A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn
By Somogyi
Chapter 3
"Doctor, he's coming 'round."
Bobby heard the sound of voices around him mixing with metallic clatter, hissing, and the beeping of machinery. Something smelled like alcohol-the antiseptic kind. Where was he?
He was laying down flat on his back, that much he could tell. He reached his left hand to his side, felt the scratchy cotton of a sheet on a thin mattress, a slightly thicker blanket covering him. As his hand moved further to the side, he felt the coolness of metal. Moving his fingers, he was able to wrap them around a bar that was a few inches above and parallel to the mattress.
He realized that something was on his index finger, lightly pinching it. When he attempted to move his other hand to remove the object, he felt a stinging in his right inner forearm just below the crook of his elbow. It felt like a needle, and was accompanied by a sharp tug on the nearby hair, like when you start to remove a band-aid.
Where the hell was he, and what was being done to him? What enemy had managed to capture him, and what sort of sick tests or means of torture were they attempting?
His head was pounding fit to burst-and the pain was focused right behind his eyelids. Slowly, reluctantly, he forced them to open. All he could make out was the beige of a ceiling and fluorescent lights. Blinking, he tried to will the world to come into view.
"Dr. Foxx, he just opened his eyes."
Doctor? Did that mean. . . ? Was he not a prisoner? Could he be in a hospital?
Suddenly, he was looking up at the blurry oval of a face. The person was Caucasian, with dark hair. Beyond that, he could not even tell if it was a man or a woman.
"Mr. Drake, can you hear me?" came a woman's voice. He felt a cool hand on his brow.
"Y-yeah," he croaked before erupting into a coughing fit. His throat was incredibly dry. "Th-thirsty. . . ."
"In a minute. I need to examine you first."
Before Bobby could utter another word, a bright light blinded him.
"Jesus Christ! What the hell-!" He tried to raise his hand to protect his eyes.
"Easy, sir," came a second woman's voice as he felt a pair of warm hands gently lower his arm back to his side. "Just let Dr. Foxx do what she needs to."
Once again, Bobby was assailed with an intense light focused right over his eyes. It made his head ache ten times worse.
"PLRs intact-both direct and consensual," he heard the first voice say, the one that apparently belonged to Dr. Foxx. Once more, he felt a cool touch on his forehead. It was oddly comforting despite the throbbing inside his skull. "Mr. Drake, how many fingers am I holding up?"
"This many," Bobby said, raising his right arm and flipping her the bird. "Where the hell do you get off trying to blind me?"
Ignoring his hostility, she forced her expression to remain neutral. "Follow my finger please," she said as she moved it back and forth, watching how well he tracked it. "Do you know what day it is?"
"Thursday. The President is George Bush-the not-so-bright son, not the broccoli-hater dad. We're in Westchester, New York-at least I was before I was brought here. My favorite color is sky blue, my favorite number is three, and I've got an Excedrin headache the size of Mount Rushmore. So instead of torturing me with your Maglight, how about you get me a couple of Tylenol and some water to wash it down and ease my parched throat? There, did I pass your stupid fucking test?"
This time the doctor scowled as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Paula, would you mind getting Mr. Drake two extra-strength Ibuprofen and a cup of water with a straw please?"
"Sure thing, Dr. Foxx," the second voice said. "Be right back." Bobby turned his head and watched as an Asian nurse in crimson scrubs offered him a reassuring smile before heading across the room.
"You sustained a concussion during the accident and remained unconscious for almost an hour. Therefore it was necessary for me to-"
"Accident?" Memories, temporarily forgotten, came flooding back to Bobby. Shopping for his mother's birthday gift. Riding in a car with Jean, seeing another vehicle suddenly stopped in the middle of the highway. Trying to swerve to avoid it, spinning out of control, crashing into the concrete divider. The impact of the air bags. The smell of gasoline and smoke. The heat of flames. Turning to ice form in an attempt to protect himself, and to allow him to free Jean from her seat. Carrying her from the car amidst lapping flames and choking smoke, barely making it in time before a small explosion threw them forward onto the asphalt. Then everything went black until just a few minutes ago.
"Jeanie! Oh shit! Doctor, where's Jeanie? How is she? Was she hurt?" He started to sit up, intent on getting out of bed and finding her, when a sharp pain sliced across his chest, forcing the breath from his lungs.
"Easy, Mr. Drake. You've got some broken ribs. Here, sit back," she said, trying to ease him back down.
Suddenly too weak to argue, Bobby let her help him lay back against the pillow. "Where's Jeanie?" he repeated, holding onto his chest. "Is she okay?"
The poker face fell into place once more. "The woman who was brought in with you was seriously injured in the car fire."
Bobby's mouth felt even drier than it had when he woke up. "H-how serious?"
The doctor licked her lips, and Bobby could tell she was stalling, trying to choose her words carefully.
"Doc?" Bobby prompted. "Please, tell me. . . ."
"She sustained third-degree burns on over fifty percent of her body."
Bobby tried to keep his voice from trembling as he spoke. "Th-Third-degree. . . . Th-that's the most superficial kind, right?"
Sadly, the doctor shook her head. "First degree burns only cause reddening, not even blistering. Third degree burns destroy the entire dermis, sometimes the underlying tissue as well."
"Oh shit." Bobby bit his bottom lip and stared up at the ceiling. "Not Jeanie. Please, God, not Jeanie," he whispered, bringing his right hand up to cover his eyes.
"I'm very sorry," Dr. Foxx said, placing a hand on his other arm.
"C-can I see her?" Bobby asked.
"They're still treating her in one of the trauma rooms. I suppose once they've gotten her stabilized, and moved her to the Burn Unit. . . ."
"Oh God. This can't be happening. . . ." The last words were swallowed by a strangled sob, which elicited another coughing fit. This, in turn, caused a sharp pain to rip across his chest from his fractured ribs. Suddenly Bobby felt it difficult to draw a full breath.
"Easy, Mr. Drake, easy," he heard the doctor say. His world began to move without him consciously willing it to do so; it took a moment to realize she was lifting the head of the gurney to sit him up and hopefully ease his breathing.
Bobby continued to gasp for breath.
"Shit, he's hyperventilating. Paula-" Someone managed to find a paper bag and hand it to her, which Dr. Foxx then opened with a flick of the wrist before constricting the top and holding it in front of Bobby's mouth. "Breathe deeply, Drake," she instructed. "Deep breaths. That's it. Get that cee-oh-two into your lungs. Easy does it."
Bobby reached up to grab her hand where it held the bag against his mouth. For a moment, he thought he was going to pass out. But then he heard Dr. Foxx's voice, strong and determined. He focused on it, let it serve as his beacon, his guide. He tried to concentrate on her words, tried to breathe deeply, evenly. Before long, he was able to breathe easier, without labor or fuss. Exhausted, he let go of her hand and lay back.
"That's it, Drake," Dr. Foxx said, lowering the bag. She grabbed her stethoscope from around her neck and put it on, ausculting his lungs. Replacing her stethoscope, she grabbed his wrist to feel his pulse. The nurse was already adjusting the nose-prongs for oxygen delivery. "Paula, I want an arterial blood gas stat."
"You want an A-line, in case we need serial samples?" the nurse asked as she donned a pair of latex gloves.
"No, let's see the results of this sample first. Have someone else bring me his chest rads. I didn't think there were any signs of pulmonary edema, but I want to make sure. We should probably push some Lasix just in case. If he becomes agitated again, we may have to sedate him."
Bobby, who had nearly drifted off to sleep, opened his eyes widely. "What? No drugs, Doc. I'm okay now. I just-" But his words were once again drowned out by a round of coughing-this time sounding much wetter than previously.
"That settles it. Push three hundred mgs of furosemide IV," Dr. Foxx said, reaching for Bobby's chart to scribble the addition to his treatment orders. "Mr. Drake, your lungs are accumulating fluid. This is a result of the smoke inhalation. We're going to give you some medication to help clear that fluid. It should take effect pretty quickly, and make your breathing easier. In the meantime, we're giving you some oxygen. Do you understand?"
"Y-yeah," Bobby whispered weakly. His eyelids felt like lead, and he no longer had the strength to keep his eyes open. "Doc?"
"Yes?"
"Can you do me a favor?"
"What is it?"
"Can you go check on Jeanie for me? Let me know how she's doing?" He cracked an eye open to look at her.
She gave a curt nod of the head. "Sure thing. In the meantime, try to get some rest, okay?"
''Kay."
Dr. Foxx regarded her patient for a moment. "Paula, if he still seems out of it in twenty minutes, we should probably place a Foley."
"Okay."
"Thanks. I'll be back to check on him in a bit." She quickly took her leave.
Paula brought a Mayo stand with her materials over to the gurney.
"What's a Foley?" Bobby asked, already feeling the edge of his consciousness graying.
"A catheter," Paula explained as she stuck him for the blood gas.
"But I already have an IV line," Bobby muttered.
"Not that kind. A urinary catheter."
Once again, Bobby's eyes shot open. "You ain't sticking a tube down there," he said, his voice an octave higher than normal, as he gestured around his waist. "If I'm not up in twenty minutes, you wake me. I'll pee in a cup if I have to."
Paula grinned as she removed the syringe of bright red blood and applied a folded piece of gauze and a band-aid over the artery. "Be right back," she said, poking the needle into a small blue rubber cube and hurrying to the proper machine to have the sample analyzed.
He was asleep before she had even left.
Bobby awoke as nimble fingers removed the nose-prongs of the oxygen tubing. He looked up expecting to see Paula, instead found himself focusing on the face of Dr. Foxx. He wordlessly leaned forward, allowing her to lift the tubing over his head.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," she said, winding the hosing and placing it over the cylindrical control gauge on the wall behind the gurney.
"'S okay," he murmured, swallowing. "Thirsty. . . ."
"Probably from the Lasix," she said, offering him a plastic cup with a straw.
He placed his hand over hers as he leaned his head forward and took several sips.
"Easy does it," she warned. "Drink it slowly or-"
Bobby coughed.
With a sigh, Dr. Foxx replaced the cup on a side-table. "Great. Get aspiration pneumonia on top of everything else. Like my day hasn't been busy enough already."
"'M okay," Bobby replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Just went down the wrong pipe, is all."
"Mm-hm. I can tell already you're not the type to listen to doctor's orders."
His only reply was a smirk. It was short-lived, however, and quickly replaced with a somber expression. "Were you able to find out how Jeanie's doing?"
"They transferred her to the Burn Unit a little while ago. She's in critical condition." Putting on her stethoscope, she leaned forward to auscult his chest. "Deep breath, please."
Bobby did as ordered.
"Again. . . . Once more."
Each time Bobby inhaled through the nose, he got a whiff of the doctor's hair. Unlike the sterile, antiseptic smell of the surrounding Emergency Room, this was a pleasant, fresh scent. Not quite fruity, not exactly floral. He tried to place his finger on it.
The doctor stood up straight, replacing her stethoscope. She was about to report her findings when she realized that he was staring at her, regarding her thoughtfully. "What? What is it?"
"Herbal Essences?"
Her eyebrows rose in confusion. "Excuse me?"
"Your shampoo-is it Herbal Essences?"
"My shampoo?" she asked, placing a self-conscious hand to her head. She usually started her shift with her straight brown hair twisted and pinned atop her head, but mid-way through the day several strands had managed to escape, falling onto her forehead. Right now, one lay over her eye. She hastily tucked it behind her ear. "Not that it's any business of yours, but no."
"White Rain?"
She crossed her arms over her chest. "No."
"Pert Plus?"
She shook her head. "What are you getting at here, Drake?"
"Just curious. And now I'm stumped. Care to enlighten me?"
She pursed her lips as she reached for his wrist to take his pulse. "Head and Shoulders."
"Head and Shoulders! Of course! Practical. I should have guessed."
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. It's just, you can tell a lot about a woman from her shampoo."
"Oh? What about conditioner?"
"That too. What do you use?"
"I don't. Not separate, anyway. I use the two-in-one formula." As soon as she said it, she shook her head. "God, I can't believe I'm telling you this."
"Ah, but it's quite revealing. You're sensible, and efficient. You like to manage your time wisely, but without cutting corners."
She smirked. "I've heard of reading palms or tea-leaves, but never one's hair care products."
"You think that's good, wait'll you hear what I make of a person's deodorant-"
Dr. Foxx cleared her throat. "As I was about to say before you interrupted, your lungs sound much better. Your breathing no longer seems labored."
"No, it feels fine. No shortness of breath."
"Good. The Lasix seems to have done the trick. Although I suspect that most of the difficulty had to do with the hyperventilation."
Bobby felt the warmth spread across his cheeks, down his neck. "I- I'm sorry about that, Doc."
Her brow furrowed. "You have nothing to apologize for."
"I shouldn't have lost it like that." He bowed his head.
"Really, Drake, it's no big deal. Happens all the time. Besides, it could have been a lot worse."
"Yeah? How?"
"You could have puked."
"True," he admitted, unable to hide a smile. "And it probably would have gone all over you."
"Wouldn't have been the first time."
"Seriously?"
She nodded. "You work in the ER for a bunch of years, you get used to wearing all sorts of bodily fluids."
"Sounds like fun. All sorts, you say?"
"Yep. You name a type of body fluid, or an orifice from which one can be expelled, I've probably been covered in it at some time or another."
"Really? Even with-"
"Speaking of bodily fluids, if that Lasix had time to clear your lungs, then it's probably been excreted by now. Gotta love diuretics. I'm hoping we don't need to place a Foley. . . ."
Bobby's eyes widened, even as his color deepened once more. "Hell no! I can pee on my own, thank you very much."
"Do you have to?"
He thought for a moment. A very short moment. "Like a racehorse."
"Shall I get you that cup now?" she asked, trying to hide her smirk as she scribbled in his chart.
"How about you point me in the direction of the nearest bathroom?"
"Somehow I don't think you're gonna make it on your own, sport."
"Only one way to find out," Bobby said, throwing back the blanket. It had not occurred to him until that moment to be worried about his attire-or lack thereof. He was relieved to see that he was wearing a pair of pajama bottoms below the hospital gown.
"Hold on, Drake," Dr. Foxx said, placing a staying hand on his shoulder. "You've got a concussion and broken ribs, and you were suffering from pulmonary edema. You try to get up unassisted, and I'm gonna be picking you up off of the floor two seconds from now."
"Then what do you suggest?"
She wordlessly reached for the side-table and held out a bedpan.
Bobby shook his head. "Uh uh. No way, no how. I'm not using that."
"C'mon, try it. You might like it."
"Hell no. I'm not bedridden, I can go to the damned bathroom."
"Not by yourself, you can't."
"Then help me."
She raised an eyebrow at him.
Bobby quickly colored. "Not you per se, Doc. I mean, can't you have someone help me get to the bathroom, so I don't have to pee in the middle of the room?"
"That's what curtains are for, Drake."
"You ever tried peeing in public? It's not easy."
"Hard to imagine you shy about doing anything-especially micturition following that dose of Lasix." Seeing the look of confusion on his face, she smirked. "Well, I suppose I could ask Paula if she would mind bringing over a wheelchair to help you get to the bathroom. . . ."
Bobby hesitated. He hated like hell to have to be wheeled to the bathroom like some sort of invalid to take a piss. But by the same token, he really did not want to have to face a worse embarrassment either of having to use the bedpan or of having to be lifted off of the floor-because though he was loathe to admit it, he was quite weak right now. He likely would not be able to take more than a couple of steps before his knees buckled.
"All right, Doc."
So he's not completely pigheaded after all. Will wonders never cease. "You've got to promise to be on your best behavior for Paula, though."
"Cross my heart," he replied, making the gesture on his chest. Bobby was shocked that she actually managed to grace him with a smile. Now that she was in a pleasant mood, not scowling at him or ordering him around, he realized that she was actually quite pretty- although perhaps a little older than his first impression; he guessed she was in her mid-thirties. She wore no make-up-or if she did, it was in subtle shades that served only to enhance her natural beauty. Beneath long lashes shone light brown eyes the color of amber. A small smattering of freckles was sprinkled across high cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. Her full lips, which had been curled upwards in a small grin, suddenly pursed as her brow wrinkled.
"You know, Drake, there's something I've been meaning to ask you."
"Oh? And what might that be, Doc?"
"Just something that's been bugging me about the nature of your injuries. I just don't understand how you managed to escape relatively unscathed."
"Unscathed? What do you call this bump on my noggin and my busted ribs? Not to mention my pulmonary contusions-"
"Edema," she corrected. "Contusions are bruising, whereas edema-"
"Whatever. I'd say that hardly qualifies as unscathed."
"What I meant to say is how you were able to avoid further injury from the car fire. Sure, you inhaled a great deal of smoke and dust, but you have no external indications of your proximity to the flames." She took his hand in hers and lifted it. "Look at your arms-there's no blistering, no redness. Hell, your skin is cool to the touch. When you were first brought in, your body temperature was actually sub-normal. I initially attributed it to shock, but that still doesn't explain your lack of burns. The paramedics said they found you collapsed on the ground beside your companion, apparently after having carried her from the wreckage. Considering the extent of her injuries, your merely touching her should have led to injury to your hands at the very least. But look at the skin there-" She turned his hand over in hers, ran a finger down his palm.
Bobby suppressed a shiver.
"The skin is unblemished. This is medically impossible!" she declared in exacerbation.
"Well, Scully, I don't know what to tell you. Guess I'm just a regular X-File."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Aren't you in the least bit curious at to why-"
"What I'm really curious about, Doc, is when I can go see Jean."
She quickly dropped his hand and slipped hers into the pockets of her lab coat. "Drake, I don't know if that's a good idea. . . ."
"Please, Doc. I need to see her."
This time it was the doctor who hesitated. Bobby knew that he was dependent upon her discretion in this matter-all she need do was order him to bed rest to prevent him from seeing Jean. And while he realized that she was probably trying to protect him, at the same time, he hoped that his genuine concern for his friend tugged sufficiently at her heartstrings.
Dr. Foxx took a deep breath, let it out slowly. She licked her lips. "All right. But I don't want you out of bed long. You need to rest."
"Sure thing, Doc. Whatever you say."
"All right. I'll see if after she helps you to the bathroom Paula can take you up to the Burn Unit." She began to leave, but stopped abruptly before heading back to the gurney. "I was going to ask you earlier, but you were sleeping. . . ."
"Yeah?"
"Since you'll be staying overnight for observation, you might like some things from home. Is there anyone you'd like us to contact?"
Bobby was about to offer protest for having to remain in the hospital when he suddenly realized that no one knew about the car accident, or their injuries. He slapped himself on the forehead. "Stupid, stupid, stupid!"
"Drake, what is it? What's wrong?"
"I should let them know about Jeanie. Shit, why didn't I think of it sooner?"
"Perhaps because you were too busy trying to breathe. But you raise a good point. Can you supply us with some information about her? Apparently she didn't have any identification on her when she was brought in."
"Yeah, sure, but that's not what I meant. I need to call home."
The doctor nodded. "Yes, her next of kin should be notified."
Bobby stared up at her, not quite sure what to make of Dr. Foxx's statement. The only time he had heard that phrase used was in relation to receiving an inheritance or permission for surgery. "Next of kin . . . ?"
"Are her parents nearby?"
"Scott," Bobby muttered. "We should call Scott."
"Brother?" the doctor ventured.
"Husband. Scott is Jeanie's husband."
"Oh." She sounded surprised.
"What?"
"It's just . . . I thought . . . I mean, I was under the impression. . . ." A blush quickly crept across her cheeks.
"You thought that Jeanie and I . . . ?"
"I thought that she was your girlfriend, yes," Dr. Foxx quickly replied. "I mean, the way you got upset when you learned of her injuries. . . ." Feeling as though she was putting her foot in it, she cleared her throat and averted her eyes.
"Me and Jeanie go way back. . . ."
"I see."
"Not like that! We went to school together. Scott too, as a matter of fact. They're both two of my closest friends. So of course I'm worried about her. And Scott needs to know."
"Yes, he does. If you'll give me his number, I'll have Jean's doctor call him immediately," she said, handing Bobby a pen and a small notepad from her coat pocket.
"I'm gonna give you his home number, and his work number as well," Bobby explained as he scribbled on the paper. "This is the main number for the Institute. Whoever calls should ask to speak to Scott Summers."
"Institute?" Dr. Foxx asked as she took back the pad and pen.
"The Xavier Institute, in Salem Center. We're all teachers there."
When had she heard that name before? she wondered. She stared down at Bobby's hasty scrawl and the name written there. That name seemed familiar as well.
"Doc?" Bobby called. "Something wrong?"
"Hmm? Oh, nothing. Let me go get this information to Jean's physician, so she can inform Scott about her condition and answer any questions he might have," she said, waving her notepad.
"Thanks again, Doc."
With a final nod, she strode across the room in search of the nurse.
End of Chapter 3