I make a mental note to tell Callie that, too.
Then I say, “You’re telling me Callie might die because Connie and Tom Bell liked to fuck in Callie’s room.”
“No. If Callie dies it’s because Connie’s husband shot her.”
He leaves first, then the SWAT team, and then I’m all alone in the room. I think about calling my daughter, but decide against it. She’ll tell Gwen, and Gwen will insist on being here. I’d rather avoid that situation, and figure Callie would feel the same way.
45.
HOURS GO BY.
Dr. P. arrives, checks in with me, offers encouragement, starts to leave.
“Where are you going?” I ask. “You just got here!”
“I assumed you’d want me to check on Callie.”
“They’ll never let you in there.”
“I’m a doctor.”
“Not here, you’re not.”
“Donovan. I’m Eamon Petrovsky.”
“So?”
“Go to the library sometime. Check out the books and articles written about me.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How about
“You’re famous?”
“Among the medical community, I’m a god.”
“You’re a plastic surgeon.”
“That face you’re wearing? Have you forgotten I created that? No one on earth could have done that.”
“Well if you’re so fucking great, quit bragging and go save Callie.”
“Any message you want me to give her?”
“Yeah. Tell her they’ll never let you in to see her. Because you’re a plastic surgeon, not a real doctor.”
Dr. P. leaves the room in a huff, unaware I’m busting his balls. It’ll make him work harder to get me the information I seek. I know he’s got clout. He’s not just the world’s greatest plastic surgeon, he’s Darwin. He understands bureaucracy. Knows how to cut through all the red tape. He’ll meet the chief of surgery, don some scrubs, and gain admittance to the room where Callie’s being treated. He’s a legend in the medical community. If anyone can gain access to Callie and her treatment records, it’s him.
A half hour passes before I see him again. When he enters the waiting room with another doctor in tow, I jump to my feet and ask, “How is she?”
“Donovan, this is Doctor Barnard, lead surgeon and Chief of the Medical Staff.”
Dr. Barnard and I nod. Dr. P. says, “Let’s sit.”
“I need to know Callie’s alive.”
“She’s alive.”
I breathe a sigh of relief and take a seat. If she’s alive, I can deal with anything.
Dr. P. says, “Brace yourself. Callie’s paralyzed from the waist down.”
46.
“I KNOW SHE’S paralyzed,” I say. “She already told me. But it’s a temporary condition, right? I’ve heard of this before. Temporary paralysis, caused by acute swelling. The swelling’s impinging the spinal cord, or a nerve or something. When the swelling goes down, she’ll regain full use of her legs, correct?”
The doctors look at each other. Dr. P. shakes his head and says, “I admire you, Donovan, always have. But you need to leave the doctoring to us. Because nothing you just said makes any sense. Nor does it accurately describe Callie’s condition.”
Dr. Barnard says, “Actually, one thing you said has merit. There is a single bullet fragment that somehow, miraculously, made its way between the spinal cord and the anterior spinal artery without severing either. Unfortunately, it’s this tiny fragment that’s causing Callie’s paralysis.”
“Can’t a surgeon remove it?”
“The short answer is no.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a high-risk surgery.”
“Why?”
“The fragment shows up as a speck on the MRI, which means there are probably numerous other fragments in the vicinity even smaller. This goes beyond microsurgery. There’s a high chance a surgical procedure would do more harm than good.”
“Why?”
“The surgeon could nick her spinal artery, or the spinal cord. One could kill her, the other could make her a paraplegic.”
“But say the fragments
Dr. Barnard says, “That’s the crazy thing. If the fragments could be removed, she’d almost certainly regain full use of her legs.”
“She’d be as good as new?”
“After a sufficient recovery period.”
“Years?”
“Weeks.”
“Well, that’s fantastic! Why the long faces? Why aren’t we celebrating?”
Dr. P. says, “Because only a handful of surgeons in the entire world are qualified to perform this type of surgery, and none of them would dare attempt it.”
“Why not?”
“As Dr. Barnard said, the risk of damage is too great. Callie’s extremely lucky to be alive. Even luckier not to be a paraplegic.”
“She’s a virtual paraplegic now.”
Dr. Barnard says, “Not true. Her actual diagnosis is paraparesis, a condition in which she has partial paralysis. Over the next few days she’ll have increased, but limited use of her legs. While she’ll never be able to walk again, she’ll have some feeling in her legs. With extensive physical therapy, she could eventually hope to move them on her own, in a swimming pool.”
“In a swimming pool?”
“It’s not as grim as it sounds.”
“Really? Because it sounds pretty grim to me! How many swimming terrorists do you know?”
“Excuse me?”
“Who’s she going to be able to kill, a water aerobics instructor?”
Dr. Barnard appears uncomfortable with the direction the conversation has taken.
He says, “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“We need to find a surgeon who’ll give it a try. Callie will take the chance. I guarantee she’ll sign off on it.”
The doctors look at each other.
Dr. P. says, “Donovan. The doctors won’t do it because they’re almost certain to worsen her condition. Their insurance carriers would never agree to the surgery, and no hospital would allow it to be performed for the same reason.”
