Demos and Glen went to the hospital cafeteria and stared at each other over open-faced roast-beef sandwiches.
“I’ll never forget that damned phone call as long as I live,” Glen said, his hands shaking.
They’d gotten the hysterical call from one of the ad-agency people at precisely ten minutes to one. They’d gotten here as fast as they could, but they hadn’t seen Lindsay. It wasn’t allowed. Everything was being done for her. Not to worry. Demos had filled out paperwork on her. Then he’d realized he had to call Taylor. Let Taylor deal with her family, with Sydney. He was engaged to her, let him do it. Demos knew Lindsay’s number by heart. He’d started to punch out the buttons, then stopped. He looked at those numbers, and they didn’t mean anything to him.
“Glen, help.”
Glen had shoved him aside and quickly pressed the numbers.
Two rings and then, “Hello, Taylor here.”
“Taylor, this is Glen.”
“Yeah, Glen. What’s up?”
“Oh, God, Taylor, you’ve got to get here right now.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Where’s Demos? What’s going on?”
Glen had nearly thrown the phone to Demos. “Taylor, this is Vinnie. There’s been an accident and Eden’s hurt. Hurry, man, get here now. I don’t know anything, just hurry.”
Demos hung up the phone and leaned his cheek against the cold steel. He heard a man say, “Does anyone know a Lindsay or an Eden?”
“I do,” Glen said.
“I was with her in the ambulance. She asked me to call Taylor. I’ve been asking around, trying to find out his phone number, but nobody knows. Do you know who he is?”
“Yes, we know,” Demos said. “I just called him.”
“Her face,” the young man said. “She’s so beautiful. Will she live? Has anyone said? Her collapsed lung?”
“She’ll be fine,” Demos said, praying like a demon as he said the words.
Twenty minutes later, Taylor was running into the emergency room, pale and looking more terrified than a man should ever look.
“We don’t know anything yet,” Glen said quickly. “They’re fixing a collapsed lung, at least someone told us about that, but then there’s her face—”
“Her face? What the hell happened to her face?”
“She was smashed.”
“Jesus,” Taylor said, unable to take it in, just standing there frozen. Then he burst into action. “Where is she? Who can I talk to?” He didn’t wait, but walked quickly to the nurses’ station.
The head emergency-room nurse, Ann Hollis, was sixty, tough, and more seasoned than a four-star general. She saw the man coming toward her, saw his fear, and readied herself for the outbreak. Screaming, raw, and impotent anger, outward fury, the rage brought on by the helplessness of it all. To her utter surprise, when he spoke, his voice was calm and low.
“I would appreciate your help—” He looked at her name tag. “Yes, Ms. Hollis. Lindsay or Eden is her name. I understand there was an accident and she’s being treated. I’m her fiance. Please tell me what’s going on. This is very difficult.”
And Ann Hollis responded to him with the truth. “I will tell you what I know. First of all, stop worrying. The trauma team worked on her and they’re the best. You stay here and I’ll go check and find out what’s happening. All right?”
Taylor nodded and she left him. He didn’t move. Demos and Glen came over. No one said anything.
Nurse Hollis patted Taylor’s arm. “Two broken ribs, a collapsed left lung, which they reinflated.”
“How’s that done?”
“A small incision between two ribs and a tube is inserted that’s in turn connected to a lung machine. It makes breathing easier for her. Contusions and lacerations, but those aren’t all that bad. Then there’s her face.” Again she touched her hand to his arm. “It’s impossible to say right now because Dr. Perry just took her into surgery. Since she’s a model, he didn’t wait to operate.”
Taylor didn’t say anything. He was trying not to shake. Nurse Hollis patted his arm again.
“As soon as I can find out how the surgery is going, I’ll call you. Please go sit down. I know it’s difficult. But you must try to stay calm. She won’t die. Her face will heal. Dr. Perry is one of the best in facial reconstruction in the city. She’s Eden the model, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve seen her picture many times. She’s quite beautiful and she will be again.”
“Thank you. She is. She’s also a lot more than that—she’s—”
She wanted to take his hand but she didn’t. “I understand, Mr. Taylor. I will tell you as soon as I know something more.” He nodded and she knew he was fighting for control. She hated to see such pain. She hated to see this hidden, deep pain, this completely controlled pain. Sometimes it was better to shriek and curse all the doctors and nurses and rail against God and fate. But this man would always try to control himself and circumstances around him.
Ann Hollis smiled at him, and now she patted his arm again. The poor young woman was a model—not anymore, Ann Hollis thought. Oh, no, not unless she was very lucky indeed. She’d seen the young woman’s face. They hadn’t cleaned it yet, and there was nothing but dried blood and bone and matted blood-dried hair. Yes, it would be difficult to be beautiful when your face was smashed.
She watched the man Taylor turn away and walk back into the waiting lounge with two other men.
Lindsay wished she could throw a rock at the light. It was bright and it hurt her eyes. Why was it on? She hadn’t turned it on. Why didn’t someone turn it off? She didn’t want to open her eyes. She didn’t want to see anything; she didn’t want to be or do anything. She wanted to stay buried deep and warm within herself, within the warm darkness. It was secure here, except for that damned light. She knew, somehow, that if she opened her eyes she would regret it.
Still, the light was there, brighter now, and there was a voice along with it, a woman’s voice, urgent and hoarse-sounding, saying over and over, “ Lindsay, Lindsay, wake up now, wake up now. Come on, you can do it. Wake up.”
“No,” she said, and even that one small word was difficult. Her throat was dry and to the point of pain.
“Here, I’m putting a straw in your mouth. Try to suck some water. You need it.”
How did the woman know that? She sucked and felt the water fill her mouth and trickle down her throat. It was wonderful until she swallowed. A shock of pain went through her, squeezing the breath out of her, making her tighten and shrink and shudder with its force.
“Oh, God.”
“I know it hurts. I’ll give you more painkiller very soon now. You’ve got to get over the anesthesia first. I need to see how your brain is working.” There was a smile in the woman’s voice; then she said, “Please open your eyes for me.”
“The light. It hurts.”
The light disappeared. Lindsay opened her eyes. The room was in shadows. There was a woman in white standing over her. There were other people in the room, she could hear them. She couldn’t see them, but she could hear them. Their breathing, a few moans.
“That’s good. Now, tell what you see.”
“You. I see you and you’re wearing white and you’re pretty.”
“Thank you. Now, don’t be frightened. You came out of surgery and you’re in the recovery room. You pulled through everything great. Dr. Perry will be in to see you in the morning. He said you’ll be gorgeous again. Right now, you look like a Q-Tip—your head is all bandaged up and that’s why you can’t open your mouth very wide. The bandages are to keep everything immobile. Do you understand? Good. Now, I want you to count some fingers for me. Four? Excellent. And now? Good, Lindsay. Very good.”
“My ribs hurt.”
“I know. And they’ll hurt for quite a good while yet. But the painkiller will help immensely. Dr. Shantel will be
