She hopes – distantly, because Adele's tachycardic now and her blood pressure is pushing fatal, and Richard's eyes, two glass panes of despair, are following her every move through the trauma room window – that no blood got on the dress. It's a vaguely ridiculous (not to mention wholeheartedly selfish) concern, and she realises this, even as she barks at Brooks to order a CT and prepares to wheel the gurney through Grace's winding corridors, watches from her peripheral as Richard wilts in the arms of the two orderlies who prevent him from following.
There are, of course, much more important things to be worrying about.
Like the ruptured small intestine (that's probably already septic, because that's just the way things have been going lately) on Adele's CT. And the terrified confusion of her Alzheimer's addled brain that means she has to have Richard consent to the surgery, his hands shaking in a way that a surgeon's never should when he scratches the pen across the dotted line.
She spares a thought to her wedding party, too; pictures Ben's relaxed, easygoing smile as he assures their friends and family that she'll be there right away, probably a last minute hair or makeup emergency, they know how girls are. Because he trusts her. Trusts that she is coming. And she knows – beyond all reasonable doubt – that even if she showed up two hours late and half the guests had given up and gone home, he would not have. He would wait for her. He would smile, and tell her she looked perfect, and would marry her without questioning her lateness or the blood stains on her white dress.
She hopes – distantly, because Adele's losing blood faster than they're pumping it back into her body, and the tear in the intestinal wall is rippling outwards too fast for her sutures to catch it – that when she hands over a valid receipt, crisp and crease-free as the day she made the purchase, and a dress with bloodied beading, the bridal shop will be as forgiving.