Sara's Song (40 page)

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Authors: Fern Michaels

BOOK: Sara's Song
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“Dallas. Jack or whatever name he's going by. Then again, maybe it's Adam. She was excited at the dinner date they had planned. She even bought a new dress. I want to go home, Hank. I think we should think about having a baby real soon.”
“How soon?”
“We could start tonight. If it's a girl, I want to call her Sara. Is that okay with you?”
“Which part? The tonight part or the name part?”
“Both.”
“I'm okay with it. Are you sure, Carly?”
“Yes. I want my own family. Yours and mine. I want us to live in a small town, one that's a little bigger than this one. I want a real community, so we can get involved in everything our kids do. I want to belong to something and someone. I think Sara is finally coming around to the same kind of thinking. We have to stop eating all this junk, too. We need to set good examples.”
“You are something else, Carly.”
“Sara's going to be fine. I feel it. We can get on with our lives now. We'll just finish this batch of candy and won't buy any more. Do you want some more Skittles or Gummi Bears?”
“How about a Whopper, fries, and two Cokes?”
“Ah.”
 
 
Sara slid her legs over the side of the bed. The Queen Mother of all headaches hammered inside her skull. It must have been the bottle of wine she drank last night while she watched mindless television shows. She frowned. She couldn't remember going to bed, much less what time she went up the steps. She also couldn't remember the game plan she had for today.
The plan came to her as she stood under the shower. How could she have forgotten? She was going to tidy up the Peters's house and leave for New York. In her brand-new Jaguar, thanks to the insurance company. It would take her an hour to pack her three bags, empty out the refrigerator, drop off the key with the rental agent, and be on her way to her new life.
Sara started to cry. She wasn't sure if it was because of the hangover headache, Carly's marriage, or the fact that neither Lord brother had bothered to call her to thank her for sending back the master copy of “Sara's Song” six months ago. Courtesy alone demanded some kind of acknowledgment. Surely they knew Carly would have forwarded the note or letter. Don't
make excuses for them, Sara,
she admonished herself.
Anything that came before today is yesterday's news and no longer important.
Sara blew her drippy nose and gulped down four aspirins. Hours later, when she piled the last suitcase in the trunk, her headache was still fighting a war inside her head. She headed for town to pick up her mail and return the key to the rental office. Everything in the box was addressed to Occupant or Resident except a letter bearing the name Ronald Iverson. It had been forwarded by the Los Angeles post office. Not Judge Ronald Iverson, but Ronald Iverson, as in private citizen. What did that mean?
The engine idling, Sara read the short note in the parking lot. Apologies, apologies. Sandi Sims had skipped bail and couldn't be found. The trial was postponed indefinitely. The bottom line brought a grimace to Sara's face. There is no fool like an old fool. Sara crumpled up the letter and tossed it over her shoulder.
Sara fished in the black bag for her copy of “Sara's Song.” She popped it into the state-of-the-art player. She listened to it all the way down Route 36 and then she continued to listen as she cruised on 220. By the time she reached Interstate 80, she knew the words by heart. She popped it out and listened to Roy Orbison all the way to New York.
So what if she was three days early. It would give her time to sightsee and do some shopping. She could cry in New York City just as well as she could cry in Hastings, Pennsylvania.
Chapter Twenty-One
He was dressed casually in creased khakis and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. He was tanned, clean-shaven with a fresh haircut. When he removed the aviator glasses inside the post office, customers turned to look at him. One young girl gasped and squealed. “Did anyone ever tell you you look like Dallas Lord?”
Dallas smiled. “All the time.”
“Excuse me, can you tell me where Dr. Killian lives? I understand she's been staying here for some time.”
“She was, but she left several days ago. She didn't leave a forwarding address if that's your next question.”
“Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”
“You could ask the Realtor. The office is across the street next to the drugstore.”
Dallas thanked her, all eyes still on him as he exited the post office. He stopped a moment at the car to give his dog a biscuit. “I'll be right back.” The dog woofed softly before he settled himself more comfortably on the passenger side of the car to gnaw at his biscuit.
Twenty minutes later, Dallas was back inside the car. He picked up the cell phone to call his brother. “I missed her by a couple of days, Adam. The way I see it I have two choices. I can go to New York and try to find her. Or, I can do what we talked about before I left.”
“It's your call, Dallas.”
“Then let's do it!”
“Dallas, are you sure? I mean are you
really
sure?”
“Call the guys. Set it up with them for right after Thanksgiving. We'll go public in December. We'll use the studio in the canyon house since it hasn't been sold. Are you okay with this, Adam?”
“I'm real good with it. For whatever my opinion is worth, I think you're doing the right thing.”
“Okay, set it up. I'm on my way.”
“Dallas, she would be real easy to find in New York. A few calls to the different hospitals. I don't think it would take you more than a few hours to track her down.”
“I think this way is best. I don't blame her one bit for being pissed off. If I were in her place, I would be, too. So would you. One of us should have called her.”
“What's that we stuff, Dallas? You're the one who is in love with her.”
“I'm not sure how she feels. She sent the song back. If it meant anything to her, she would have kept it. I'm worse than you when it comes to relationships. How's it going with Alice?”
“Good. She loves dogs. Not necessarily, Dallas. Sara is an honest person. You're alive, and she was giving you back your property. You told me yourself you didn't say one word to her about getting married. You were going to get married. That was your plan, wasn't it?”
“Back then it was. This is a different time and a different place. Jesus, Adam, I came back from the dead. That's pretty hard to deal with. As for Alice, you're halfway there. I'll see you in a few days—maybe a little longer. I'm going to sightsee some on my way. It will give me time to do some thinking. Did any of my reports come back? How did I do on the tests?”
“You aced them all. I can't tell you how proud of you I am. Drive carefully, Dallas. Enjoy the trip.”
“Okay.”
Ninety minutes later, Dallas. pulled his car to the side of the road. If he took the eastbound entrance to I-80 it would take him to New York. If he took it west and then south, he would be heading back to Charleston in a roundabout kind of way. “Look at it this way, Adam One. I don't think Sara is the kind of woman who could live with someone named Jack Piper. By the same token, I don't know if she can live with someone named Dallas Lord either. I screwed up with that Heinrick guy. We made that one right, but there's all this other stuff to deal with. First I was dead, then I wasn't dead. That's enough to screw anyone up. So what if I saved her life? Maybe she doesn't know about that old Chinese saying.” When there was no response from the dog, Dallas headed toward the entrance that would take him west and then south.
Jack Piper a.k.a. Dallas Lord had a performance to prepare for. The most important performance of his life.
 
 
Sara leaned over the patient's bed. She hated the sight of the tubes and the terminal sound of the respirator. But more than anything she hated the hopeless look in the children's eyes as they stood at the foot of their father's hospital bed. Grown children like herself. She thought she knew what they were thinking. Just yesterday she'd heard the oldest son say, “They can put a man on the moon, but they can't save Pop because his insurance ran out. What the hell kind of hospital is this anyway? What kind of people tell you to think about pulling the plug to save money? What are we going to do without him? Now if we had a barrel of money, you know they would have done something. Oh, no, we're just working stiffs getting by with our limited medical insurance. Pop is only sixty-one years old. That's too young to die.”
And it was too young to die. The son was right. If the family had had better health insurance, more would have been done for the man. The thought made her physically ill. She wanted to say something to his children, but it was obvious they didn't want even to be around her. She belonged to the hospital, and as such they lumped her with all the other callous doctors they'd been forced to deal with. She made a note on the chart at the foot of the bed.
In the hall she leaned up against the wall as she squeezed her eyes shut before she headed for the lounge and her coat. She needed to think. The three doctors in the room looked up from their respective newspapers. “We need the bed, Killian. When in the goddamn hell are they going to give the okay to pull the plug?”
Sara ignored the young doctor as she filled her coffee cup. When she didn't rise to his challenge he got up to stand next to her, his face just inches away.
“He could hang on for another two weeks. Maybe a month. His insurance ran out. We need the bed, but they can't put him out because that loudmouth son of his threatened to go to the newspapers and the evening news. The media loves minority stories. You're their doctor. Get them to agree. He's brain-dead, for Christ's sake.”
Sara moved to the far end of the room. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the other two doctors staring at her, uncomfortable looks on their faces. They gave up all pretense of reading their papers.
“Dr. Killian, I'm allowing for the fact that you're relatively new around here. This is how we do things. I have a kidney transplant patient coming in, and there's no fucking bed. A paying patient. Let the old man go already. They've been saying those rosaries for a month. The damn beads should be worn-out by now. You can hear them wailing all the way down the hall. It gives me and everyone else in this hospital the creeps. Get it through your head, you aren't doing him a favor by keeping him alive.”
“I know all about your transplant patient. He's the one with all that bright green money we've been hearing about. The one who
paid
for the kidney donor. You listen to me now. I didn't spend half my life going to school to end up taking a life or telling a patient's family their father's life isn't worth anything. The man will die when he's ready to die, and I don't want to hear a word about his bill. For your information, it's been paid in full.” Sara was about to say “by me,” but clamped her lips shut. “That man in room 812 has worked all his life to take care of his family. His family is doing the only thing they can do, be there for him. Now that Mr. Ortega is at the end of his life he deserves whatever we can do for him. Don't even think about asking me again to talk to his family about disconnecting anything. If the Ortega family decides to go public, I will stand alongside them. I'm going to tell them everything I know about your kidney patient and those two . . . pretend doctors sitting behind you. All of you make me sick. You make me ashamed of being a doctor. Do you know what else? I'm ashamed of this hospital. I took an oath as you three did. To do no harm. I've done that. I will continue to do that. Now, get the hell out of my way.”
“Dr. Killian, wait.”
Sara turned to see the elder Ortega son. “Please, can I talk to you.”
“Of course. Is something wrong?”
“My father's bill has been paid. There's even a cash credit. Do you know anything about it, Dr. Killian?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes. Doctor, it matters. My family does not take charity. My father taught us to work for everything we have.”
“Did someone tell you it was charity? Couldn't it be a gift?”
“People do not give thousands of dollars to families like mine. That much I do know. You paid it, didn't you, Dr. Killian?”
“Yes. Please, I want you to understand something. Your father is my patient, and I want him to live as much as you do.”
“We are being selfish. We aren't ready to let him go.”
“The quality of his life is gone, Mr. Ortega. Machines are keeping him alive. I do understand your feelings.”
“If you remove the respirator, how long will he live?”
“Hours. A day. Possibly a little longer. I don't know, Mr. Ortega. Talk to your sister and brother and ask them and yourself, would your father want this? Then and only then, make your decision.”
“What would you do, Doctor.”
“I truly don't know. I tend to think I would ask for everything to be disconnected. It's no way to live, and it's no way to die. That's only my opinion. Your father deserves to die with dignity. Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Ortega?”
“On behalf of my family, we want to thank you. Someday we will repay you. I don't know when or how, but it will happen.”
Sara nodded. “I'm going to check on your father, then I'm going to lunch. I'll be back within the hour.”
It was cold out. Freezing actually. Sara didn't think she'd ever get used to the weather here in the East. It was only the first week in December, but the weatherman said it would snow before the day was over, which meant she would have to take a taxi home or fight the rush-hour travelers on the hateful subway.
Sara walked toward the subway, her body shrinking into her heavy wool coat. She realized she hated the most famous city in the world. She hated the tall buildings, the hustle and bustle as people pulled and shoved, but most of all she hated the subway system. She hated the high rent she was forced to pay and the exorbitant fee to garage the car she was afraid to drive here in the city. She even hated the old crumbling hospital that was in need of a major overhaul. She hated the politics of the hospital, and, yes, she hated some of her colleagues. It was the same old garbage, just a different can. True she was making more money, but it was going out so fast she barely had a chance to count it. Maybe if there was a Nellie Pulaski somewhere in the vicinity, she might be able to tolerate this new life she'd made for herself.
She hated it all with a passion. She ground her teeth together in anger.
“Coming here was the biggest mistake of my life,” she muttered into the wool scarf that covered her mouth. She was frozen, and she still had two blocks to go. She wanted to cry so badly she bit down on her lower lip. The salty taste of her own blood brought her up short. “So, make it right, Sara. Okay, I will!” She turned around in the middle of the street as people cursed and shoved her. For the first time in her life she gave a bearded man the finger and shoved back. My God, she was turning into a New Yorker!
Sara stopped in a deli, gobbled a quick lunch, and returned to the hospital. The time was ten minutes to two. At three-thirty, just as she was going off duty, she heard her name over the intercom. She ran, knowing the page was for Manuel Ortega's room, but she was too late. She stared at the flat line running across the monitor.
“He never wanted to be a burden,” the oldest son said.
“The angels called him. I heard them,” the sister said as she crossed herself.
“Papa opened his eyes and saw us. He knew we were here,” the youngest son said.
Sara choked back her own tears. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, Doctor.”
Sara watched as a nurse disconnected the tubes and respirator, then pulled the sheet up to cover Mr. Ortega's face. She felt drained as she walked down the hall behind the Ortega family. The only thing left for her to do was to sign Manuel Ortega's death certificate. She said a prayer of thanks that the family had been spared the trauma of making a decision she knew they could never accept.
Just another day in a big New York City hospital.
Sara hailed a cab, climbed in to settle into the steamy warmth of the car. The driver, who said he was from Nigeria, asked her to repeat her address four times. “What are you doing driving a cab if you can't speak the language and can't read the signs?” Sara asked irritably.
The driver pulled to the curb and said, very plainly, “Get out!”

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