Molly dashed to her car. The engine roared to life and gravel flew as she maneuvered the vehicle onto the highway. Having no idea where the hospital was, she had to keep up with the ambulance.
Gracie woke as the car lurched forward. “Daddy,” she sobbed. “I want my Daddy.”
“Your daddy got hurt in the accident. We’re going to the hospital to see him. Okay, Gracie?” Molly kept her attention on the receding strobe lights.
The child sniffed noisily. “Okay, Mommy.”
Was the child confused? Did it run in the family? Did she have a head injury, too? “I’m not your mother, Gracie. I’m Molly.”
“Molly, Molly.” The child giggled. “Molly Mommy, Molly Mommy.”
“Gracie, where is your mother?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Away.”
Molly shook her head.
What am I going to do?
The child seemed alert. What if there was no one to look after her? She glanced in the rearview mirror. Gracie seemed well taken care of, clean, dressed nicely, and she didn’t appear to have missed any meals. Surely there was no possibility of her having to go into foster care?
Even the thought of foster care made Molly’s chest feel like it was being squeezed in a vice. She had to protect this child. Maybe she should let the child call her mommy, at least until she found her real mother. Repressed maternal forces flooded through her, and she realized how badly she wanted a child of her own, a child just like this one.
A knot tightened between her shoulder blades, and she leaned forward. She needed to get the girl to the hospital as quickly as possible. She also needed to concentrate on her driving if she was to have any hope of safely keeping up with the speeding ambulance.
Shortly, the tree line thinned and houses appeared on either side of the road, the spaces between them decreasing in relation to the town’s proximity. Molly’s shoulders relaxed at the sight of the roadside hospital sign. She’d lost sight of the beacon of strobe lights miles before. Signaling, she took the specified cutoff, hoping if the sign didn’t lead her to the hospital, she could stop and ask for directions.
Fortunately the town was small and the hospital sat on the main road. The three-story yellow brick building had a still-new glow, the landscaping not yet in full promise. It was ten-forty, and the parking lot only partially filled. She found a spot close to the emergency room doors.
“We see Daddy now, Molly Mommy?”
Molly took a deep breath and hoped she wasn’t lying. “Yes, we’ll see him in a bit, but I want the doctors to check you over first.” How many doctors would a hospital this size have available to see patients, especially this time of night? Would they all be busy looking after the child’s father?
She carried the car seat into the triage area of the emergency department. A nurse, just finishing up with a patient, took Molly next.
“I’m Sarah. How can I help you?”
“The ambulance just brought Pearce Taylor in. Gracie was in the accident with him. She needs to be seen, too. How’s he doing?”
“They’re working on him. I don’t know his condition.” She turned to Gracie. “Let’s get this little one seen.”
Molly followed the nurse to an open area with several parallel stretchers lining one long wall. She set Gracie and the car seat on the rubber mattress. The nurse did a quick assessment—identical to Molly’s, except she had the proper equipment to take a full set of vitals.
“She looks fine, but I need to get help. We’ll put her on a backboard, get a plastic cervical collar on, and do some x-rays. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Two minutes later, Sarah returned with another nurse and a tall, fair-haired man in operating room greens. “Gracie, this is Doctor Graham.”
“Hello, Gracie. How are you?”
“I want my daddy.”
“Well, let’s get you looked at. The other doctor is looking at your daddy right now.”
“How is he?” Molly heard the tremble in her voice. “No one’s told me yet.”
“The ambulance drivers said you’re a nurse.”
“Yes. I know he has a broken leg, and possibly a subdural hematoma, and maybe abdominal injuries, but...”
“It looks like you may be right on all counts. They’re doing a CT scan on him now, head and abdomen. I’ll tell you as soon as we know anything.”
Molly tried to smile, but with worry over the child and the child’s father, she could barely whisper a quick, “Thank you.”
“Now, let’s make sure this little tyke has no injuries.” He turned to Gracie. “Okay, Missy.”
“I’m not Missy. I’m Gracie.”
Doctor Graham grinned. “Well Gracie, let’s get you out of that car seat and check you out.”
The backboard was readied and in unison the doctor and nurses lifted Gracie out of the car seat and onto the board. Molly’s job was to provide the child with constant reassurance. Whimpering, Gracie’s tiny hand clawed at Molly’s. “Molly Mommy.”
“It’s okay, honey. The doctor just needs to check you.” Molly hovered over the child while the doctor did a rapid exam. Then they were whisked off to x-ray. Chest and neck x-rays were normal, and they were back in the emergency department twenty minutes later. Dr. Graham approached the bed.
Gracie, afraid of more probing, clutched Molly’s hand and started to scream. Molly did her best to calm the child. When the child’s cries had diminished to intermittent sobs, Molly asked, “How is Pearce?”
“He’s back from his CT scan, and they’re waiting for the surgeon.”
Hearing her father’s name, Gracie’s screams intensified. “Daddy. I want my Daddy.”
“Once I check you over, I’ll go see how your daddy is doing. Okay?” Doctor Graham reassured her.
The screaming slowly settled, ending with a loud responding sniff that extended to her abdomen. The cervical collar restricted Gracie’s nod.
After a few more loud sobs, Gracie let Doctor Graham approach. His exam was gentle and took only a couple of minutes. He asked her all the routine head injury questions: can you tell me your name, your age, your address. He checked her pupils and had her squeeze his hand. Satisfied with his exam, he gave Molly a reassuring nod, then turned to Gracie. “Let’s take off this nasty collar.”
Molly let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
The doctor slid the collar off and handed the child to her. Gracie’s small frame fashioned itself into her, her tiny arms fusing like cling wrap to her neck.
“She’s a very lucky little girl,” Doctor Graham said. “I’ll give you a head injury instruction sheet. Bring her back to see me if you have any concerns.” He handed her a sheet of colored paper, then disappeared behind a closed door, the trauma bay.
Nurses scurried in and out of the room, and Molly knew there would be more of a flurry going on inside. She pictured what was happening behind the doors, an intravenous being inserted, drugs being given, tests being completed, and a hundred other things. She wanted to be in there with this man she oddly felt such a connection to. She wanted to be involved in his care, and she wanted to be helping to save his life. Yet all she could do was wait.
When Doctor Graham returned a few moments later, Molly recognized his grim expression and felt a lump form in her throat. How many times had she worn the same one when giving family bad news?
“Where’s my daddy?” Gracie demanded.
“The doctor’s are making him better. Can I talk to your mommy?”
Gracie increased her hold and buried her face in Molly’s chest. “No.”
“If you ask that nurse over there, I bet she’ll get you a Popsicle.”
Gracie peeked at him, then announced, “I’m hungry.” Detangling herself, she trotted over to the nurses’ station and demanded a Popsicle.
Doctor Graham’s voice was terse, low, lacking emotion, just offering the facts. “They have a team of doctors working on him. He’s had CT’s done. He has some abdominal injuries. They aren’t sure of the full extent yet. The left leg is broken in a couple of places. His blood pressure is on the low side. He needs to go to the operating room as soon as possible. We need you to sign the consent.”
Molly shook her head. “But...”
“He wants to see you.”
“He’s alert?”
“Barely. He’s in shock. You can see him for a minute, then we have to get him into surgery.”
Molly followed the doctor into the trauma bay. Pearce lay on the gurney surrounded by a blur of faces and technical equipment. The nurse’s part of her brain heard the beep of the cardiac monitor and registered that it was too fast, but the other part of her brain thought of a poor child who might be fatherless unless he had surgery. She crossed the room and, standing by the bed, she reached out to take his hand. She leaned in close. “Pearce.”
His eyes fluttered open, yet it took several seconds for him to focus. His voice, muffled and faint, shocked Molly with the words. “My angel.”
Was he still confused? But she couldn’t help the way her heart reached out, and instinctively she squeezed his hand.
He tried to move, but slumped back into the mattress, his eyes fluttered briefly. When they opened again, he gazed directly at Molly. “You are an angel. You saved my life. Take care of Gracie.” His eyes closed. “I trust you, Molly.”
She wanted to make him open his eyes, make him tell her who she needed to contact, make him tell him who was their next of kin. She called his name, but his eyes remained closed.
“You have to leave now. We have to get him to surgery.”
Molly heard Gracie screaming in the hall and with a final glance at Pearce, hurried to comfort her. The child latched onto Molly’s legs, remnants of red Popsicle coating her face and T-shirt.
“Just sign here.” The doctor shoved the consent form at her.
What to do? Did Pearce’s brief roused state and request for her to look after Gracie include making life and death decisions for him, too?
Dr. Graham said, “He won’t live without the surgery.”
Molly scribbled on the line indicated, and the doctor was gone before she could turn around. Grabbing a wad of Kleenex, she wiped off the traces of red from Gracie’s face and the tears from her own eyes.
Moments later they wheeled Pearce out of the room, enclosing him in a sea of rolling equipment and faceless medical staff. Brown adhesive held a breathing tube in his mouth, and a respiratory technician pumped air into his lungs. A white sheet barely covered his muscular torso, allowing Molly a view of a broad, muscular chest with cardiac monitor wires pasted between the silky black hairs.
Her gaze riveted on the procession. Pearce Taylor was unrecognizable as the attractive man whose aid she had come to less than an hour before. Tears slid down her cheeks for this man whose wife she pretended to be. Holding Gracie tight to her chest, Molly rushed over. “Pearce.” She reached out to touch his hand, but the stretcher whizzed past her.
“We have to go,” a doctor in blood-stained greens barked at her.
Molly jumped back. The gurney sped down the hall, soft-soled shoes slapping on the tile floor, machines beeping, an oxygen tank rattling beside the bed. The elevator door flew open, and the wall of people disappeared inside. When the doors closed, Molly felt a part of her went with them.
What now? What if he doesn’t make it out of the operating room?
Why was she so worried? This was all pretense. Yet her heart felt trampled by a herd of stampeding buffalo. Molly shook her head. She should just give Gracie to the nurses and walk away, but something made her intensify her hold on the child.
After a moment, she followed the nurse’s directions to the waiting room. The subdued pastel walls were meant to soothe and comfort, but that only lasted for so long, and Molly was past that. She tried to be patient, tried to read, tried to pace, but Gracie’s clinging arms made activity virtually impossible. The coffee was hospital grade–terrible, but she drank a second cup. She had long ago run through her repertoire of songs to amuse small children. Molly tried to stop looking at the wall clock, which seemed to be trapped in slow motion.
Gracie’s pale arms clung to her neck and her head had tucked its way into the valley between her breasts. Her whimpers had finally settled, and only the occasional torso-heaving sob escaped her. Molly kept her hand on the child’s back, rubbing in a circular pattern any time the child threatened to rouse. She glanced down at the child in her arms and the sudden rush of maternal feelings shocked her. Is this what every mother feels?
It was all well and good enjoying this rare maternal moment, but she needed to contact the child’s real family. Yet multitasking with a child proved not to be her forte. Looking up Taylors in the phone book, dialing the numbers, and keeping Gracie asleep at the same time proved more difficult than she would have imagined. She’d roused three angry P. Taylors before she heard Pearce’s baritone on an answering machine. It was set to ring four times before going to the machine. She ran out of quarters trying to rouse someone at that number. What now?
Thanks to the ambulance drivers telling everyone she was his wife before she arrived at the hospital, she hadn’t had to say anything. She went along with it, digging herself into a bigger hole. As soon as Pearce Taylor was out of surgery, she had to find Gracie’s next of kin. She would go to his house and wake up whoever was there. Molly looked at the clock. Almost three hours had passed. Molly leaned back in the seat and let her eyes close.
The whoosh of the automatic doors wrenched her awake. Gracie, still in the safety of her arms, shifted, let out a loud sob, then settled again. A doctor, his operating room greens wrinkled and blood-stained, strode toward her. Molly tried to stand, but he motioned her to stay put. He sat beside her, his smile gentle. She found it hard to breathe. Was it good news or...?
“I’m Doctor Summerville. He’s out of the woods, for now. I hear mostly due to your quick action at the scene. He’s very lucky. He had a laceration to his intestine, but we were able to repair it. His tibia and fibula were broken.” He shook his head. “Bad break. It’s been pinned in place. He had a small subdural hematoma. We drained that. He needs to be monitored. He’ll be in the intensive care unit for a couple of days.” He paused. “The next twenty-four hours will be the most crucial. If he makes it past that...”
“Yes, that first twenty-four.” Her throat tightened. “What is his prognosis?”
The doctor was startled at her question. “What medical background do you have?”
“I’m an intensive care nurse.”
He smiled. “Hence the quick first aid at the scene. Lucky for him.” The hands that had lain quietly in his lap now waved as if balancing on a teeter-totter. “He should recover completely, with time. He’s going to be sedated and on a respirator overnight.” He smiled gently. “You look beat. I think you should have a quick peak in on him, and then get this little one home.”
Molly protested, but he’d already walked away. He called over his shoulder, “A nurse will be out once they have him settled.”
Pins and needles shot up Molly’s left arm. She wiggled her fingers, trying to urge them awake. She should get up and stretch, but she couldn’t move. Gracie, after an hour of inconsolable demanding to see her father, was finally in a deep sleep. Her howls had diminished to sobs, then to sniffling, then to hiccups racking her small frame. Now only an occasional gasp and moan escaped her. Molly didn’t dare move and wake her until the nurses came for them.
Gently, Molly brushed strands of blond hair off the angelic face. Thank God, the child had emerged with no injuries. Gracie’s long, tear-coated lashes lifted briefly, exposing luminous blue eyes, then curled closed again. Molly studied the translucent eyelids, her hand instinctively circling the small of the child’s back. Gracie sighed back to sleep.
“Mrs. Taylor?” A clerk held a clipboard and attached pen.
Gracie stirred, her eyes drifted open, and she let out a cry. Molly rocked gently. “It’s okay, Gracie. Go back to sleep. It’s okay.”