Sidney Sheldon - Nothing lasts forever

“It's worth bein' operated on just to have you around, little darlin'.”

“You aren't nervous about the operation, are you?” she asked.

“Not if you're going to operate, love.”

“I'm not a surgeon. I'm an internist.”

“Are internists allowed to have dinner with their patients?”

“No. There's a rule against it.”

“Do internists ever break rules?”

“Never.” Honey was smiling.

“I think you're beautiful,” Sean said.

No one had ever told Honey that before. She found herself blushing. “Thank you.”

“You're like the fresh mornin' dew in the fields of Killarney.”

“Have you ever been to Ireland?” Honey asked.

He laughed. “No, but I promise you we'll go there together one day. You'll see.”

It was ridiculous Irish blarney, and yet …

That afternoon when Honey went in to see Sean, she said, “How are you feeling?”

“The better for seeing you. Have you thought about our dinner date?”

“No,” Honey said. She was lying.

“I was hoping after my operation, I could take you out. You're not engaged, or married, or anything silly like that, are you?”

Honey smiled. “Nothing silly like that.”

“Good! Neither am I. Who would have me?”

A lot of women, Honey thought.

“If you like home cooking, I happen to be a great cook.”

“We'll see.”

When Honey went to Sean's room the following morning, he said, “I have a little present for you.” He handed her a sheet of drawing paper. On it was a softened, idealized sketch of Honey.

“I love it!” Honey said. “You're a wonderful artist!” And she suddenly remembered the psychic's words: You're going to fall in love. He's an artist. She was looking at Sean strangely.

“Is anything wrong?”

“No,” Honey said slowly. “No.”

Five minutes later, Honey walked into Frances Gordon's room.

“Here comes the Virgo!”

Honey said, “Do you remember telling me that I was going to fall in love with someone—an artist?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I … I think I've met him.”

Frances Gordon smiled. “See? The stars never lie.”

“Could … could you tell me a little about him? About us?”

“There are some tarot cards in that drawer over there. Could you give them to me, please?”

As Honey handed her the cards, she thought, This is ridiculous! I don't believe in this!

Frances Gordon was laying out the cards. She kept nodding to herself, and nodding and smiling, and suddenly she stopped. Her face went pale. “Oh, my God!” She looked up at Honey.

“What … what's the matter?” Honey asked.

“This artist. You say you've already met him?”

“I think so. Yes.”

Frances Gordon's voice was filled with sadness. “The poor man.” She looked up at Honey. “I'm sorry … I'm so sorry.”

Sean Reilly was scheduled to have his operation the following morning.

8:15 A.M. Dr. William Radnor was in OR Two, preparing for the operation.

8:25 A.M. A truck containing a week's supply of bags of blood pulled up at the emergency entrance to Embarcadero County Hospital. The driver carried the bags to the blood bank in the basement. Eric Foster, the resident on duty, was sharing coffee and a danish with a pretty young nurse, Andrea.

“Where do you want these?” the driver asked.

“Just set them down there.” Foster pointed to a corner.

“Right.” The driver put the bags down and pulled out a form. “I need your John Hancock.”

“Okay.” Foster signed the form. “Thanks.”

“No sweat.” The driver left.

Foster turned to Andrea. “Where were we?”

“You were telling me how adorable I am.”

“Right. If you weren't married, I'd really go after you,” the resident said. “Do you ever fool around?”

“No. My husband is a boxer.”

“Oh. Do you have a sister?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Is she as pretty as you are?”

“Prettier.”

“What's her name?”

“Marilyn.”

“Why don't we double-date one night?”

As they chatted, the fax machine began to click. Foster ignored it.

8:45 A.M. Dr. Radnor began the operation on Sean Reilly. The beginning went smoothly. The operating room functioned like a well-oiled machine, run by capable people doing their jobs.

9:05 A.M. Dr. Radnor reached the cystic duct. A textbook operation up until then. As he started to excise the gallbladder, his hand slipped and the scalpel nicked an artery. Blood began to pour out.

“Jesus!” He tried to stop the flow.

The anesthesiologist called out, “His blood pressure just dropped to ninety-five. He's going into shock!”

Radnor turned to the circulating nurse. “Get some more blood up here, stat!”

“Right away, doctor.”

9:06 A.M. The telephone rang in the blood bank. “Don't go away,” Foster told Andrea. He walked past the fax machine, which had stopped clicking, and picked up the telephone. “Blood supply.”

“We need four units of Type O in OR Two, stat.”

“Right.” Foster replaced the receiver and went to the corner where the new blood had been deposited. He pulled out four bags and placed them on the top shelf of the metal cart used for such emergencies. He double-checked the bags. “Type O,” he said aloud. He rang for an orderly.

“What's going on?” Andrea asked.

Foster looked at the schedule in front of him. “It looks like one of the patients is giving Dr. Radnor a bad time.”

9:10 A.M. The orderly came into the blood bank. “What have we got?”

“Take this to OR Two. They're waiting for it.”

He watched the orderly wheel out the cart, then turned to Andrea. “Tell me about your sister.”

“She's married, too.”

“Aw …”

Andrea smiled. “But she fools around.”

“Does she really?”

“I'm only kidding. I have to go back to work, Eric. Thanks for the coffee and danish.”

“ Anytime.” He watched her leave and thought, What a great ass!

9:12 A.M. The orderly was waiting for an elevator to take him to the second floor.

9:13 A.M. Dr. Radnor was doing his best to minimize the catastrophe. “Where's the damned blood?”

9:15 A.M. The orderly pushed at the door to OR Two and the circulating nurse opened it.

“Thanks,” she said. She carried the bags into the room. “It's here, doctor.”

“Start pumping it into him. Fast!”

In the blood bank, Eric Foster finished his coffee, thinking about Andrea. All the good-looking ones are married.

As he started toward his desk, he passed the fax machine. He pulled out the fax. It read:

Recall Warning Alert #687, June 25: Red Blood Cells, Fresh Frozen Plasma. Units CB83711, CB800007. Community Blood Bank of California, Arizona, Washington, Oregon. Blood products testing repeatedly reactive for Antibody HIV Type I were distributed.

He stared at it a moment, then walked over to his desk and picked up the invoice he had signed for the bags of blood that had just been delivered. He looked at the number on the invoice. The number on the warning was identical.

“Oh, my God!” he said. He grabbed the telephone. “Get me OR Two, fast!”

A nurse answered.

“This is the blood bank. I just sent up four units of Type O. Don't use it! I'm sending up some fresh blood immediately.” The nurse said, “Sorry, it's too late.”

Dr. Radnor broke the news to Sean Reilly.

“It was a mistake,” Radnor said. “A terrible mistake. I would give anything if it had not happened.”

Sean was staring at him, in shock. “My God! I'm going to die.”

“We won't know whether you're HIV-positive for six or eight weeks. And even if you are, that does not necessarily mean you will get AIDS. We're going to do everything we can for you.”