then swerved the aircraft to the right. Unless I was extremely disoriented, we were heading south-by-southeast. This was not the direction to the base for Flight-for- Life: Saint Anthony’s Hospital in Denver.
“What’s going on?” I yelled over the whir of the helicopter blades.
“Saint Anthony’s is overloaded,” the pilot hollered back. “They’re on Divert. The medical helo is going to Southwest Hospital, so that’s where we’re heading. Southwest has a new trauma center that can handle this.”
I bit my lip painfully, anxious to get Tom somewhere. I knew Southwest Hospital, across from Westside Mall in the southeast corner of Furman County. It was where Marla had been taken when she’d had her heart attack; afterwards, she’d donated money for a new coronary care wing. Southwest also belonged to the same chain of Denver hospitals in which John Richard had once worked.
I veered away from that thought as we swooped over one of the residential areas in the foothills, where houses sat higgledy-piggledy along a winding dirt road. Swing sets shuddered in the cold wind coming off the higher elevations. Week-old, wind-carved snowmen newly dusted with white indicated the presence of happy families.
In the not-so-happy family department, where was John Richard at this moment? I wished I knew. Could he possibly have shot Tom? Would he have? Yes, oh yes, no matter what Arch said about his father not being good with a gun. My head ached as I remembered an incident from when we were still married. The tale had come from a nurse at Cityside Hospital, one of the places where John Richard had done deliveries. Her voice trembling, she’d called me to confess she’d repeatedly rejected John Richard’s advances. When she’d protested to Doctor that she was married, she told me, the Jerk had calmly replied, How about if that troublesome husband of yours was out of the way? I didn’t know why the nurse had phoned me with this message. What did she think I was going to do? My advice had been that she put as many miles as she could between herself and Dr. Korman. Not long after, another nurse told me that the object of John Richard’s affections had quit her job and moved to a hospital out of state.
I couldn’t see the medical helo, but I knew it was in front of us. More knowledge I’d gleaned in Med Wives 101 came up like a fresh computer screen. The human body is mostly water. Even a bullet that only goes through soft tissue causes massive damage, beginning with the shock wave to the system known as the hydraulic effect.
Were the medics treating Tom for shock? Of course. Had I done enough to compress the wound? My teeth chattered. I grabbed a silver space blanket one of the pilots had put on the seat beside me. I was so cold. How to avoid shock? Stop feeling and start thinking.
But I couldn’t. It was too painful. I saw Tom’s body jerk back. Watched him bleed. Heard him say, I don’t love her. I’d endured years of infidelity from the Jerk. But this was different.
Incredibly, I still had my cell phone. I drew it out and stared at it. Could I use it in the helo? Should I call Elk Park Prep? Should Arch be told? I looked down. We had left the mountains and were swooping over the Hogback, an ancient, jagged geological formation that rose between the mountains and plains. The Hogback had fascinated generations of elementary-school science students. But the rocks still screwed up any cellular communication you tried to make while crossing them. Plus, making a cell call was undoubtedly not allowed in the helo, as it wouldn’t be in the hospital. So: Once I knew Tom was being taken care of, I’d find a pay phone, call Marla, call the Hydes, call the church. All crises in
due time, my mind numbly supplied.
The helo was just starting over the flatlands that stretched toward Denver. We whump-whumped over a development, row after row of gray-and-beige tract houses. Ahead, Westside Mall loomed. Beyond it, Southwest Hospital and its crammed parking lot shimmered in the sun.
The police helicopter hovered near the mall. From our vantage point, the hospital landing pad was in full view. It looked as if an emergency nurse and orderly were meeting the medical helo. I swallowed and watched the flight nurses unload Tom hot, that is, with the helo blades still going. Then I saw Tom, still on the backboard, being transferred onto a gurney and wheeled away.
First the trauma team, then a hot
unload. You only unloaged hot when you thought you were going to lose somebody.
What felt like an eternity but probably was not more than twenty minutes later, after the police chopper had landed and the hospital security officer had escorted me to a bathroom to clean Tom’s blood off my hands and arms, I arrived in the ER waiting room. I was told the ER doctor would come out to talk to me as soon as possible. A few moments later, Tom’s new captain, Isaac Lambert, loomed next to me. Awkwardly, I got to my feet.
“Goldy,” he murmured. He hugged me, but knew better than to ask some cliched question about how I was doing. “They have a good team here.”
“Okay.” Gray-haired, hawk-faced Captain Lambert was a tall, heavy man whose bones creaked when he sat in a plastic chair. The row of brown buttons on his tan uniform stretched to capacity across his Buddha-like belly. He smelled of Old Spice and gave the impression of a benevolent giant trying hard to be comforting. I sat down next to him, grateful to have someone with me.
“Where’s Tom now?” I asked. “Have you seen him?”
“No, but I know the procedure.” His voice was kindly and reassuring. “The flight team gives their report to the ER doc. Tom’s age, how many shots fired, how much blood loss, that kind of thing. The ER doc assesses and then acts.”
We said nothing for a few minutes. I looked around. Sitting in the waiting room felt like floating near the bottom of a deep well. Sunlight filtered through blue-tinted frosted glass and illuminated pale blue walls, dark turquoise chairs, navy blue couches opposite a wall of windows looking out on a busy hospital hallway. For the first time, I noticed that the room appeared to be full of women: women staring, women sobbing quietly, women listening with frozen faces to jammy-clad doctors giving them the news.
“They unloaded him hot,” I told Lambert, just to be talking. “That means - ” My throat shut.
The captain’s expression and tone did not change. “They gave him blood while they were assessing him.”
I could just imagine the ER team swarming around my husband: putting in IV’s that contained blood and glucose, taking blood pressure and pulse, hooking
up the heart monitor, checking for respiration and mentation, that is, assessing how cogent the patient is.
How cogently was Tom thinking when he told me he didn’t love her?
“They do X rays,” the captain continued in that maddeningly soothing voice. “Once they know what they’re dealing with and have their surgical team together, they’ll put him right in - “
The doctor appeared, a short, slender man with gray hair, pale eyes, and a greenish tint to his skin that might have been the effect of the neon lights. He introduced himself as Dr. Larry Saslow and asked if I was Mrs. Schulz.
“Your husband’s wound,” the doctor began, “is not as bad as it could have been. The bullet missed bone, but nicked a major blood vessel. The subclavian, heard of it?” When I nodded mutely, he went on: “A vascular surgeon is working on him now. He should be out of surgery in a couple of hours.”
I wanted to hold on to this man. I want reassurances! But I could do nothing but nod.
“Thanks. Good. Very good,” replied Captain Lambert before the doctor walked away. When I continued to say nothing, Captain Lambert mumbled he’d be back in a minute. Moments later, he lumbered back with two plastic cups of coffee that looked like recycled motor oil. “It’s better than nothing,” he said apologetically. Mechanically, I took a sip and instantly burned my tongue. “It’s great, thanks.” My voice sounded faraway.
“This is good news, Goldy. What the doc said. They’ll keep Tom in ICU overnight. A couple of our deputies can stay to check on him every hour, if you need to go home - “
“I am not going home,” I said fiercely. My hand trembled and coffee slopped onto my knee. I knew I needed to make calls, but I wasn’t ready. “Okay, okay. Stay here, then.” I was being unreasonable and shrill, and I didn’t want to respond to the graciousness of Captain Lambert this way. Still, I didn’t know how to act. So I just sat, prayed, and drank bad coffee. Finally, I asked the captain if he knew about a phone I could use. He said the waiting-room phone was ten feet away. Did I want him to walk over there with me? No, thanks.
First I called Saint Luke’s Episcopal Church in Aspen Meadow. Into the priest’s voice mail I crisply stated our news, adding that I was at Southwest Hospital and would be for the next twenty-four hours. I asked that Tom’s
