Chapter 3

“I am sorry to give you such a two-edged thing, but I can’t say what turn things are going to take.”

-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Five Orange Pips

I was filled with adrenaline. I didn’t even look over my shoulder for cops as I sped the short distance to Billings Hospital, a huge complex on 59th Street connected to the University of Chicago Medical School. Like all medical school hospitals, it teemed with students in lab coats, cops, EMT’s, security, the occasional medical professional, and the patients. The staff was, however, very organized and duly recorded my lie when I pretended to be Tom’s sister in order to get to see him. Shortly, a young candy-striper with big teeth and long, thin arms took me down a corridor into their treatment area. She pointed to a wall painted institutional green.

“You’ll have to wait right here,” she said, flashing those white teeth.

I spotted Tom. He was lying on a gurney in the cubicle across the hall. Six medical types surrounded him performing various tasks. One had collected Tom’s clothes, and I caught a glimpse of blood on his shirt and pants as they pulled the curtains around the cubicle. After that, all I could see were pieces of elaborate equipment being wheeled in and out of his cubicle and a lot of activity.

“What happened to him?” I asked the volunteer.

“Oh, I couldn’t tell you that. You’ll have to talk to the doctor. Let’s see.” She flipped through some papers on her clipboard. “Oh, it’s Dr. Willows on duty this morning. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

I was worried. I felt queasy. I couldn’t sit so I paced back and forth. What the hell had happened and how bad was it? It seemed an eternity before an attractive red-haired woman approached.

She removed her wire-rimmed glasses. “I’m Dr. Willows. Are you the sister?”

“Yes. How is Tom?”

“He’s in a coma, but we’ve gotten him stabilized. Got a concussion, of course, but there doesn’t seem to be any abnormal swelling of the brain. We’re monitoring that.”

She put her glasses on and read from his file. “Whole left side badly bruised. Dislocated shoulder. Right ankle and wrist sprained.” She closed the file and looked at me. “Let me put it this way, we don’t know the extent yet of any internal injuries. Falls like this often provoke internal bleeding that doesn’t show up right away, even on X-rays.”

“A fall?” I winced. My knees buckled. I leaned against the sickly green wall for support.

“Didn’t you know? We won’t be able to tell for another couple of days if there are any spinal injuries. Overall, he’s a very lucky guy.” She touched my arm. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Take a few deep breaths,” she suggested as she looked at her watch. “We’re giving him a full MRI. Then he’ll be moved to intensive care where he’ll be monitored closely for internal bleeding and spinal involvement.”

I kept shaking my head no, alarmed at his condition.

“The cops are anxious to interview him as soon as he’s out of sedation,” she continued. “We’ve put him on some heavy duty pain medication at this stage, so he might not make much sense when he wakes up. Oh, here’s the cops.”

While she huddled with them in hushed tones, I tried to get rid of the lump in my throat and digest the scope of Tom’s injuries.

Dr. Willows returned, clutching the paperwork to her chest. “They want to talk to you. They’ll be in the waiting room.”

“Doctor, wait a minute. Are you suggesting that he might have spinal injuries and he could be... paralyzed?” I had trouble getting the word out.

“What I said, I believe, was that we have to wait at least a day or two before we know anything for sure.”

I must have looked as sick as I felt because she smiled sympathetically and said, “I’m sorry. That’s the best I can do. My advice - pray.”

A balding male nurse with several tattoos and an earring in his left ear approached and handed me a large plastic bag. “Here’s the patient’s things.”