“Oh, Honey,” Ann said, stepping forward and
embracing him. She hugged him tight, not wanting to let go. She
wept, openly and unashamedly, as did everyone in the room.
Sunday, March 22, 1992; 10:45
P.M.
DR. EVAN MORGAN LEANED back in his favorite easy
chair and reflected on his love for Sundays. After years of keeping
a doctor’s schedule, he now enjoyed having a regular work week. As
an administrator, his workday was seldom longer than ten hours, and
he almost never went to the office on weekends. Instead, he played
golf with the doctors from his former practice. After the game he
would come home to his luxury downtown condominium on the
twenty-sixth floor of the Lyman Building. Once home, he would
leisurely read through the Sunday editions of the
Los Angeles
Times
and the
San Diego Union
. With his wife visiting
her sister in Bakersfield, the condominium was especially quiet.
For Morgan nothing could be better.
Actually, Evan was feeling a sense of euphoria.
Things at the hospital had quieted since Lisa Hailey’s unusual
event. Oh, there were still the crowds in the lobby, but he was
sure that they would start thinning any day now. He looked around
his home and felt a rush of pride and pleasure. The carpet was a
rich, deep-blue pile that contrasted with the light hues of the
wall coverings.
Unlike the contemporary decor of his office, his
home was more sedate—a concession he made to his wife. If she had
had her way, the entire house would be filled with antiques, but
Morgan had no desire to live in a museum. The compromise resulted
in a plush, traditional decor. His eyes paused on one of the many
watercolors he had collected. It was a portrait of his daughter
that he had commissioned. It hung in the most conspicuous place in
the living room, over the mantle of the fireplace.
The remote telephone on the coffee table sounded its
familiar beep. Morgan eyed it suspiciously before placing aside his
strong desire to ignore the call.
“Doctor Morgan, this is Aretha Miller. I’m the head
nurse in ICU. Something has happened here that I think you need to
know about.”
“How did you get my number?”
“Switchboard dialed it, sir.”
“Okay, what’s the problem?”
The voice on the other end of the line hesitated and
then blurted out the message, “There has been another incident
similar to the one that happened to the girl in the burn ward and
the man on the second floor.”
“I see,” Morgan said in a quiet voice that concealed
his shock and dismay. Looking at his watch he saw that it was
10:45. That meant the swing shift nurse would be there for a few
more hours. “Here’s what you must do.” Morgan’s voice was firm and
decisive. “No one, and I mean no one but doctors and other
essential personnel, is to enter ICU. Tell your nurses that they
are to talk to no one and they are not to leave—not for lunches,
not for breaks, not for any reason. I’ll be there shortly. Is that
understood?”
“Yes, sir!” the nurse snapped back with military
precision.
“Good. I want this contained.” He paused for a
moment then continued, “One more thing. I want you to call Dr.
Rachel Tremaine and tell her to meet me as soon as possible in
ICU.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do that.”
His voice softened. He could tell that the woman was
upset by what she had seen. “Aretha,” he said gently, “you’ve done
just the right thing. You are to be commended.”
After switching off the phone, he slammed it to the
floor and gazed, silently at the plastic and electronic pieces
scattered over the rug. This was not the way he wanted his Sunday
to end.
Sunday, March 22, 1992; 10:55
P.M.
“SIR, I’LL HAVE TO ASK you to leave now.” Adam
turned to see who was speaking. It was a short, stout nurse; her
nametag read Aretha Miller.
“It’s all right, nurse; I’m the family’s minister.”
Adam recognized her as the one who stood frozen with shock in the
doorway when she first saw David.
“You’ll still have to leave.”
“Why?” Adam sensed that something wasn’t right.
There was an indefinable quality in her manner that made Adam
suspicious. He had been asked to step out of hospital rooms before,
but only if a doctor or nurse were about to perform an examination
or treat a patient. The minister’s access to ill members of his
church had always been respected by the health care community and
held sacrosanct.
“Rules, Reverend, rules.” The nurse was resolute.
“Now if you don’t mind—”
“But I do mind.” It was not Adam’s intent to be
obstinate or rude, but every one of his ministerial instincts
warned him something was amiss. “I don’t wish to be difficult, but
something unusual has happened here, and as this family’s minister,
I believe I have a right to remain.”
David spoke for the first time. “It’s all right,
Pastor. I feel great, and I’m not going anywhere right away. The
truth is I’m a little tired. Maybe we can talk tomorrow.”
“We do have other patients, Reverend,” the nurse
persisted. Then turning to the members of the family who had
gathered in the small cubicle she said, “It would be best if you
all left so that Mr. Lorayne could get some rest. The doctor will
be here later, and I’m sure she’ll answer all your questions after
she’s had a chance to run some tests.”
“Perhaps she’s right,” Adam said, despite his desire
to stay. There was no use in pushing the issue. The nurse was
clearly upset, and Adam sensed that she felt pressured by the
sudden well-being of one of her patients. To push the issue would
only lead to an argument and upset the family. If he needed to take
the matter up with the hospital administrators later, he could. For
now, retreat was the best choice. “Tomorrow’s a big day for you
all. A good night’s rest would be good.”
David encouraged them all to go home to rest. Ann
leaned over and kissed her husband; a kiss that said welcome back
instead of goodbye. Her eyes were filled with tears again—tears of
joy.
“Miracles are probably old hat to you, Pastor,”
David said, “but isn’t this a hoot?”
“It certainly is. It certainly is.”
As Adam and the family left, he noticed that the
other ICU nurses had huddled together and were whispering
feverishly. No doubt they had a great deal to talk about.
Sunday, March 22, 1992; 11:15
P.M.
THIRTY MINUTES AFTER MORGAN had received the phone
call, he was standing in ICU reading David Lorayne’s medical chart.
Aretha stood next to him.
“Has his doctor been notified?” Morgan asked, his
words short and explosive.
“Yes, sir,” Aretha replied. “His physician is Dr.
Tremaine.” Morgan made no attempt to conceal his scowl, “Where’s
Dr. Tremaine now?”
“I called her as you asked, and she’s on her way in.
She lives in the Mission Valley area so she should be here
soon.”
As if fulfilling the nurse’s prophesy, Rachel came
through the door. Her eyes were red and puffy, her hair
disheveled.
“What happened to you?” Morgan asked coldly. “You
look like death warmed over.”
“I was asleep when the call came.”
“At 10 o’clock?”
“I’ve just finished eight hours in surgery.”
“I thought I made it clear that you were to work
only on the project I assigned you.” Morgan’s words were curt. He
was upset, and he didn’t care if the staff knew it.
“There hasn’t been another incident in nearly two
weeks and there were several surgeries that couldn’t be
rescheduled,” Rachel replied coolly.
“I can only hope that you are a better researcher
than you are an administrator.”
Rachel was furious. To berate a fellow doctor before
hospital staff was at best unprofessional. Maybe that's the
problem. Maybe he doesn’t see me as a fellow professional. To him
I’m just a woman playing doctor.
“I assume you’ve called me here for a reason,”
Rachel said as calmly as she could.
“Here, read this,” he said, thrusting the metal
clipboard holding David’s medical chart at her. “And follow
me.”
Dr. Morgan’s chameleon-like change astounded Rachel.
The moment they entered the tiny cubicle of David’s room, he was
cheerful and kind. “Mr. Lorayne,” he began, “I’m Dr. Morgan. You
know Dr. Tremaine. I understand you’ve had quite a night.”
“I’m afraid I don’t remember much,” David said
smiling. “I was pretty much out of it.”
Rachel looked up from the chart she was reading and
gazed at the latest miracle—her patient. What she had expected was
a pale, comatose man—that’s what he looked like yesterday when she,
despite Morgan’s orders to reassign her patients, checked on him
during rounds. What she saw was a healthy-looking, middle-aged
man.
“Your chart says that you were admitted for
surgery,” Morgan said.
“Ulcers. I’m afraid I don’t deal with stress very
well.”
“Do you remember anything after the surgery?”
“No,” David said slowly shaking his head. “To be
honest, I don’t even remember having the surgery.”
“Do you remember dreaming, or hearing the
conversations of nurses?”
“No. The last thing I remember is the anesthesia
mask being placed over my nose and mouth. After that, nothing.”
“How about tonight? Do you remember anything that
happened?” Morgan was persistent.
“No.” David paused, then, “Wait a minute. I do
recall something when I woke up, but it’s not very clear. It may
only be a dream.”
“I’d like to hear about it,” Morgan said in a
bedside manner that had been cultivated over the years.
“Well, like I say it may only be a dream, and it
isn’t much.”
“I’d still very much like to hear it.”
“Okay. All I remember is opening my eyes, but I
couldn’t see too much. I saw the ceiling first and then the light
coming in through the door. The strange thing was the light.”
“The light from the hallway?” Morgan was
puzzled.
“No. The blue light. There was a blue light all over
the room and all over the doctor.”
“What doctor?”
“The doctor standing next to me.”
“Was it Dr. Tremaine?” Morgan hesitated, then looked
at Rachel judging her response. She had her eyes fixed on David and
was clearly having trouble believing what she was seeing.
David thought for a moment and then said with a
slightly embarrassed grin, “No. Believe me, I’d remember if it were
Dr. Tremaine. Actually, I couldn’t see him very well. As I said, he
was covered in this pale blue light.”
“How do you know he was a doctor?” Morgan
inquired.
“Well, I don’t really. He was dressed like a doctor.
You know, in the white coat you guys usually wear.”
“What did he look like?”
“Just a guy in a white coat. I didn’t get a look at
his face.”
“Did he say anything?” Morgan was beginning to sound
like a police inquisitor.
“No. But he did shush me.”
“Shushed you?”
“Yeah. You know. He put his finger to his lips and
went ‘shush.’ ”
Morgan was exasperated. “Let me make sure I have
this right. All you remember is waking up, seeing a blue light and
this man in a white lab coat. Is that correct? Is that all?”
“I’m afraid so.” David was apologetic. “I wish I
could tell you more. Say, there’s no problem, is there? I mean the
guy is a doctor here, isn’t he?”
“There’s nothing to worry about. We’re just glad
you’re doing so well.” Morgan’s sweet disposition had returned.
“Dr. Tremaine, do you have any questions?”
“No, but with Mr. Lorayne’s permission I would like
to examine his incision.” David looked puzzled. “It’s just routine,
Mr. Lorayne. It will only take a moment.”
David nodded his approval. Rachel slowly pulled the
sheet back and away from David’s abdomen. Morgan leaned forward and
gazed intently.
Aretha gasped and covered her mouth with her hands.
Both Rachel and Morgan flushed.
“Incredible,” Morgan said. “Utterly incredible.”
They stared at David’s abdomen. Where a surgical
scar should have been was only healthy skin. It was as though David
Lorayne had never had surgery.
“Hey,” David said, “can someone tell me what’s going
on?”
OUTSIDE IN THE HALL that led to the ICU, Drs. Evan
Morgan, Rachel Tremaine, and Nurse Aretha Miller spoke in hushed
tones.
“This is unbelievable,” Morgan said, struggling to
keep his voice subdued. “Are you sure this man had surgery?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Rachel said evenly. “I removed part
of his stomach.”
“Are you sure you got the right man’s stomach?”
Aretha jumped in, “He definitely had surgery, sir. I
changed his dressing myself when he was first admitted to ICU. The
incision had healed normally and looked like a three-week-old
scar.”
“Well, this can’t be happening,” Morgan said,
squeezing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Things like
this just don’t happen.” The three stood in silence.
“What about the man in the lab coat?” Morgan asked.
“Did anyone else see him?”
Aretha shook her head. “After I spoke with you, I
asked all the ICU visitors to leave, and then I quizzed the other
nurses about what they saw or heard. And I, of course, gave them
your message. None of them saw or heard anything, but then the ICU
is full, and we were all pretty busy.”
“Great!” Morgan said forcefully. “So that leaves us
with a wide awake coma victim with a vanishing scar and no
eyewitnesses.” Turning to Rachel he asked, “What have you found out
about the other mystery cases?”
Without thinking, Rachel lowered her head. “Nothing.
I’ve amassed the medical charts and have started interviewing—”
“I want answers, Dr. Tremaine, and I want them fast.
Tomorrow you will reassign all your patients and devote full time
to this investigation. No excuses. If we’re not careful, these
events could bring down this whole hospital.” Then to Aretha he
said, jabbing his finger in the air, “I want a lid put on this. You
go back in there and talk to your people and tell them that if word
of this slips out to the media, heads will roll. Have I made myself
clear?”