An Apple A Day
Four
Crusher, Selar, and almost half of the nurses in sickbay labored feverishly over Paul for hours. At times it seemed they were in the clear, and at others it was impossible to turn any corner. In the end, Crusher worked for more than an hour after she should have called the case. At that point, even if he had lived, he likely would never have woken up. Beverly tried to tell herself she was not stalling, that she was not trying to buy time before she had to break the news to Sheila. Finally, she had looked up into Selar's dark black eyes. Their logic was inescapable, and Crusher felt ashamed that she'd let it go as far as she had. "Time of death, 19:46 hours." She stepped back and gently set down the instrument she'd been using in a futile attempt to re-close the severed capillaries around his heart. They'd considered implanting an artificial heart, but the collateral damage from the trauma had obliterated his aorta, vena cava, and almost all tributary veins and arteries. His chest would have been a mish-mash of metallic and plastic alloys, and he had just been deteriorating too quickly to even replicate the necessary replacements. Even in the 24th century, Beverly was not God – though she was loathe to admit it.
Nurse Powell stepped in to begin cosmetically repairing the body. Normally Beverly would have stepped away and let her staff finish. It did not seem right in this case. Paul had been her crewman, her responsibility. She began to assist, as did Selar. She would not stay long – she needed to go talk to Sheila. But for now she wanted these few minutes of quietude to gather her thoughts. She would cry when she broke the news to Paul's widow, of that she was certain. Usually she was quite able to maintain her professional demeanor, difficult as it was. She may spend the rest of her week off-shift crying in her own quarters. She might become a bit short with her staff or friends, but she could maintain when she needed to. But this time, this case was too much. Sometimes circumstances conspired against you – and in this case the conspiracy was vast.
Beverly sighed and stepped back from the table. Already tears streaked her face. She nodded to Alyssa and Selar, backing slowly away. Her hands were shaking – she shoved them into her labcoat. She paused momentarily before activating the doors out of the OR and took a deep breath. 'Here we go Beverly. You can do this.'
She waited a moment more before tapping her comm. "Crusher to Troi." Try as she might, she could not keep the waver from her voice.
"Troi here. What can I do for you Beverly?" Deanna's tone was filled with concern.
"We lost Paul Wells. I'm going in to tell Sheila. Can you come to my office?" Beverly worked to keep her breathing deep and regular.
"Absolutely, Beverly – I'm on my way." Her voice was soothing. Crusher sent up a silent thank-you to whoever might be listening in thanks for Deanna Troi.
She walked out into the main bay, which was still fully lit and hectic despite the waning hour. Crusher pulled aside an ensign, who nodded toward her office. She stopped at two of the biobeds on the way. After what seemed an eternity, she walked into the alcove where she knew Paul's family would be waiting. Sheila sat with Matthew on her lap, her back to the door. The apple the boy had so carefully created for Beverly this morning (another eternity ago) still sat on her desk, as red and shiny as ever.
She stepped forward and laid a hand on Sheila Wells' shoulder. The woman looked up through eyes that were already filled with tears. Beverly's heart tore as she saw the desperate hope in the woman's face, quickly replaced by utter despair when she saw the tears in Beverly's own eyes.
"No, Beverly. No. Please." Sheila clutched Matthew tightly against her chest. The boy was quiet. Crusher knew why – he did not understand what was going on, but he did understand that his mother was very, very upset – and that his father was not there.
"Sheila, I am so sorry. We did everything we could." Crusher hated making platitudes. They were always meaningless. Even Beverly could not understand what this woman before her was facing. She could empathize, but even she could not know exactly what Sheila was thinking – and her words were hollow. Suddenly, the room was too hot – her uniform was too tight – the lights in her office too bright.
Deanna walked in, and Beverly lifted Matt from Sheila's lap. The woman sat, still and and unresponsive. Crusher brushed the hair from Matt's warm face and ran a hand down his cheek. There was a world of pain in his future, and it was just beginning. She shifted him to her hips and set him in front of the Counselor. Deanna knelt down to greet him and took his hand. She spoke to him softly, and after a moment she led him out into the corridor, toward her office where she would do the best she could to explain this awful reality. When she was able, Sheila would join them.
Beverly turned back to the distraught widow. Sheila sat with her head in her hands, elbows on her knees. She placed her hand on her shoulder and knelt on one knee beside the woman, trying as best she could to offer some small comfort, one moment of companionship in what would become and endless and violent sea of loneliness.