Chapter 3: Trouble Found
Laura grabbed at the rail behind her as the elevator at The Royal London Hospital lurched to a start then rumbled upwards. She'd been battling a healthy dose of nausea for the last eight hours and a headache that made any she'd had before seem laughable. Now, the sudden movement of the elevator made her head swim. Maybe there had been something to the emergency room physician's advice, the evening before, about taking it easy for the next few days – not that it really mattered. Regardless of whatever discomfort her transcontinental trip had brought her, even if she'd been chained to a wall, she would have found a way to get here.
"Are you alright, hon?" Mildred asked for what had to be the tenth time in the last few hours. "You really don't look so good. Maybe you should get checked out while—"
"I'm fine," she elongated each of the words in emphasis. Mildred scowled and crossed her arms. Never had she met a pair more stubborn than her two kids, although they were quick to point to the finger at each other when making accusations of hard-headedness. With a bit of stubbornness of her own, she parted her lips prepare to scold the younger woman, when the elevator dinged to a stop and Laura slipped through the narrow space of the parting doors, leaving Mildred in her wake.
Sprinting as quickly as her wobbly legs would allow, she rushed towards the pair of doors at the end of the hallway over which a sign announced 'Critical Care'. Shoving through the doors, she made a beeline for the nurses' station where doctors, nurses and clerks answered phones, updated charts, watched monitors and milled about. She swayed slightly on her feet, her head spinning again when she lurched to a sudden stop at the desk. The movement caught a pair of eyes, and alarmed orders followed.
"Wheelchair," called one nurse to an orderly, while a doctor stepped around the station to grab her arm.
"Steady there." Her brows knit together, initially confused, then it clicked what a sight she must appear. She held up both hands, warding them off.
"I'm fine," she insisted. "Remington Steele? I was told he was here?"
"Mrs. Steele?" a masculine voice from the back of the station called. A slim man with salt-and-pepper hair and matching beard, rolled backwards in his chair to see her.
"Yes. I'm Laura Holt… Steele," she corrected with a mental crinkle of her nose. "Laura Holt Steele," she repeated, shoulders drooping. She had to pull it together. She and her Mr. Steele had played husband and wife any number of times. How hard could it be to pretend to be Mrs. Steele versus Blaine or Peppler? The tall man pushed himself out of his chair and rounded the station.
"Dr. Townsend, the Earl of Claridge's private physician. I imagine you'd like to see your husband," he speculated, exchanging handshakes with her then laying a hand on her back in an offer of support, should she need it. He held out his other arm, "If you'll just come with me, I can catch you up on where we stand once you've a moment with him." Panting, Mildred arrived just in time to hear the last and made to follow.
"I'm sorry. Only one at a time, I'm afraid," Townsend apologized. Mildred's face fell with disappointment and she nodded her understanding. "Rebecca if you'd see…" he looked at Mildred expectantly.
"Krebs. Mildred Krebs," she offered.
"Ms. Krebs to the waiting room, I'd be most appreciative," he finished, then with a small amount of pressure to Laura's back, urged her to walk along with him. "I should forewarn you, your husband is a frightful sight, and whilst I'd like to assure you his condition is not as bad as he looks, I'm afraid I can't."
"I didn't even take the time to ask what happened," she shared with the man. "Once I heard he'd been brought here, I was on the way to the airport."
"In here," he opened the door to a room, the patient concealed by a curtain near the bed expanded out to offer a bit of privacy. Without hesitation, she strode around the curtain. At her first glance of him, her footsteps hiccupped, then she rushed to his side.
"Was he in a car accident?" she breathed the question. She couldn't absorb the number of injuries to his face alone: Eyes swollen nearly shut, discolored black and a purple so deep it verged on eggplant; matching bruises were scattered along his jaw, his cheeks; both lips had been split; and, he sported stitches at his hairline in nearly the same location as the sutures she currently sported. Gingerly, she slid her hand beneath his, trying to avoid the IV lines and closing her fingers short of the IV ports taped to the back of his hand. "Mr. Steele," she called quietly to him, gently squeezing his hand. "Remington," she said more firmly when nary a lash fluttered.
"No, not an automobile accident. He was severely beaten to start," Townsend shared, then began ticking off Remington's injuries. "Both kidneys are bruised but expected to heal on their own, with time. Two partially fractured fingers on his right hand, both of which you can see we've braced. Four partial fractures of his ribs on his right side, three of the same on his left, along with two complete breaks, one of those puncturing his lung. He has a chest tube," the doctor indicated the larger rubber looking tube that fed into Remington's chest, "To relieve the pressure of the air leaking from the damaged lung into the pleural cavity. If all goes well, we hope to remove it tomorrow morning. He's taken numerous blows to the head. We're monitoring him closely for any signs of intracranial pressure. We're taking an extra precaution of keeping him heavily sedated to minimize his movement. If we make it to the twenty-four hour mark with no notable increase of pressure, we'll decrease his sedation and move to pain management. Once, he's awake and cooperative, we'll remove the chest tube. He's a fortunate man in many ways," Townsend assessed, contemplatively. "Had the bullet have entered a mere millimeter lower—" Her head jerked around and she stared at the man, dumbfounded.
"Wait. What?" She tried to piece together a coherent sentence as her thoughts tumbled all over themselves. "He was shot?!"
"Mmm, yes, close range to the chest, I'm afraid," he replied, almost apologetically. "Whoever did this to your husband was determined he not survive. As I was saying, only a millimeter lower and the bullet would have pierced his heart." She pressed her free hand over her eyes, the headache increasing in its intensity. Shot?! One question repeated itself in a loop in her head, so she spoke the words unsure if she was prepared for the answer.
"Is he going to live?"
"Let's say, we're guardedly optimistic at the moment," the physician answered forthrightly. "We've three areas of grave concern. First, he never regained consciousness between the period he was found and arrived in our emergency ward. We won't know until he awakens if he's sustained a traumatic brain injury, and if he has, to what extent." Laura nodded her understanding, her eyes on Remington throughout.
"You said three areas?" she prompted, as she carefully lifted a lock of hair back off Remington's face.
"Both going to the same concern of a potential brain injury," Townsend confirmed. "Between the loss of blood and his hypothermic state when he—"
"I'm sorry. Hypothermic state?" she asked, thoroughly flabbergasted. "It's the middle of summer!"
"From what we've been told, your husband was locked in a freezer and left to die. Had his friend not come along as he did, your husband's assailant would have been successful in his endeavors." That tricky floor swayed beneath her feet again. She'd come perilously close to losing him, and he still wasn't in the clear yet. Her face puckered when she felt something touch the back of her legs.
"What's say you have a little sit down while we speak?" Townsend suggested, easing her down on the high, rolling stool he slid behind her.
"I'm alright," she insisted by rote, even as she settled herself on the stool, never releasing Remington's hand.
"Yes, so you've previously said. Nevertheless, I'd like to have a look at you while we continue discussing your husband's prognosis," the doctor replied.
"That's not necessary. I'm fine," she reasserted. "It's not uncommon for Mr. Steele and I to sustain minor injuries in the course of our work."
"For the hospital's sake," he persisted. "We can't very well have you collapsing to the floor of our Critical Care Ward. Why the liability alone, to consider—"
"Fine," she huffed, seeing the commentary as an implicit threat to staying at Remington's side should she not acquiesce. "But I was already examined last night in Los Angeles, so I don't see the purpose. You were saying, the hypothermia and blood loss are also concerns. Why is that?"
"Either condition can cause a depletion of oxygen reaching the brain," Townsend elaborated as he rolled a second stool across the room to sit in front of her.
"Leading to an increased risk of brain injury," she surmised accurately. Pain ricocheted through her head when the doctor shined a penlight in each eye. Squeezing her eyes shut and holding up a hand, she shook her head, requesting silently that he stop. That movement of her head proved a mistake as nausea rolled over her. He slipped the penlight back in his pocket.
"Correct." He held up a finger approximately three feet away from her. "If you'll follow my finger with your eyes."
"So, we won't have any answers until he wakes." The tracking of her eyes brought with it another stabbing pain through her head and a wave of dizziness. She closed her eyes to ward it off.
"That would be an accurate assumption, yes." He dropped his hand and leveled a stern look upon her. "Without bothering with further examinations, I can state unequivocally that you are concussed. Did your physician in the States not warn you rest was imperative to the healing process?"
"He advised to take it easy for a few days," she confirmed, reluctantly, "But I'm sure he was no more anticipating M-… my husband being seriously injured half a world away than I."
"Did you clear this trip with him?" She tipped up her chin defiantly and averted her eyes from the man.
"Calling a doctor wasn't exactly foremost on my mind," she replied coolly, fingering her throat.
"I see. If I'm correct, you're suffering from headaches, dizziness and nausea?"
"It was a long trip," she justified. "I'm sure the jetlag is not helping. Can we get back to the matter at hand?"
"I imagine you plan to support your husband in his recovery?" Townsend speculated.
"Of course!" she answered, taken aback by the question.
"Then we'll need to get you healthy, as well," he returned. "I'd like to prescribe you amitriptyline to aid with the headaches, Phenergan to quell the nausea and Trazodone at night to help with any sleep disturbances you may experience and make no mistake about it, you need to rest often to aid your pwn recovery." Her face hardened.
"Look, if you're suggesting I check into the hospital, you can forget about it," she informed him emphatically.
"I never suggested you admit yourself," he corrected quietly, "The Earl has charged me to provide your husband care of the highest standard and it is my professional opinion that it is in Mr. Steele's best interests for you to be well. He'll need your assistance a great deal in days to come." Her shoulders slumped. How could she argue with that? And, truth be told, she felt like hell.
"Alright," she reluctantly agreed. He nodded his acknowledgement, then stood and buzzed the nursing station.
"Would I be correct to assume your line of work is responsible for the prior injuries your husband has sustained?" Townsend inquired, taking a pad out of his coat. The question made her brows furrow again. Prior injuries? Just how much had Mr. Steele been keeping from her.
"Prior injuries?" she asked in answer.
"X-rays revealed multiple healed fractures in his ribs, legs and to his right arm, and it appears he had a rather serious penetrating injury to his abdomen in the past year or so," he relayed, casually enough, but the words left her wincing. What was it Remington had once said to her?
"Uh, Laura, this Remington Steele you invented… I mean, he isn't a plumber."
If those injuries were all caused by their professional endeavors, the reminder of how many he'd sustained over only a few short years would have been cause for remorse. But that two of his more serious injuries were due – at least indirectly- to her, was cause for guilt to wash over her: One of those fractured legs could be chalked up to her secret admirer's attempt to eliminate the competition and those scars Townsend had referenced would never have happened if she hadn't done the one thing that would make Remington finally leave.
"For the most part, yes," she confirmed. She turned her attention back to the man in the bed, adjusting his hair again. "I'd like some time alone with him, if you don't mind."
"Of course. I'll just have someone go 'round to the chemist's and have these prescriptions filled." With that, he discretely left the room.
Left alone at last, Laura's eyes slowly roamed over Remington's face, arms and hands taking stock of the various contusions and lacerations scattered over his skin. Quick and light on his feet the man once known as the Kilkenny Kid wouldn't have taken this type of beating from a single person. There had to have been at least two – maybe more – involved. Tentatively, she lay her fingertips at his jaw, right below his right ear, one of the few areas on his face that wasn't discolored.
"What have you gotten yourself into this time, Mr. Steele?" she whispered…