Danielle Steel - Changes

She woke up instantly when the operator called, all her senses alert, although her limbs ached and she felt as though she hadn't slept at all. But she would have to operate on black coffee and nervous energy and stay on her feet somehow. She had done it before, and she knew she could do it this time. Dressing quickly in a dark gray dress, and high-heeled black shoes, she was out of the hotel and in the police car at six thirty and at the hospital ten minutes later, to get the latest details and go on the air. It was already almost ten o'clock in New York by then and the eastern portion of the country had been hungry for news for hours.

She saw the camera crew she had used before in the fray along with at least fifty other cameramen and two dozen reporters. They were camping out in the lobby and a hospital spokesman was giving them bulletins every half hour. And finally at eight o'clock, an hour after Mel went on the air, looking grave and impressive, the first bit of good news reached them. The President was conscious, and his spinal cord had been neither damaged nor severed. If he survived he would not be paralyzed, and there had been no brain damage from what they could tell so far. But he was still critically ill and hovering between life and death. His survival was not yet assured, and three hours later the First Lady joined them and spoke a few words to the nation. Mel was able to get three minutes of her time, and the poor woman looked grief-stricken and exhausted, but she stood speaking to Mel with dignity and a firm voice. One's heart went out to her as tears filled her eyes, but her voice never wavered. Mel let her speak, asked only a few questions, and assured her of the nation's prayers, and then miraculously was able to get a few moments later on with the President's surgeon. By six o'clock that night there was no additional news, and Mel was relieved by a local anchor, going on for the network. She was given five hours to go to her hotel and sleep, if she could. But by then she was so wound up, she couldn't sleep when she reached her room. She lay in the dark, thinking of a thousand things, and suddenly she reached for the phone, and dialed a local number.

Mrs. Hahn answered the phone, and without friendly preamble Mel asked for Peter, and he was on the line a moment later.

“Mel?”

“Hi. I don't even know if I make sense, I'm so cross-eyed, but I just wanted to call and tell you I was here.”

He smiled gently then. She sounded exhausted. “Remember me? I work at Center City too. Not to mention the fact that we do have a television set here. I saw you twice today, but you didn't see me. Are you holding up all right?”

“I'll do. I'm used to this. After a while, you just have to put your body on automatic pilot, and hope that you don't crash into a wall somewhere looking for a bathroom.”

“Where are you now?” She gave him the name of her hotel, and it struck him as remarkable that she was so near again. He had to admit that in spite of the horrendous circumstances, he liked it, although he wondered if he'd be able to see her. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Not right now. But if there is, I'll let you know.”

He felt like a complete ass asking her the next question, but he had to. “Is there any chance that … I can see you sometime? I mean other than across a crowded lobby full of reporters?”

“I don't know yet.” She was honest with him. “It depends on what happens.” And then she sighed. “What do you think will happen, Peter? What are his chances really?” She should have asked him before, but she was so tired she didn't think of it till just now.

“Fair. Depends on what kind of shape he's in. His heart's not involved or they would have called me in. I was in the operating room when they operated, just in case. But they didn't need me.” She hadn't known that from the reports, but she suspected that there was a lot of information held back. The only thing they knew everything about was the assailant, a twenty-three-year-old man who had spent the last five years in a mental hospital and had told his sister two months before that he was going to kill the President. No one took him seriously since he thought that his roommate at the hospital was God and the head nurse was Marilyn Monroe. No one even thought he knew who the President was, but he did. He knew well enough to almost kill him, and maybe succeed after all. “We'll know a lot more tomorrow, Mel.”

“If you get any inside leads, will you call me?”

“Sure. But why don't you get some sleep before you become the next patient?”

“I will, but I'm so damn keyed up I can't sleep.”

“Try. Just close your eyes and rest, don't think of sleeping.” His voice was soothing and she was glad she had called him. “Do you want a ride to the hospital tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” She laughed. “I have to be back at eleven o'clock tonight.”

“That's inhuman!” He was outraged.

“So is shooting the President.” They both agreed and she hung up, glad she had called. Melanie just hoped they could get together before she left L. A. It would kill her to have been there and to leave without even seeing him once, but they both knew it could happen. And as Mel rolled over on the bed in her hotel room, she prayed that it wouldn't.

CHAPTER 13

On Friday, Mel and the rest of the press crew spent a long anxious day in the lobby of Center City. There were half a dozen gofers assigned to bring them sandwiches and coffee, and periodically they went on the air to give their assorted news stations the latest bulletins on the President's condition. But on the whole, nothing changed much from six in the morning until seven that evening. And after coming back on duty at eleven o'clock on Thursday night, Mel didn't leave the hospital until eight o'clock Friday night, so exhausted that her head was throbbing and her eyes burning. She walked out into the parking lot and as she slid behind the wheel of the car that had been rented for her the previous night, her vision was so blurred that she was afraid to turn the key in the ignition and drive back to her hotel. And the voice that she heard seemed to be coming at her out of a thick fog, as she turned to see who was standing beside the car and speaking to her.

“You're in no condition to drive, Miss Adams.” At first she thought it was a cop, but as she squinted she saw a familiar face, and she smiled and leaned her head back against the seat. The window was rolled down all the way. She knew she had needed as much air as she could get so she wouldn't fall asleep at the wheel on the way home.

“Well, I'll be damned. What are you doing here?” Even in her state of near collapse, she could see that his eyes were a deep blue, and it was wonderfully comforting just seeing him there.

“I work here, or did you forget?”

“But isn't it late for you to be here?”

He nodded and watched the look in her eyes. She was happy to see him too, but she was too exhausted to move. “Move over. I'll drive you back to your hotel.”

“Don't be silly. I'm fine. I just have to …”

“Look, be practical, Mel. With the President here, when you wrap yourself around a tree in this car, they won't even give you a Band-Aid in the emergency room. Everyone in the whole place is rallying around him. So let's save ourselves a big headache, and let me drive you home. Agreed?” She didn't have the strength left to argue with him. She just smiled like a tired child, nodded her head, and slid over. “That's a good girl.” He glanced at her to see if she'd object to the term and was relieved that she didn't. She just sat there looking glazed and didn't seem to object to his taking over. He drove expertly through the L.A. traffic, which was still heavy at that hour, and glanced over at her from time to time. At last he spoke again. “You okay, Mel?”