maybe not. When you don’t ask, nobody says no.
She hoped she’d be able to recognize Sandie Schaeffer in this sea of ailing patients. Walking briskly past the nurses’ station and down the corridor that bisected rows of separate small patients’ rooms, she glanced right and left into each space as she passed. She found Sandie in a room about halfway down the hall, and she ducked inside.
Sandie was alone, lying perfectly still on the hospital bed, her lips dry and bluish, her head swathed in dressings, her arms, neck, and side hooked to tubes running from IV bottles and pouches. She looked pale, frail, and very small.
Maxi was about to say something to her when a white uniformed nurse bustled into the room. Above her left pocket she wore a plastic name tag, white letters cut into royal blue that read JANELLE ADAMS.
“Hello,” Nurse Adams said brightly. Which was not what Maxi expected her to say. What she expected to hear was “Get out.”
“How’s she doing, Ms. Adams?” she asked the nurse in a quiet voice.
Not so quiet, the bright-faced nurse said, “Actually, she stirred for the first time. This morning. She was trying to speak. Her doctor was very gratified. Are you her sister?”
“No,” Maxi said. “I’m a friend of hers, and the family. Her dad keeps me posted, of course. Bill.”
“Oh.” The nurse beamed. “Bill is wonderful. He’s here every day, most of the time twice a day, as you probably know. He was here this morning, talking to her—that’s when she tried to speak.”
“Yes, Bill is an early bird,” Maxi said, like she knew what she was talking about. “I’d like to try speaking to her a bit, tell her I’m here, and I love her. Is that okay?”
“Sure. That kind of stimulation is good for her, Dr. Stevens says. Let me get her pulse first.”
The nurse reached under the covers and lifted Sandie’s wrist, eyeing her watch as she did. “Strong,” she observed aloud. Then, “Y’know, you look like that newswoman—anybody ever tell you that?”
“All the time,” Maxi said.
“Well, don’t stay too long, now—don’t want to tire her out.”
“I won’t.”
When the nurse was gone, Maxi went around to the front of the bed and lifted the medical chart out of its metal holder. The inside cover had a card clipped to it; on it was a typed notation stating that only the patient’s father, William Schaeffer, was allowed to visit. Guess Ms. Adams wasn’t familiar with that order in the chart.
Skimming quickly over Sandie Schaeffer’s medical information, she noted procedures, medication, prognosis, and the rest of it, then closed the chart and dropped it back into its holder. Amazing that the woman was even alive, having sustained a gunshot wound to the head. Her chart recorded that the bullet had been removed in surgery. It would now be in police custody, Maxi was sure.
Coming back around to the side of the bed, she reached down and took Sandie’s hand in hers. Leaning close to her ear, she spoke softly. “Sandie. How are you? It’s Maxi Poole. Do you remember me?”
No reaction.
“It’s Maxi, from Channel Six. … I met you with Gillian, several times.”
She thought she felt the slightest pressure from Sandie’s hand.
“Can you hear me, Sandie?”
She felt another bit of pressure, a little stronger this time. Then, to Maxi’s astonishment, Sandie’s lips parted. Then closed again.
“Do you want to tell me something, Sandie?” she whispered. The two words, from the patient on the hospital bed, were barely audible. “Help … me.”
Maxi looked up to see if anyone had heard, then bent her head back down to the patient. And again she became aware of the barest pressure on her hand that held Sandie’s, so slight that she wasn’t sure she’d really felt it. Then came more halting but unmistakable words from Sandie Schaeffer: “He tried … uhh … to kill me.”
“Who?” Maxi said in an intense stage whisper. “Who tried to kill you,
She hoped she’d be able to recognize Sandie Schaeffer in this sea of ailing patients. Walking briskly past the nurses’ station and down the corridor that bisected rows of separate small patients’ rooms, she glanced right and left into each space as she passed. She found Sandie in a room about halfway down the hall, and she ducked inside.
Sandie was alone, lying perfectly still on the hospital bed, her lips dry and bluish, her head swathed in dressings, her arms, neck, and side hooked to tubes running from IV bottles and pouches. She looked pale, frail, and very small.
Maxi was about to say something to her when a white uniformed nurse bustled into the room. Above her left pocket she wore a plastic name tag, white letters cut into royal blue that read JANELLE ADAMS.
“Hello,” Nurse Adams said brightly. Which was not what Maxi expected her to say. What she expected to hear was “Get out.”
“How’s she doing, Ms. Adams?” she asked the nurse in a quiet voice.
Not so quiet, the bright-faced nurse said, “Actually, she stirred for the first time. This morning. She was trying to speak. Her doctor was very gratified. Are you her sister?”
“No,” Maxi said. “I’m a friend of hers, and the family. Her dad keeps me posted, of course. Bill.”
“Oh.” The nurse beamed. “Bill is wonderful. He’s here every day, most of the time twice a day, as you probably know. He was here this morning, talking to her—that’s when she tried to speak.”
“Yes, Bill is an early bird,” Maxi said, like she knew what she was talking about. “I’d like to try speaking to her a bit, tell her I’m here, and I love her. Is that okay?”
“Sure. That kind of stimulation is good for her, Dr. Stevens says. Let me get her pulse first.”
The nurse reached under the covers and lifted Sandie’s wrist, eyeing her watch as she did. “Strong,” she observed aloud. Then, “Y’know, you look like that newswoman—anybody ever tell you that?”
“All the time,” Maxi said.
“Well, don’t stay too long, now—don’t want to tire her out.”
“I won’t.”
When the nurse was gone, Maxi went around to the front of the bed and lifted the medical chart out of its metal holder. The inside cover had a card clipped to it; on it was a typed notation stating that only the patient’s father, William Schaeffer, was allowed to visit. Guess Ms. Adams wasn’t familiar with that order in the chart.
Skimming quickly over Sandie Schaeffer’s medical information, she noted procedures, medication, prognosis, and the rest of it, then closed the chart and dropped it back into its holder. Amazing that the woman was even alive, having sustained a gunshot wound to the head. Her chart recorded that the bullet had been removed in surgery. It would now be in police custody, Maxi was sure.
Coming back around to the side of the bed, she reached down and took Sandie’s hand in hers. Leaning close to her ear, she spoke softly. “Sandie. How are you? It’s Maxi Poole. Do you remember me?”
No reaction.
“It’s Maxi, from Channel Six. … I met you with Gillian, several times.”
She thought she felt the slightest pressure from Sandie’s hand.
“Can you hear me, Sandie?”
She felt another bit of pressure, a little stronger this time. Then, to Maxi’s astonishment, Sandie’s lips parted. Then closed again.
“Do you want to tell me something, Sandie?” she whispered. The two words, from the patient on the hospital bed, were barely audible. “Help … me.”
Maxi looked up to see if anyone had heard, then bent her head back down to the patient. And again she became aware of the barest pressure on her hand that held Sandie’s, so slight that she wasn’t sure she’d really felt it. Then came more halting but unmistakable words from Sandie Schaeffer: “He tried … uhh … to kill me.”
“Who?” Maxi said in an intense stage whisper. “Who tried to kill you,
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