Tess Gerritsen - Harvest

And in the beating of this new heart.

It did not yet feel as if it belonged to her. Perhaps it never would. As a child, she would often inherit her older sister's clothing, Caroline's good wool sweaters, her scarcely-worn party dresses. Although the garments had unquestionably passed to Nina's ownership, she had never stopped thinking of them as her sister's. In her mind, they would always be Caroline's dresses, Caroline's skirts.

And whose heart are you? she thought, her hand gently touching her chest.

At noon, Victor came to sit by her bed.

"I had the dream again," she told him. "The one about the boy. It was so clear to me this time! When I woke up, I couldn't stop crying."

"It's the steroids, darling," said Victor. "They warned you about that side effect."

"I think it means something. Don't you see? I have this part of him inside me. A part that's still alive. I can feel him…"

"That nurse should never have told you it was a boy's."

"I asked her."

"Still, she shouldn't have told you. It does no one any good to release that information. "Not you. Not the boy."

"No," she said softly. "Not the boy. But the family — if there's a family-'

"I'm sure they don't wish to be reminded. Think about it, Nina. It's a strictly confidential process. There's a reason for it."

"Would it be so bad? To send the family a thank-you letter? It would be completely anonymous. Just a simple-'

"No, Nina. Absolutely not."

Nina sank back quietly on the pillows. She was being foolish again. Victor was right. Victor was always right.

"You're looking wonderful today, darling," he said. "Have you been up in a chair yet?"

"Twice," said Nina. Suddenly the room seemed very, very cold to her. She looked away and shivered.

Pete was sitting in a chair by Abby's bed, looking at her. He wore his blue Cub Scout uniform, the one with all the little patches sewn on the sleeves and the plastic beads dangling from his breast pocket, one bead for each achievement. He was not wearing his cap. Where is his cap? she wondered. And then she remembered that it was lost, that she and her sisters had searched and searched the roadside but had not found it anywhere near the mangled remains of his bicycle.

He had not visited in a long time, not since the night she'd left for college. When he did visit, it was always the same. He would sit looking at her, not speaking.

She said, "Where have you been, Pete? Why did you come if you're not going to say anything?"

He just sat watching her, his eyes silent, his lips unmoving. The collar of his blue shirt was starched and stiff, just the way their mother had pressed it for the burial. He turned and looked towards another room. A musical note seemed to be calling to him; he was starting to shimmer, like water that has been stirred.

She said, "What did you come to tell me?"

The waters were churning now, beaten to a froth by all those musical notes. Another bell-like jangle led to total disintegration. There was only darkness.

And the ringing telephone.

Abby reached for the receiver. "DiMatteo," she said.

"This is the SICU. I think maybe you'd better come down."

"What's happening?"

"It's Mrs ross in Bed 15. The transplant. She's running a fever, 38.6?

"What about her other vitals?"

"BP's a hundred over seventy. Pulse is ninety-six."

"I'll be there." Abby hung up and switched on the lamp. It was 2 a.m. The chair by her bed was empty. No Pete. Groaning, she climbed out of bed and stumbled across the room to the sink, where she splashed cold water on her face. Its temperature didn't even register. She felt the water as though through anaesthesia. Wake up, wake up, she told herself. You have to know what the hell you're doing. A post-op fever. A three-day-old transplant. First step, check the wound. Examine the lungs, the abdomen. Order a chest x-ray and cultures.

And keep your cool She couldn't afford to make any mistakes. Not now, and certainly not with this patient.

Every morning for the past three days, she'd walked into Bayside not knowing if she still had a job. And every afternoon at five o'clock she'd heaved a sigh of relief that she'd survived another twenty-four hours. With each day that passed, the crisis seemed a little dimmer and Parr's threats more remote. She knew she had Wettig on her side, and Mark as well. With their help, maybe — just maybe — she'd keep her job. She didn't want to give Parr any reason to question her performance as a doctor, so she'd been especially meticulous at work, had checked and re-checked every lab result, every physical finding. And she'd been careful to steer clear of Nina Voss's hospital room. Another angry encounter with Victor Voss was the last thing she needed.

But now NinaVoss was running a fever andAbby was the resident on the spot. She couldn't avoid this: she had a job to do.

She pulled on her tennis shoes and left the on-call room.

Late at night, a hospital is a surreal place. Hallways stretch empty, the lights are too bright, and through tired eyes, all those white walls seem to curve and sway like moving tunnels. She was weaving through one of those tunnels now, her body still numb, her brain still struggling to function. Only her heart had fully responded to the crisis: it was pounding.

She turned a corner, into the SICU.

The lights were dimmed for the night — modern technology's concession to the diurnal needs of human patients. In the gloom of the nurses' station, the electrical patterns of sixteen patients' hearts traced across sixteen screens. A glance at Screen 15 confirmed that Mrs Voss's pulse was running fast. A rate of 100.

The monitor nurse picked up the ringing telephone, then said: "Dr. Levi's on the line. He wants to talk to the on-call resident."

"I'll take it," said Abby, reaching for the receiver. "Hello, Dr. Levi? This is Abby DiMatteo."

There was a silence. "You're on call tonight?" he said, and she heard a distinct note of dismay in his voice. She understood at once the reason for it. Abby was the last person he wanted to lay hands on Nina Voss. But tonight there was no alternative; she was the senior resident on call.

She said: "I was just about to examine MrsVoss. She's running a fever."

"Yes, they told me about it." Again there was a pause.

She plunged into that void, determined to keep their conversation purely professional. I'll do the usual fever workup," she said. "I'll examine her. Order a CBC and cultures, urine, and chest x-ray. As soon as I have the results I'll call you back."

"All right," he finally said. I'll be waiting for your call."

Abby donned an isolation gown and stepped into Nina Voss's cubicle. A single lamp had been left on, and it shone dimly above the bed. Under that soft cone of light, NinaVoss's hair was a silvery streak across the pillow. Her eyelids were shut, her hands crossed over her body in a strange semblance of holy repose. The princess in the sepulchre, thought Abby.

She moved to the side of the bed and said softly: "Mrs Voss?" Nina opened her eyes. Slowly her gaze focused on Abby. "Yes?" Tm Dr. DiMatteo," said Abby. "I'm one of the surgical residents." She saw the flicker of recognition in the other woman's eyes. She knows my name, thoughtAbby. She knows who I am. The graverobber. The body thief.

Nina Voss said nothing, merely looked at her with those fathomless eyes.

"You have a fever," explained Abby. "We need to find out why. How are you feeling, Mrs Voss?"

"I'm… tired. That's all," whispered Nina. "Just tired."

"I'll have to check your incision." Abby turned up the lights and gently peeled the bandages off the chest wound. The incision looked clean, no redness, no swelling. She pulled out her stethoscope and moved on to the rest of the fever workup. She heard the normal rush of air in and out of the lungs. Felt the abdomen. Peered into the ears, nose, and throat. She found nothing alarming, nothing that would cause a fever. Through it all, Nina remained silent, her gaze following Abby's every move.