Stephen White - Critical Conditions

I said, “Yes.”

“Let’s go!”

Georgia’s mouth was agape. She had just heard Merritt speak for the first time.

I said, “Georgia, what privileges does she need for this? To leave the unit and go see to her sister? With staff?”

“You would need to, uh, d/c the suicide precautions and increase her level to II, at least.”

“Merritt, do you promise not to try to hurt yourself?”

“I promise.”

“I mean it.”

“I promise.”

“And you promise not to run?”

“I promise. I need to be with my sister. She needs me right now.”

“Georgia, consider it done. Will you write those orders, please? I’ll sign.”

For Chaney, this crisis was different from the last one. But for me, watching helplessly from across the intensive care unit, it looked remarkably the same.

Brenda Strait was sitting by herself on a chair next to an empty bed, two beds down from her daughter. On the way down the stairs, Merritt had prepared me for Brenda’s presence in the ICU. “Mom was here last night, not my stepdad. Trent’s in Boulder. She’s not going to handle this as well as he does. You need to know that. Okay?”

The “Okay?” was this fifteen-year-old’s way of reminding me that I had a job to do when we arrived at the ICU.

Merritt hugged her mother, whispered something I couldn’t hear, and walked confidently over to her sister’s bedside. She weaved through the staff and disappeared from view. I couldn’t see Chaney through the crush of equipment and the thick crowd of staff that was surrounding her.

I stood next to Brenda and said, “I’m so sorry, Brenda. How bad is it?”

She held a hand in front of her pale lips. “Bad. She’s so sick. My baby is so sick.”

“Her lungs again?”

She nodded.

“Anything else?”

She nodded again.

I waited for her to elucidate. She didn’t. I asked, “Have you called John?”

“He’s on his way.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Save my baby.”

Tiny popping sounds rat-a-tatted from her lips.

The crowd around Chaney didn’t thin for another thirty minutes. During the half hour some docs and nurses retreated and some reinforcements arrived with new equipment. But the throng stayed thick.

I knew that Merritt was in there somewhere whispering encouragement to her sister, providing her the essential spiritual nutrition that modern medicine couldn’t provide via intravenous line.

John Trent arrived at the ICU in a rush and barely said hello to his wife and me before he asked, “Is Merritt over there with her?”

I said, “Yes.”

He said, “Good, thanks, Alan,” and jogged over to try to corner one of Chaney’s critical care docs to get an update on her condition.

Brenda said, “It’s in God’s hands now.”

I thought, It’s been in God’s hands all along and He hasn’t been doing too great a job.

We watched the gradual thinning of the armies who were helping Chaney stay alive. They departed in ones and twos. My fear, the one that had my heart bobbing against my Adam’s apple, was that at some point all who remained would depart the bed together.

That didn’t happen.

Finally, after two remaining respiratory techs retreated to the nursing station, I was able to see Merritt, stretched on her side like a big letter S, her upper body curled around her sister. I couldn’t see Chaney’s face but could hear the rhythmic hiss and pulse of a ventilator. Chaney Trent was no longer breathing on her own.

John came to his wife’s side and took both of her hands and kneeled down in front of her. He said, “It’s not good. Pray, Bren. Pray.”

My mind wanted to escape, to be somewhere else, anywhere else, and my thoughts kept drifting back to the provocatively inane question: What on earth did Madison Lane’s breasts have to do with any of this?

I looked at my watch and knew the answer was going to have to wait. A patient I’d already rescheduled once would be expecting me to be in my Boulder office in seventy-five minutes.

Some things don’t sort quickly.

My drive back to Boulder was a jumble of the last twelve hours. My mother-in-law’s negative biopsy. Adrienne’s sexual confusion. Merritt’s revelation about trailing her father. Chaney’s deterioration. Madison’s murder.

Madison’s breasts.

And Merritt’s contention that she thought John Trent had gone inside Edward Robilio’s house.

What the hell did that mean? Had Merritt seen him go in or was she assuming he went in? Why didn’t John Trent tell me that himself?

I arrived in my office with seven minutes to spare. I used them to call Sam Purdy to fill him in about the latest crisis with Chaney.

He sounded beaten down by the news. He asked, “But she was alive when you left?”

“Yes. She’s on a respirator now. She didn’t look good, Sam. Nobody was making any optimistic noises.”

“I’ll call right down there. Listen, thanks for going with Lucy last night. Sorry about the way things turned out. I thought you might be able to help if the kids didn’t want to come out on their own.”

“I’m sorry, too. Mostly, I’m sick that Madison’s dead, Sam. Any word on the boy?”

“No, it’s going to be a lot harder to find a kid on a motorcycle than it is to find a fifty-foot land yacht.” He paused and lowered his voice. He was at the police department, in a little cubicle surrounded by other detectives in their little cubicles. “I want to tell you something about the inside of the motorhome that you aren’t supposed to know. Maybe it will help you with my niece. You understand?”

“Absolutely.”

“Before she was shot, the girl, uh-”

“Madison.”

“Yeah, Madison. She was beaten around the face and head with a videocassette.”

“A videocassette?”

“Yeah. The cops who did the scene said it was violent, a real rage thing. The damn cassette was crushed into a hundred pieces, tape loose all over the place, the poor kid’s blood was everywhere. Whoever did it almost ripped her damn ear off.”

“Jesus. And it was Brad?”

“Probably, his latents are everywhere. The kid’s not using his head at all anymore. That worries me.”

Merritt apparently was right on the money. Madison had reason to be afraid of Brad. “What does it all mean?”

“Don’t know. But it must mean something. The attack took place in the middle of the motor home, in the kitchen area. The VCR and the tapes are in a fancy cabinet above the driver’s seat. The boy had better weapons close at hand-knives, pots and pans. I don’t know why he used a videocassette.”

“What was the tape? Do they know what’s on it?”

“No. The label’s handwritten, says, ‘PRETTY WOMAN.’”

“Do you think these kids had anything to do with the extortion attempt?”

He was silent.

“Lucy told me about it last night.”

“I don’t know any more than you do. It’s unclear whether that was them. The kids. I just don’t know.”

“I’m still seeing Merritt every day. I hope I can learn something that helps with all this, Sam. I’m doing my best. And Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Lauren and I have some money. We want to donate it to Chaney’s fund.” I thought I could hear his teeth grind. “It’s almost thirty-one thousand dollars. I know it’s not enough, but maybe-”

“Thanks a lot. That’s generous of you. I’ll see if it will help. I’ll let you know. Sit on it for now.”

“We want to help, Sam.”

“I appreciate it. Listen, do you think it’s funny that the threats against Brenda stopped shortly after Chaney got sick? Is that a coincidence, do you think?”

The change in direction unnerved me, which was probably Sam’s intention. “I don’t know, Sam. I haven’t thought about it, but I would guess that the guy’s boiler just ran out of steam. Or maybe he heard about Chaney being sick and figured that God had answered his prayers. Biblical retribution. You know, an eye for an eye.”