Authors: Nancy Thayer
They landed safely enough. Gardner gently ushered her through the bustling airport and out the glass doors to the line of waiting taxis. Joanna sat silent with apprehension as they passed through the Callahan Tunnel and wended along Boston’s crowded streets and avenues, finally entering a congested, narrow street shadowed by looming buildings. Suddenly a paved courtyard opened up on the left and Massachusetts General Hospital rose up into the sky with a vigilant and stony dignity. On either side of its tall central tower long brick arms projected, so that the hospital seemed literally to reach out with open arms, welcoming, offering sturdy hospice.
Inside the hospital, Gardner quietly shepherded her through the wide central corridor thronged with nurses and doctors and lab technicians and visitors carrying flowers and bandaged patients out for a spin in their wheelchairs. The core of the building housed the elevators which Joanna and Gardner rode to Bigelow 13 and the Sumner Redstone Burn Center. The doors slid open. Joanna took a deep breath and stepped out.
The hall was wide and smooth and glossily clean. Gardner took Joanna by the arm and led her to the nurse’s station.
“Hey there, Dr. Adams, how’re you doin’?” The receptionist, a sensationally gorgeous black woman, greeted them with a smile.
“Hello, Rosalyn. I’d like you to meet Joanna Jones. She’s come to see Madaket.”
“That’s great. I’ll get Lisa to take you in.” Picking up the phone, she pressed a button, spoke briefly, then told them, “She’ll be right down.”
“How’d you do on your phlebotomy exam?” Gardner asked, and as he stood chatting with the receptionist, Joanna found some of the chill thawing from around her heart, and her breath melting more deeply into her lungs. She realized that she’d been unconsciously envisioning a grim, unnatural, exigent place, where caregivers with deeply furrowed brows rushed through air shivering with the moans of people.
“Hi, Gardner.” A nurse in green scrubs approached them. She was young and pretty, with tangles of curly brown hair; perhaps in order to offset any nuances of flirtatiousness given off by her unavoidable good looks, her expression was solemn,
almost formal, and her movements efficient and deliberate. She held out her hand to Joanna. “I’m Lisa Hale, the charge nurse.”
“Hello. I’m Joanna Jones.”
The nurse shook Joanna’s hand briefly but firmly. “I’d like to tell you something about Madaket’s condition before you go in.” Her eyes flicked to Gardner quickly, then back. “I’m sure Dr. Adams has already described some of this to you, but I’ll go over it, just so you’re not alarmed. Madaket’s in our Bacterial Control Nursing Unit. It’s necessary to protect a burned patient from infectious germs, to which the patient is susceptible because the skin, which usually protects the body from infection, has been broken. Also, these units house special laminar flow vents which keep the air sterile and the temperature and humidity comfortable for the patient. Burn patients tend to feel cold; they have difficulty maintaining body temperature because their skin is injured.”
Lisa paused and waited, gauging Joanna’s reaction. “I understand,” Joanna told her, nodding.
The nurse nodded in return. “Madaket is also on a respirator. She has tubes in her throat, because of the swelling in her tissues, and she’s not going to be able to talk. She won’t be able to write messages to you either, because her hands are bandaged. She’s going to be groggy. She’s on morphine for the pain. And she’s going to look dirty to you. That’s because we put silver nitrate on her burns, and contact with air turns it black. But she’s not dirty; her wounds are cleaned every two hours. All right?”
“All right.”
“This way.”
Lisa turned and Joanna and Gardner followed. At the door to the large room housing four BCNU units, they stopped.
“Just look a moment, Joanna,” Gardner said.
Joanna complied. All four beds were surrounded by transparent walls of clear plastic suspended from metal rods and extending to the floor. In the bed nearest her a man lay unconscious, swathed in white gauze from head to toe. Across the aisle from him were two empty beds. On the fourth bed lay a still white figure covered with white blankets, head and chest and hands bandaged in gauze. Her arms were strapped into long foam-cushioned metal troughs hanging from a metal bar ringing the bed.
The nurse must have followed Joanna’s eyes. “Her arms are kept raised to prevent swelling,” she informed her.
Madaket was lying very still. She didn’t even seem to breathe. Outside the plastic room a computerlike monitor flickered. Tubes snaked from the wall at the head of her bed and into her nose and arm. Gardner put his arm around Joanna to steady her.
“Take your time. Look at her now. Prepare yourself before you talk to her.”
“Yes. All right.”
“Remember, you don’t want to frighten her.”
“No.”
They approached the bed.
“Hello, Madaket.” Joanna leaned against the plastic sheet, looking in.
Madaket opened her eyes. They were dazed with pain, dark holes of suffering sunk inside the white, mummylike wrappings.
“Oh, Madaket. My dear.” Joanna turned to the nurse. “Could I touch her?”
“Yes. First you’ll need to wash your hands and put on gauntlets.”
“I’ll be right back,” Joanna assured Madaket, and hurrying after the nurse, washed her hands with pHisoHex and slid on the enormous thin plastic gloves the nurse handed her; they enveloped her from fingertip to shoulder. Returning to the bed, Joanna waited while the nurse parted the plastic walls at waist level, making a slit through which Joanna pushed her arms. For a moment she stopped, unsure just where to touch the young woman, and then her emotions took over. She needed desperately to touch Madaket. She wanted to pick the young woman up and hold her in her arms. She wanted to comfort and console her, to take the pain away.
“Her upper arm?” Joanna asked the nurse. “Here? Will it hurt her here?”
“Around her elbow’s best. You can see—she wasn’t burned there.”
Joanna lay her hands on Madaket’s arm just above the elbow, and felt through the plastic the yielding cushion of Madaket’s live flesh, and choking back tears which had suddenly clotted her throat, she caressed the unburned skin.
“Madaket. Sweetie. How can I ever thank you? You saved my life. You saved Christopher’s life.”
Madaket’s eyes were black but shining, intense, it seemed to Joanna, with a desperate need to hear and speak and connect. Joanna’s words came out in a rush, she couldn’t say it all fast enough. “Madaket, listen, you’re my daughter now, you’re my family and Christopher’s, I think you’ve always been. I love you like my own and I loved you that way before the fire but didn’t realize. I’ll take care of you always. When you
come out of the hospital, you’ll live with me as long as you want to. I’ll take you to Europe, I’ll buy you your own car—oh, Jesus, Madaket, how could you have done that, run into the fire?”
Gardner put his arm around Joanna and pulled her back upright and Joanna realized she had been bent almost double in her anguish. “Easy there. Don’t frighten her. Tell her about Christopher,” he suggested quietly. “Tell her about where you’re living now.”
Joanna nodded. She took a deep breath. Her throat convulsed with her efforts not to sob. She leaned back in toward Madaket. “Christopher is fine, perfect, not a mark on him. All because of you.” Madaket’s eyes were avid. She tried to think of something, anything. “And we’re staying at the Hoovers’, in their guest room, and people are so kind, so many people have brought clothing and baby equipment. Madaket, Marge and Harry Coffin came by. They brought a check for you from the community, from everyone on Nantucket. A thousand dollars! The high school’s collecting clothes for you. They are all so concerned about you. Everyone sends their best wishes.”
Madaket’s lips moved, but the tubes prevented any communicable sound from forming.
“What?” Joanna leaned over.
“I think she’s asking about Bitch and Wolf,” Gardner said.
“Oh, Madaket, I don’t know. I don’t think—”
“We think they were in the house, Madaket,” Gardner said, leaning against the plastic toward the young woman’s face. “But I’ll go back out and look in the area. Just in case.” He put his hand on Joanna’s shoulder. “All right. We should go. You rest, Madaket. You’re in good hands.”
“I’ll come back soon and as often as I can,” Joanna promised, and leaning forward, she pressed a kiss onto the plastic sheet. When Madaket closed her eyes deep within the bandages, it looked as if a light had been extinguished.
Out in the hall, Joanna conferred with Gardner and the charge nurse.
“How long will she need to be here?”
Gardner cleared his throat. “The doctor in charge told me it should be about a month. We have to see how she heals and whether or not she gets infected.”
“Can I come visit her?”
“Of course,” Lisa replied. “Probably it will do more good for her if you come
when she’s out of the BCNU and can communicate.”
“When will that be?”
“I’d say she’ll be out of BCNU in about three more days. Her burns are actually minor, at least compared to what we get here. I tell you what. I’ll give you our phone number and you can call us here every day to check on her condition.”
“Thank you. Thank you for everything. I appreciate all you’re doing.” Joanna turned to Gardner. “Tell me, please. How will Madaket look once she’s healed?”
He reflected a moment, then answered, “I think her hair should grow back all right. Her face will be quite scarred.”
“You’ve seen the burns?”
“Yes.”
“Will she need skin grafting?”
“There’s always that possibility. It takes a long time for skin to grow back, so it will be a while before we can determine what is necessary or desired.”
“Gardner, tell me the truth. Will she ever be as beautiful as she was before?” A pensive smile fell across Gardner’s face. “I think so.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” Lisa said, handing Joanna a slip of paper. “Here’s our phone number. I must go. I’ve got a meeting …”
“Of course. Thank you. I’ll be calling you.”
Lisa nodded and hurried off. Joanna took one long look at the doorway to the room where Madaket lay, then said to Gardner, “There’s nothing we can do for her now, is there?”
“No.”
“Then I guess I’m ready to return to Nantucket.”
Then together in a companionable and meditative silence Joanna and Gardner retraced their steps through the hospital and out to a waiting taxi which took them to the airport. In the echoing lobby they sank into molded plastic seats and waited for their flight to be called.
“Are you okay?” Gardner asked.
“Yes. Just very tired.” Joanna studied the physician’s face. “You look tired, too.” A thought occurred to her. “Have you been seeing your regular patients as well as flying to Boston?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“Oh, Gardner, no wonder you’re exhausted.”
“It’s only the traveling that fatigues me. Practicing medicine is what keeps me sane.”
An almost maternal affection rushed through Joanna as she realized how powerful the compassions of the heart were behind Gardner’s handsome face. The fire, the deaths of Todd and Doug, the injuries to Madaket, all this had touched many people, she realized, and she patted Gardner’s arm in a gesture of comfort, and found that the gesture also brought some little comfort to her.
Once again the plane ride was tempestuous, and Joanna closed her eyes in reaction, and to her surprise awoke from a deep sleep as the plane was touching down in Nantucket. Gardner had driven to the airport, and they found his Bronco in the parking lot and rode together in peaceful exhaustion to the Hoovers’ house.
The front door opened before they could knock. Pat stood holding Christopher upright against her nubby black sweater with one arm, and with the other she manipulated the baby’s hand so that he waved at Joanna.
“Mommy, Mommy, you’re home!” she squealed, then laughed. “What is it about babies that makes a person talk like a cartoon character? Joanna, you look exhausted, come in out of the cold. You, too, Gardner. You both could use a drink, and I’ve got a bouillabaisse and some homemade bread waiting for dinner.”
Gardner helped Joanna take off her coat, and Pat placed Christopher in her arms and Joanna went off into the guest bedroom to nurse her baby. Pat brought her a glass of warm apple cider. Joanna watched her son as he nursed, blissfully happy to hold his familiar weight in her arms again. She ran her fingers over the delicate fuzz of his scalp and down the perfect, glistening, silken pink of his cheek.
“Joanna?” Pat approached her softly. “There’s a phone call for you. It’s Tory. Can you talk? We’ve got a portable phone, I can bring it to you.”
“Yes, please,” Joanna answered, and when Pat had brought her the phone, said, “Hi, Tory.”
“Oh, Joanna!” Tory was crying. “We just returned from Mexico and heard the news. I can’t believe it. How are you?”
“I’m very tired.” She discovered she had no energy for conversation.
“Oh, Joanna, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry! I can’t believe this! After all your hard
work, to lose everything like this!”
“Tory,” Joanna said quietly, “all I lost was a house.”
Late the next afternoon Jake arrived. He’d just heard the news from a friend of Tory’s and had chartered a flight from New York and rented a car and appeared at the Hoovers’ front door, as laden with bundles as Santa Claus. Pat and Bob invited him in and they all settled in the living room with drinks. Christopher had been fed and was awake and bubbling and wriggling happily in Joanna’s arms, and Joanna sat on the sofa holding her son so he could watch while Jake unpacked before Joanna’s surprised eyes: an enormous box of Godiva chocolates, five just-published hardback novels, a four-ounce bottle of Joy, four complete baby outfits, a snowsuit, and all sorts of clever toys for Christopher. A brightly colored daisy full of clicking beads especially pleased the baby boy, who grinned beatifically at it and tried to maneuver it into his mouth for further inspection.
Laughing at the sheer excess, Joanna leaned across and kissed Jake lightly on the cheek. “Jake, thank you. What a lot of loot!”