Page 31 of A Matter of Pedigree
“I’ll need some information,” she said, taking Carole’s arm and attempting to steer her toward a desk.
“That’s my son!” protested Carole. “I have to be with him.”
“Against policy,” insisted the woman, as Frank suddenly loomed behind Carole.
“Let go of my wife,” he said.
The woman looked up and, seeing Frank’s expression, let go. Frank was in motion, and the woman stepped aside, letting them continue through the swinging doors to the curtained bay where Frank-O was being treated. Frank pulled the green curtain aside and demanded, “How’s he doing?”
A number of doctors and nurses were bent over Frank-O; one seemed to be in charge and was talking steadily to the others, who responded with curt answers. It was enough to drive you crazy, thought Carole, who wanted to scoop up her baby in a big hug and make everything all right.
After getting a nod from the guy in charge, one of the team members broke from the group and approached Frank and Carole. He tried the arm tactic on Frank, but it didn’t work; if Frank didn’t want to move, he didn’t move. “How’s my boy?” he asked.
“Let’s go outside,” said the doctor, Dr. Huang, according to the name embroidered on his white coat.
Carole felt desperate; she was hanging on to Frank’s hand. All she could think of was that awful nightclub fire years ago when a rock band’s pyrotechnic display sparked a quick-moving fire. A hundred people were trapped inside and died in the flames; others made slow and agonizing recoveries, but were scarred for life, both physically and emotionally.
Frank glared at the doctor. “I got a simple question for you,” he said. “Is he gonna make it?”
The doctor looked at Frank as if he were seeing him for the first time, then nodded and pulled down his mask. Carole thought he looked about sixteen years old.
“Is he burned or what?” demanded Frank.
“As far as we can tell from the initial exam,” said the doctor, holding up a cautionary hand, “he does not appear to have any burns, but …”
Frank let out a big sigh of relief. Carole waited to hear the rest.
“… smoke inhalation is our major concern right now,” continued the doctor.
“But you’re giving him oxygen, right?” asked Frank.
“Smoke inhalation is tricky,” warned the doctor. “The symptoms tend to get worse before they get better.”
“Meaning?” asked Carole.
“He will have to be watched very carefully, especially for swelling; we have to make sure his airways remain open and that his brain hasn’t been oxygen starved. We’ll sedate him tonight, to keep him comfortable and allow his body to begin healing. He’ll be in the ICU, where he can be monitored.”
“But he’s in no immediate danger?” asked Frank.
“Can we stay with him?” asked Carole.
“Once he’s settled in the ICU,” said the doctor. “But I have to warn you, if his condition changes, you may have to leave.” He was looking past them, at the woman with frizzy gray hair who was hovering behind them. “But now I think you have to provide some information to admissions.”
Frank gave him a look, but the doctor wasn’t fazed. “Like I said, your son is in no immediate danger, and we’ll let you know as soon as you can see him.”
“Okay,” said Carole, taking Frank’s arm. “Let’s get this over with.”
One thing about Frank, he didn’t skimp when it came to health insurance for his workers or his family. Even the admissions clerk was impressed when he handed over his card and her computer produced the platinum plan. Frank-O was on the move by the time they finished, and they followed the little procession to the elevator that took them up to the ICU. There, the beds were arranged in a circle of curtained bays surrounding a central nursing command post. Everything was high-tech; Frank-O’s bed was surrounded by an array of beeping and flashing monitors. Frank-O himself was quiet, a peaceful little island surrounded by all the machinery.
There was one recliner by the bed, and the nurse brought a small armchair for Carole; they sat and watched and waited. Eventually, Frank dozed off, but Carole remained awake, watching every rise and fall of her son’s chest. Her thoughts wandered back to the night he was born and how she’d held him to her breast, concentrating on every swallow of milk that he took as if she could will him to feed and grow and thrive. She eventually began to relax when she became convinced that he was a normal, healthy baby, but whenever he got sick, even with a little cold, the old anxiety would reassert itself. Then she would hover over him, willing him to get well with every fiber of her body. And it was physical as much as mental; she was rooted in place and couldn’t pull herself away until she knew he was going to be okay.
Carole was unaware of the hours passing, but the sky was pink with dawn when a nurse urged them to go home.
“He’s really doing fine,” she reported, after checking his vitals. “Why don’t you go home and get some rest, eat something …”
Carole suddenly remembered that they hadn’t had any supper the night before. And poor Poopsie! She must have been upset, alone in the apartment all night. And by now she would be more than ready for a walk. But still, Carole was reluctant to leave.
“He’ll be here when you get back,” the nurse told her, brushing Frank-O’s hair off his brow. “Honest. And we have your cell phone number if there are any changes.”
