Brain Child Page 0,23
what would happen. It was a matter of deciding when to remove the respirator and let Alex go.
She didn’t know how long that thought had been in her mind, but she knew she was beginning to get used to the reality of it. Sometime today, or perhaps tomorrow, after all the test results had been studied and analyzed, she and Marsh were going to have to make the most difficult decision of their lives, and she wasn’t at all sure either of them would be up to it.
If Alex’s brain was, indeed, dead, they were going to have to accept that keeping Alex alive the way he was was cruel.
Cruel to Alex.
She stared again at all the machinery, and momentarily wondered why it had ever been invented.
Why couldn’t they just let people die?
And yet, she realized with sudden clarity, even though she understood the reality of Alex’s situation, she would never simply let him die.
If she were going to, she would have done it already. During the last two hours there had been plenty of opportunities. All she would have had to do was turn off the respirator. Alarms would have gone off, but she could have dealt with that. And it wouldn’t have taken long—only a minute or two.
But she hadn’t done it. Instead, she’d simply sat there battling her feelings of despair, strengthening her resolve not to let him die, and whispering encouraging words to Alex as she held his hand.
And even though part of her still insisted that Alex was already dead, the other part of her, the part that was determined that he should live, was growing stronger by the hour.
Suddenly the door opened, and Barbara Fannon stepped into the room, closing the door behind her.
“Ellen? It’s eight o’clock—you’ve been here all night.”
Ellen turned her head. “I know.”
“Marsh is in Frank’s office. They have the test results. They’re waiting for you.”
Ellen thought about it for a moment, then slowly shook her head. “No,” she said at last. “I’ll stay here with Alex. Marsh will tell me what I need to know.”
Barbara hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll tell them,” she said, then let herself out of the room, leaving Ellen alone with her son.
* * *
“It’s bad,” Frank Mallory said. “About as bad as it can get, I’m afraid.”
“Let’s see.” Marsh’s whole body felt drained from the shock and exhaustion of the last hours, but for some reason his mind was perfectly clear. Slowly and deliberately he began going over the results of all the tests and examinations that had been administered to Alex during the long night.
Mallory was right—it was very bad.
The damage to Alex’s brain was extensive. Bone fragments seemed to be everywhere, driven deep into the cortex. The cerebrum showed the heaviest damage, much of it apparently centered in the temporal lobe. But nothing seemed to have escaped injury—the parietal and frontal lobes showed extensive injury as well.
“I’m not an expert at this,” Marsh said, though both he and Mallory were well aware that many of the ramifications of Alex’s injuries were obvious.
Mallory decided to take the direct approach. “If he lives at all, he won’t be able to walk or talk, and it’s doubtful that he’ll be able to hear. He may be able to see—the occipital lobe seems to have suffered the least amount of damage. But all that’s almost beside the point. It’s highly doubtful if he’ll be aware of anything going on around him, or even be aware of himself. And that’s if he wakes up.”
“I don’t believe that,” Marsh replied, fixing Mallory with cold eyes.
“Don’t, or won’t?” Mallory countered gently.
“It doesn’t make any difference,” Marsh replied. “Everything’s going to be done for Alex that is humanly possible.”
“That goes without saying, Marsh,” Frank Mallory said, his voice, reflecting the pain Marsh’s words had caused. “You know there isn’t anyone here who wouldn’t do his best for Alex.”
If Marshall heard him, he ignored him. “I want you to start by getting hold of Torres, down in Palo Alto.”
“Torres?” Mallory repeated. “Raymond Torres?”
“Is there anyone else who can help Alex?”
Mallory fell silent as he thought about the man to whom Marsh was considering turning over his son.
Raymond Torres had grown up in La Paloma, and though there was little question in anyone’s mind of the man’s brilliance, there were, and always had been, many questions about the man himself. He had left La Paloma long ago, remaining in Palo Alto after medical school, returning to La Paloma only to see his mother—old María