

“Darren Sands?” What was Miles talking about? She had no chance of landing a part in a Sands' production under any circumstances.

Darren Sands was a Hollywood legend, known for his ability to conceive high-ratings television. That his critics regarded his programs as little more than tits and ass seemed to bother him not in the least. He laughed all the way to the bank. Then proceeded to build a mansion high in Beverly Hills that was remarkably ostentatious even by Tinseltown standards.

“We had dinner last night,” Miles said. “He happened to see your proofs and decided you'd be perfect for a part in his new series, ‘Country Roads.'”

“Darren Sands wants me to be in one of his series?” The idea was too incredible to be taken seriously.

“Actually, it's a pivotal role. You'd play a naive young country singer seduced, then corrupted by her evil, manipulating manager.”

“So help me, Miles, if you're lying, just to get a rise out of me—”

“Actually, literally speaking, you're the one who gets a rise out of me,” he shot back wickedly. “However, I'm absolutely on the level. I also promised Darren I'd call him back tomorrow with the name of your agent.”

Tessa knew there had to be a catch. “I don't have an agent.”

“Any girl Sands declares a star of the future won't have any trouble getting an agent. In fact, I took the liberty of making an appointment for you with Terrance Quinn. It's for eleven.”

This was too much! Terrance Quinn was not only the premier agent in Hollywood, he'd recently been listed
by
Cosmo
magazine as one of the top ten bachelors in the country.

Tessa glanced over at the clock on the bedside table, saw it was already almost ten and suffered an instant panic attack. “You'd better get cracking,” Miles advised. “Terry hates for people to be late.”

He rattled off the address, which she already knew, having dropped off her portfolio at his office her first week in town. Needless to say, she hadn't received an answer.

“Oh, and although it's an intriguing way to make a first impression, I'd advise getting dressed before your meeting.”

Before she could thank him, he hung up, leaving her staring down at the receiver. Then she laughed out loud.

Things were definitely looking up.

 

Three weeks after learning of her sister's pregnancy, Lena entered a church for the first time since her marriage. Unlike Molly, who'd embraced her religion, Lena had always held the Church responsible for having broken up what had remained of their family.

Tessa had been adopted, and the nuns had steadfastly refused to discuss the matter, except to assure the girls that their baby sister had been placed with a fine, upstanding, churchgoing Catholic family out of state.

With their mother and baby sister gone—Lena had never shed any tears for her father and never expected to—she and Molly had clung to each other in the orphanage. But even this was not to last. After it was decided that Molly was unable to fit into foster homes, she had become a virtual prisoner in the Good Shepherd
Home for Girls, and Lena had been left all alone at the mercy of various foster families, some kinder than others, but none capable of providing the love and emotional support she'd needed so badly.

But since learning of Molly's condition, guilt had been grinding away at Lena's heart until she knew that there was only one way to free herself of her burden. Having committed a grievous sin, she was desperate for absolution.

The church, designated a basilica during a visit by Pope John Paul II to Los Angeles, was in a predominantly Hispanic section of the city, far from her own wealthy neighborhood. The crucified Christ hanging above the linen-draped altar was not the usual unlikely Caucasian version, but a modern, stylized wrought-iron figure that seemed jarringly out of place with the fat-cheeked, gilt-winged cherubs on the arched ceiling.

The marble statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe atop a pedestal at the side of the altar appeared to be pregnant, reminding Lena of her reason for having come here today. A sanctuary lamp glowed dimly in front of the tabernacle that had been placed in an arched-wall niche.