Chapter 23: ICU - Lucidity

THE INTENSIVE CARE UNIT ON THE SEVENTH FLOOR OF ST. LUKE’S HAD a horseshoe design, with a series of conjoined, glass-fronted rooms built around a central nursing station. A level-one trauma center, Bernstein had worked at the hospital for over ten years. Now that Mt. Sinai had taken over both St. Luke’s and its sister hospital, St. Luke’s–Roosevelt, where he also worked, Bernstein told Fremmer he was considering a move. They’d made too many big changes, including renaming the hospitals and reducing his salary.

“It’s good they brought you here,” he said in a low voice as they rode the elevator to the ICU. “But you’d have been fine at Roosevelt. Your peds vs. car, not so much.”

This hospital was about twenty-five blocks farther from both his apartment and the location where Candace had been hit. Even so, they almost always brought major traumas to St. Luke’s. Roosevelt just wasn’t equipped for it.

“They brought John Lennon to Roosevelt,” Bernstein went on, not caring that there were other people in the elevator, including another doctor, who was looking straight ahead, pretending not to listen. “He wouldn’t have survived regardless, but he had no chance there. Zero. I know the guy who held his heart in his hand. He’s a good doctor. Good at what he’s good at anyway. But not the guy you want treating a gunshot victim who has minutes to live. Zero chance he was going to save him. Norman McSwain. Now that guy maybe. Ever hear of him? I worked with him in New Orleans during my residency. The man pioneered trauma. Saved people who couldn’t be saved. He was amazing. He might have been able to save Lennon.”

The elevator doors opened on seven and Fremmer said goodbye to Jamie. Then he and Bernstein stepped out and into the ICU. Fremmer was on the approved visitors list, but Jamie wasn’t. Bernstein didn’t want to complicate an already complicated situation by trying to bring him. He would wait for them in the lobby.

Fremmer noticed Candace’s daughter, Mia, standing against the wall with her face in her hands, crying. She was a sporty girl who went around in indoor soccer shoes with every outfit and was going to be very attractive one day, but was in a little bit of an awkward stage, gangly, with braces and some acne. Her friend’s mother Anna, the same woman who had helped him get access to Candace’s computer, was consoling her.

Mia’s tears quickly gave way to full-throttle sobs. Fremmer thought something terrible had happened, that Candace had died. He kept his distance until Anna noticed him standing there and made eye contact.

He didn’t know quite what to say, so he said nothing as she walked towards him. In her Athleta leggings and tight-fitting light blue sweat top, she looked like she was on her way to a yoga class. This was a woman who knew how to take care of herself, Fremmer thought. She was probably around fifty, but looked remarkably fit. Not a gray root was showing in her short strawberry blond hair, her skin was smooth and her makeup flawless.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” she said back. She took his arm and led him further away from Mia. “She’s having a tough time. They tried to lower her expectations, but she just wasn’t prepared. I probably shouldn’t have brought her.”

“What happened? I heard she woke up.”

“She did. But she didn’t know who Mia was. They don’t even know if she even knows who she is. It’s like one of those Twilight Zone episodes.”

Now she was dating herself a bit.

“But she’s able to talk?”

“Sort of. She didn’t say much. But apparently her speech center wasn’t damaged. It’s here somewhere,” she said, tapping the left side of her head. “In the frontal lobe. I’m learning a lot about how the brain works. She can see and hear. They say those are all good signs.”

Bernstein came toward them and Fremmer introduced him.

“You mind if I speak to the girl for a minute?” Bernstein asked.

Anna was happy to offer her consent. She’d been eager to step in and help after the accident, but Fremmer sensed that she was starting to get overwhelmed. She’d thought someone from Mia’s father’s family would take over, but no one had come forward. Mia had been relying on her friends’ parents for support, definitely not a sustainable situation.

“Hey, Mia,” Bernstein said. “Remember me? I’m Dr. Bernstein. I’m a friend of Max’s. I take his spinning class. I met you briefly the other day when you were visiting your mom.”

She nodded.

“Look, I know it’s tough but you’ve got to look at the bright side. Your mom woke up. She woke up now and that’s a good sign. I’ve seen patients who’ve been in comas for two, three months. Sometimes they never wake up.”

Mia nodded.

“This is going to be a long process,” he went on. “It’s going to take a while for her to get better. They may have to do more surgeries but eventually she’ll be moved to a special rehabilitation facility.”

“What if she never knows who I am?” Mia asked.

“I know it’s troubling, but it’s not something to be worrying about right now. The important thing is that she was able to see you and say something to you. What school do you go to?”

“P.S. 87.”

“You’re what, in fifth grade?”

“Yeah.”

“I went to public school. I bet they don’t have a lot of Escalades in front of P.S. 87 in the morning, do they?”

She shook her head. “No, not really.”

“Don’t laugh, but that’s how my wife rates a school,” Bernstein said. “She counts the number of Escalades out in front in the morning. That’s pretty silly, isn’t it?”

She smiled, exposing her braces. “One of my friends on the soccer team has a driver. Sometimes I get a ride to practice with her.”

“You know Max’s son Jamie? He’s a little older than you.”

Her eyes brightened hearing the name. She said she’d met him before. He was a year older. Or maybe it was two years, she forgot.

“Well, he’s downstairs waiting for us,” Bernstein said. “I’ve got to get something to eat. You guys want to come down with me and say hello?” he asked Anna. “I think it’d be good for both of you to get out of here for a bit. It can get oppressive. I know Jamie would like to see you.”

Fremmer wasn’t sure about that, but he didn’t say anything, especially since Mia seemed to think it was a good idea. She and Anna went back into the ICU to collect their bags, and when they did, Bernstein turned to him and said:

“I’m going to leave you with a nurse I know. You go in there and see if she’s responsive to you at all. Just talk softly. I’ll check on her later. They may put her back in a coma, but you didn’t hear that from me. It’s a good sign she woke up, though. I wasn’t lying to the kid.”

Fremmer nodded. Bernstein handed him off to one of the ICU nurses, a young Asian woman, who took him into the ICU. Only about half the beds appeared to be filled, and other than the beeps of the machines, the room was quiet.

Candace was sleeping. Fremmer studied her face for a moment. Aside from the fresh bandages covering part of her head and face, she didn’t look any different from when he’d seen her the other day.

“Hey, kid,” he said quietly. “I heard you woke up.”

With that her eyes fluttered open. She looked at him.

“Remember me? I’m the guy who helps publish your e-books. Max Fremmer.”

She stared at him. He didn’t seem to register.

“They’re all bestsellers now,” he said. “All four of them. You’re my first author to have a bestseller.”

As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted saying them. He was glad no else had witnessed his idiocy.

“Max,” he said a little louder. “Frem-mer.” He carefully enunciated his last name, as if that would help. “Do you know who I am?”

She shook her head ever so slightly. She seemed to have no idea who he was.

“Well, I’m a friend. I’m a friend who’s here to help.”

God, that sounded stupid, he thought. But what was he supposed to say?

“You were hit by a car,” he went on. “I’m sure they’ve told you that. It was bad. Very bad. You’re in a hospital. Do you know what hospital you’re in?”

“Stanford?” she whispered.

Stanford? Is that what she said? She’d spoken so quietly that he barely heard her over the beeps. But that was what he thought he heard. There was a town upstate in Duchess County called Stanford. Maybe she’d spent some time there. He knew people who rented summer houses there—or near there. But a hospital?

“Did you say Stanford?” he asked.

A slight nod. He decided to go with it.

“Is that where you live? In Stanford?”

“Menlo Park,” she said.

“Menlo Park? Menlo Park, California or Menlo Park, New Jersey?”

Edison had invented the light bulb in Menlo Park, New Jersey. A lot of people thought the one in California was named for Edison’s Menlo Park but the opposite was true. Now probably wasn’t the time for him to point that out to her, but it did cross his mind.

“California,” she said.

“You live in Menlo Park, California?”

She exhaled hard. It took some effort for her to speak.

“My husband tried to kill me,” she said.

“Your husband? Who’s your husband?”

“Ross,” she said.

“He pushed you in front of a car? You remember that?”

“No. No. He tried to choke me.”

She grimaced. None of this made sense. For a few fleeting seconds, he thought they may have made a mistake and had somehow got the identity of the victim wrong, that this wasn’t Candace after all. “Your husband Ross tried to choke you? What’s your name?”

Her eyes locked on him. He could see fear.

“Who are you? Are you a cop? Where am I?”

“You’re in St. Luke’s Hospital,” he said. “You’ve been hit by a car.”

“Go away,” she whispered.

“I’m a friend. I’m here to help. I publish your books. I’m a book doctor.”

“I don’t write books. Please …”

She then let out a noise that was a mixture of a groan and a scream, the noise a wounded animal makes. Not ear-piercingly loud, but loud enough for everybody on the ward to hear her.

“Go away,” she said again.

Soon there were two nurses and a doctor in the room with him, pushing him out of the way.

“What did you say?” the Asian nurse who’d brought him in asked.

“I didn’t say anything,” he said. “I told her who I was and that she’d been hit by a car.”

“You better go out now,” she said.

He went to smooth his hair back with his hand—it was a nervous tic.

“Is she going to be alright?” he asked.

When he reached up to fix his hair, his sleeve came down a bit and she noticed he still had his patient wristband on.

“Sir, are you a patient here?”

He looked at the band. He’d forgotten to cut it off.

“No. I was. Not anymore, though. They thought I tried to kill myself but I didn’t.”

Now she was looking at him with fear.

“I’m going,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’m going.”