When Hearts Collide - By James, Kendra Page 0,9
“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