Could I Have This Dance? (57 page)

Ramsey Plank set the phone in the cradle and smiled. This case could be a rainmaker. The university was going to pay big for improperly observing the resident staff.

The intercom clicked. “Mr. Plank? I have Franklin Peters on line two.”

Ramsey’s grin broadened.
He wants to settle before trial.
“Franklin. So nice to hear from you.”

“Cut the pleasantries, Ramsey. I think after yesterday you should want to hear from me. I’ve spoken with the malpractice carrier for the hospital and Dr. McCall. We’re ready to make a deal.”

Ramsey nodded his head and said nothing.
I knew it.

“We are ready to settle for 150,000 dollars.” He let the offer hang without further explanation.

Ramsey snickered, chuckled, then didn’t try to hold back a full belly laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding. What is the life of a six-year-old worth?” He paused. “That’s a slap in the face to my clients.”

“I know your clients have lost a great deal. But you’ve got to know that you’re on shaky ground, Ramsey. There is no way to prove that my client’s actions were responsible for the patient’s outcome.”

“The patient’s outcome was death, Franklin. Think about that. You’re insulting my client.”

“My client may not have been watching the moment the little girl’s IV became disconnected. We are ready to concede that. But her actions cannot be proven to have caused the death. You have to be reasonable.”

“How do you think a jury will feel? What do you think they will do when they know that Claire McCall slithered away from the Apple Valley so that no one in faraway Lafayette would know about her family history? Your doctor is a walking time bomb, Franklin. I’m sure a jury will see her for what she is. And let her tremble just once in front of the jury, and I’ll make sure they wonder if your doctor is already showing signs of her secret family illness.”

“You’re on thin ice, Ramsey.”

“You’re the one making the offer to settle.” He tapped his fingers on the top of his mahogany desktop.

“You have to know that I’ll push the autopsy issue.”

“And I’ll show the jury it’s all an attempt to cover the truth.”

“Come on, Ramsey. You’re the one blowing smoke. Bringing up her family history was a low blow. It’s irrelevant.”

“I noticed she hadn’t told you either, Franklin. That should tell you something about your client.”

“Ridiculous. Dr. McCall is an outstanding young—”

“Save it for the jury, Franky. You’ll need to come up with a lot more money to make me go away. I’ve got an obligation to protect the public from clients like yours.” Ramsey could almost feel Franklin’s anger through the phone. He imagined Franklin’s cheeks reddening and smiled.

“We’ll get back to you, Ramsey.”

Ramsey leaned back in his leather chair and put his feet on the edge of his cluttered desk. “Just think about the image of a laughing little six-year-old on her birthday. Flash that in front of the jury and see if they think she’s only worth 150K.” He scoffed. “You’re dreaming, Frank. You’re dreaming.” He set the phone down in the cradle without saying good-bye.

It wasn’t time to be pleasant anymore. His opposition was on the run, and Ramsey was in the driver’s seat right behind them.

Claire spent the night in restlessness, answering pages, assisting with an operation on a facial dog-bite patient, and checking on Clay.

Della and Wally declined Claire’s offer to stay at her home, preferring to stay in the hospital guest house across the street. It was closer, and Claire didn’t have a car anymore anyway.

Clay wasn’t improving. At midnight, his blood pressure began to sag, and the trauma resident inserted a special pulmonary artery catheter to monitor his blood volume. Medications to support his pressure were infused through continuous drips, and although his pressure improved, his kidneys began to fail. His lungs began to fill with fluid, and more oxygen was administered to compensate.

By six A.M. trauma rounds, Clay’s liver began showing signs of shock, and his clotting factors were depleted. More blood was transfused to keep up with ongoing losses from his operative sites.

By ten A.M. his brain swelling worsened. The family was summoned. The end could be anytime. Claire was released from her intern duties to
sit with Clay. Della and Wally huddled together in the corner of Clay’s room. Margo was kept abreast of the situation, but couldn’t leave her girls at home alone. A chaplain prayed for Clay and prayed for the family.

Residents came in and explained all they could. Clotting factors were infused, but Clay’s bleeding problems continued. The attending surgeons came in and talked to Claire, and began hanging crepe. “We’ve done all we can.

Claire watched it all in disbelief. How often had she been on the other side, looking in on families in despair?

Della sobbed.

Wally prayed for a miracle.

At two o’clock, the chief resident on the trauma service, Blaire Bickett, asked the family for permission to classify Clay as a “No Code.” The end was inevitable, he explained. Why should they put Clay through chest compressions for no benefit?

Della agreed and buried her head in her hands.

Wally agreed and prayed louder.

Claire pulled the curtain to screen out the rest of the ICU and the world beyond.

At 2:37, Clay McCall’s cardiac monitor registered a flat line. Dr. Bickett shut off the ventilator, leaving Claire, Della, and Wally alone.

Chapter Forty

C
laire left the intensive care unit in a daze, walking numbly down the hospital corridor, not really attentive to her path. Down the stairwell, into the lobby, and past the gift shop she plodded. In an alcove just beyond the pay phones and before the rest rooms, a small chapel sat, sandwiched between them, labeled with a small sign. She’d not stopped there before, having passed it in her clinical duties hundreds of times without a thought, but now, in her moment of sorrow, it seemed to beckon.

The door was propped open, and, to her relief, the room was empty. The chapel was small, with eight short padded benches in two columns bordering a center aisle. A wooden cross hung on the far wall, and two stained-glass skylights cast a colorful mosaic around it.

The carpet was red, providing a sharp contrast to the white benches. Claire selected the last row and sat down. Her emotions flooded to the surface. Life was not going as expected. She was doing her part. She was trying to be faithful to her calling. So why was everything so hard?

She stared at the cross and cried. She cried for a twin who’d grown up and away, and who now would only be a memory. She cried for her family who seemed inept to deal with another tragedy. She cried because of her own hardships, for her struggle to fulfill her dream, and every roadblock that threatened to get in the way. And she cried because she felt so lonely. She yearned for Brett, and for the comfort she was sure he’d offer.

Then, for the second time in recent days, she felt a gentle wooing, the subtle sensation that she was missing out on something important. There was something just beyond her reach, a longing for love not yet experienced, the feeling that she’d forgotten something, but couldn’t quite place what it was. God? She’d heard others talk of peace and intimacy with God. They spoke of him as a father, even a lover. She dropped her head.
Haven’t I been working hard enough? Isn’t this the work you’ve called me to perform? Then why do I feel so empty?

A man in a dark suit stepped in and sat down across the aisle from Claire. She dried her cheeks, and supposing him to be a hospital chaplain, offered him a nod.

His eyes were blue, his hair gray. His smile seemed genuine enough, and the smell of peanuts was apparent when he spoke, even from across the aisle. “You seem disheartened. Have a loved one in the hospital?”

The thought of pouring out her problems to a stranger seemed unnatural to Claire, but his smile was so alluring that she began to drop her guard. “Yes.” She sighed. “My brother.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He was in a bad accident. He just died this afternoon.”

The man shook his head. “This must be so hard for you.”

“He was so young. Do things like this ever make any sense?”

The gray-haired man shook his head. “Not very often.”

It wasn’t the answer she expected.

“Sometimes I can bring a little help in situations like this.”

Claire studied him. He seemed sincere. “Help?” She hung her head. “Nothing can bring my brother back.”

“Nothing can make up for the loss you’ve experienced. But my boss can help. There may be something that can ease your suffering and help to bring a little compensation. A small point of light in an otherwise bleak situation, you might say.”

“Your boss?” She smiled. “1 guess that’s a code word for God.”

He returned a chuckle, and the smell of roasted peanuts greeted her again. He shrugged. “God?”

“I appreciate a chaplain with a sense of humor.”

The man leaned forward. “Chaplain?”

Claire locked eyes with the stranger. “I’m sitting in a chapel. You’re offering me help from your boss. I thought you were speaking of God.”

“My boss thinks he’s God.” He laughed again, this time louder. He handed her a business card. “Ramsey Plank, attorney-at-law.”

Claire’s jaw dropped. This man worked for Ramsey! He was the man she’d seen in the cafeteria! She wanted to scream, to tell him what she thought of his ambulance-chasing, conniving tactics. “Why, that—” The words stuck in her throat. Her face reddened and she counted to ten, looking from the floor to the wooden cross.

Then, suddenly another idea struck her, and she shifted in her seat and leaned toward the man across the aisle. “My brother’s liver was injured. He had surgery and he seemed to do okay for a while, but then, he started bleeding again, and in spite of everything they tried, they couldn’t help him. Maybe they made amistake. Maybe he shouldn’t have died.”

“These are difficult questions, uh, Ms…” He held out his hand.

“Elizabeth.” She responded, noting the smooth texture of his palm. “I read in the paper recently about a little girl who died in this hospital after a liver injury. Isn’t Mr. Plank helping her family?”

Peanut Breath grinned. “Yes. He’s sure to win that one. The family will be able to live quite comfortably on what Mr. Plank is going to get for them.”

“I didn’t catch your name,” she responded, touching his shoulder.

“William Davis,” he said, grinning. “But you can call me Billy Ray. All my friends do.”

“Would it be possible for me to speak to the family, Mr. Davis?”

“Billy Ray.”

She nodded. “Uh, Billy Ray,” she corrected. “Could I speak to the family? As a reference, I mean, to see if they are pleased with Mr. Plank’s service. I wouldn’t want to sign on with Ramsey Plank unless I was sure his customers were happy with him.”

“I’m sure Mr. Plank wouldn’t mind that a bit. I’d be glad to contact them and give them your name. I can have them call you directly if you like, then you can just—”

The squeaky wheel of Wally’s chair interrupted his sentence. “Claire! We’ve been looking for you!”

Claire looked up to the familiar voice of her mother. Della hugged her daughter warmly, then turned her attention to the man. “Don’t I know you?” She paused for a moment, tapping a sculptured fingernail against her temple. “Harvey Bridges! You’re the insurance salesman!”

She turned to Wally, who sat beside her in the wheelchair. “You remember Mr. Bridges, don’t you, Wally?”

Wally looked glassy-eyed toward the cross and said nothing.

Claire offered a thin smile to the man her mom called Bridges. “You’ve met my mother?”

“Uh, no, I don’t believe we’ve—”

“There must be a mistake, Mom. This man works for Ramsey Plank, a local attorney. He’s no insurance man.”

The man seemed to relax a bit.

“I could have sworn …” Della’s voice trailed off as she studied the man who was now looking the other way.

“Now, back to our conversation,” Claire said, standing. “Please tell Ramsey’s client that I want to talk. Tell her my brother just died, and I want to know if Ramsey did a good job for her.” Claire couldn’t keep from sneering just a little when she added, “Have her call E. Claire McCall. I’m in the phone book. But Ithink that Roger already has my number.”

The man looked stunned. Finally, a lightbulb had gone on. “Dr. McCall? I–I had no idea who—”

Claire pointed her finger at his forehead. “By the way, Mr. Davis, obtaining my medical history under false pretenses is an ethical violation! I’m sure the judge will be very interested in how Ramsey Plank does his case research.”

“You baited me. You’re not dressed like a doctor. How would I know—”

“I’m not working as a doctor today. My brother’s dead, and your boss can’t help me!” With that, Claire pivoted and stormed from the little chapel.

As she left, she heard Della beginning a tirade in a volume unacceptable for both hospitals and chapels. “I never received the packet you promised! And that phone number was disconnected!”

That evening, Claire nestled against Brett’s shoulder as they drove along the beach road in the orange Chevy pickup. “Thanks for letting me borrow your car. I should have known you’d come to my rescue again.”

“You haven’t driven it yet. You might want the truck.”

He slowed down and pointed to a damaged guardrail. “That’s the spot.”

“Pull over, Brett. I want to see.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Come on. I want to see my car. They haven’t moved it, have they?”

“I don’t think so. I bet they have to get a crane to lift it out of the rocks.”

She squinted at the road’s edge. “You can’t even see it from here.”

Brett eased his foot back on the accelerator.

“Come on, Brett. Stop. I want to look around.”

“Look, it’s awful, okay? Blood. Death. A mangled car. I don’t want to go down there again. It’s eerie.”

Claire could see he was serious. She sighed. “Maybe you’re right.”

“I know I am.” He stared straight ahead silently until he pulled into the parking lot across from his town house. “I’m sorry about Clay. I wish I’d known him. If he’s anything like you, I’m sure I’d have liked him.” He planted a kiss on her nose.