A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn
By Somogyi
Chapter 4
"You warm enough?" Paula asked Bobby as she wheeled him toward the elevator bank. "I can grab you a blanket or a robe if you need it."
"Nah, I'm fine, thanks," he told her.
"Feel better?" Dr. Foxx asked, approaching them.
Bobby looked up at her. "Much. Don't suppose I can convince you to ditch these?" he asked, hiking a thumb at the fluid bag hanging from a pole on the back of the wheelchair. "We're just gonna have the problem all over again in a couple of hours."
"I'm keeping you on maintenance overnight," she informed him. "Tomorrow morning, your doctor can decide whether or not to discontinue them."
"Wait a sec, I thought you were my doctor."
"I am, until you're transferred to a room upstairs."
"Oh." He almost sounded . . . disappointed. "For a minute there, I thought you were trying to get rid of me." He smiled innocently.
Dr. Foxx rolled her eyes. "Not for lack of trying," she muttered under her breath.
"What was that?"
"Paula, I can take over from here," she told the nurse.
Paula looked confused. "I don't mind, Dr. Foxx."
"I know. But we're a little short-staffed tonight, and Dr. Lee could use your help in curtain two. I'm on break anyway."
"All right," Paula said, shrugging. "See you later, Bobby." Touching his shoulder, she flashed a bright smile before heading back to the ER.
Brow furrowed, Bobby looked up at the doctor. "You shouldn't have to spend your break babysitting me."
"It's no big deal, Drake. Like I said, we're short-staffed with nurses today, and we really can't spare Paula for that long."
"You sure, Doc?"
"Positive."
He smiled at her appreciatively. "In that case, okay. Thanks."
She returned the grin. Just then, the elevator doors opened with a bing. Dr. Foxx pushed Bobby inside and pressed five. Leaning against the handrail, she took a deep breath. "So, tell me about your friends."
He looked taken aback. She did not seem the type for small talk. "What, you mean Jean and Scott?"
She nodded.
"What do you want to know?"
"Oh, I don't know. What do they look like?"
Bobby hesitated. Her inquiry seemed a little . . . odd. But then again, she was doing him a favor by escorting him upstairs; he could at least humor her attempts at chitchat. "Jeanie's five-six, long red hair, green eyes, very pretty. Scott's, what, like six-three, brown hair. . . ."
She was nodding as he spoke, as though agreeing with everything he said. "Wears a pair of red sunglasses, even indoors?"
Bobby's eyes widened, even as his face went a shade paler. "Yeah, that's right. How the hell do you know that?"
"Do they have a foster daughter, about fifteen, Asian, who roller blades? With an unusual name-very cheerful. Joy?"
"Jubilee."
"That's it! Jubilee. Short for Jubilation, right?"
"Doc, you're scaring the shit out of me. How the hell do you know all this?"
"I treated Jubilee several months back, when she was brought into the ER. She was hit by a drunk driver while she was skating. I remember your friends now-I rarely forget a face. Very nice couple, as I recall. Cared about that girl a great deal."
"Small world," Bobby replied softly as the elevator doors opened on the fifth floor. He still felt wary about how much the doctor knew about his teammates.
Dr. Foxx grabbed the chair handles and wheeled Bobby out into the main corridor. They continued in silence for about fifty feet until they came to a T-junction, where they took a left.
"Did the doctor get in touch with Scott?" Bobby asked.
"I gave her the information. She said she was going to call him ASAP."
"That's good. Scott will want to be here."
They were approaching a set of double doors labeled "Burn Unit." As they neared the entrance, Dr. Foxx stopped.
"Drake, I need to warn you that this is going to be upsetting. It'll be quite a shock at first. Seeing a friend or loved one who's been seriously burned is not easy to deal with. It's not a pretty sight."
Bobby shrugged. "I'm not queasy when it comes to blood."
"It's not bloody. Besides, she's covered in bandages. Right now, it's probably the extent of the injuries that will be most troubling."
Bobby wrung his hands together nervously. "H-how . . . how extensive are they?"
"She sustained burns on her arms, legs, chest, back . . . and face."
"Oh God, her face?" He took a shaky breath.
"There's one other thing."
"There's more?"
She nodded. "They had to place a tube down her throat to help her breathe. She's on a ventilator."
There was a sharp gasp. "She . . . she's not breathing on her own?"
"As I said, her injuries were quite extensive. She also inhaled a great deal of smoke-far more than you had."
Slowly, he nodded. "I understand. Let's go."
"Are you sure? Believe me, Drake, no one will think any less of you if you change your mind."
Setting his jaw, he shook his head determinedly. "No, I need to do this. I owe it to Jeanie. Let's go, Doc."
"All right." Offering a smile of encouragement, Dr. Foxx pressed the square metal panel on the wall that automatically opened the doors and wheeled Bobby into the Burn Unit.
Once again, they proceeded in silence down the hallway. Dr. Foxx stopped briefly at the nurse's station to ask what room Jean was in before resuming the trip. They continued to the last room on the right, where she halted just in front of the door.
Bobby peered through the narrow pane of glass on the door. From his vantage point, he could see a blanket covering the legs of the bed's occupant. A nurse stood by the front of the bed, fussing with some monitoring equipment, obscuring his view of the patient's head.
Dr. Foxx looked down at him, compassion filling her troubled face. "Are you ready?"
He tried to speak, but found his mouth quite dry. Damned Lasix. He licked his lips. Slowly, Bobby nodded. "Yeah."
Wordlessly, Dr. Foxx pushed open the door and wheeled Bobby inside. At the sound of their entrance, the nurse turned to face them.
"How is she?" the doctor asked.
"No change in her vitals," the nurse replied, recording her observations in the medical record. "I'll be at the nurse's station if you need me."
"Thank you . . . Marisa," Dr. Foxx said, reading the nurse's nametag.
She gave Bobby an encouraging smile and nodded at the doctor before leaving.
Bobby drew a sharp breath as he finally got a good look at Jean. If had not been told so, he never would have been able to tell that it was her lying in that bed. Every visible skin surface was wrapped in gauze bandages. Her entire face and neck were covered in them, with space left only for the endotracheal tube to reach her mouth. Her arms, which lay above the blanket at her sides, were likewise swaddled. She lay so still. The only indications she still lived were the hiss of the ventilator-along with the accompanying rise and fall of her chest-and the regular beeping of the heart monitor.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "She looks like a mummy."
"It's necessary to protect the wounds and absorb the fluid that leaks from the skin surface," Dr. Foxx explained softly. "Right now, one of the primary dangers is infection-both because the skin normally serves as a natural barrier to microorganisms, but also because her immune system is compromised."
Bobby looked up at the many tubes and wires leading to her body. They disappeared beneath the surface of the bandages at neck level. "What are all those?" he asked, gesturing.
"IV lines, for fluid and electrolyte supplementation, nutritional supplementation. Also a sampling line, for blood."
"Why are they going to her neck and not her arms?"
"I suspect the vasculature in her arms was damaged. It looks like they've placed a central line-down her jugular."
Bobby winced. "Can you move me closer?"
"Sure." She silently pushed Bobby to the bedside.
"Is she in pain?" he asked.
"No," Dr. Foxx whispered. "Full-thickness burns are anesthetic." When he looked up at her questioningly, she continued, "Due to their extent, the nerve endings have been destroyed."
Bobby grimaced. "Well, that's something, I guess. At least she's not hurting." He returned his glance to Jean.
Dr. Foxx walked to the foot of the bed, picked up the tin-back, and began to skim its contents.
"What's it say?"
She was quiet a moment as she flipped through the pages. "Basically all that I've told you. They're administering Lasix because they're worried about pulmonary edema. No significant indications of airway or lung injury-yet. It can take 24 to 48 hours to manifest." She paused as she continued to leaf through the record.
Bobby, meanwhile, had taken Jean's bandaged hand in his own. He was hesitant at first, afraid it would hurt her in some way. He had to remind himself that she probably could not even feel it, even if she was awake. Leaning forward, he slowly brought it to his face, held the scratchy gauze against his cheek. He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Jeanie," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."
"They debrided most of the wounds upon presentation, to help hasten healing," Dr. Foxx continued. "They may want to repeat that procedure in a day or two, depending upon the progression of the tissue healing. They're monitoring for signs of infection, sepsis, pneumonia, renal or other organ failure, ARDS. . . ."
"Any one of those complications can happen?"
"One or more, yes," she replied.
"How likely are they to occur?"
"Given the nature of her injuries . . . pretty likely. But that's not always the case," she quickly amended.
She was in the middle of double-checking fluid rates and drug dosages when she spared a glance at the bedside. What she saw caught her undivided attention: Bobby was sitting with Jean's hand clasped in his own and gently pressed to his cheek in a reverent manner. Her first instinct was to leave, to allow this man his privacy as he grieved for his friend. But then he spoke to her.
"But in your experience, complications usually occur, right?"
She slowly replaced the tin-back into its sleeve at the foot of the bed, and quietly made her way closer to the bedside, still maintaining a respectable distance. "Drake, we've got to remain hopeful. She could pull through this without further complications, and make a remarkable recovery."
"I need you to level with me," Bobby said softly, still holding tight to Jean's hand. "H-How bad . . . ?" He fought to maintain control, took a deep breath before turning his head to meet her eyes. "How bad are we talking here?"
Why was he putting her on the spot like this? The last thing she wanted to do right now was break his heart. "Drake. . . ."
"Goddammit! Will you stop with the double-talk that doesn't tell me jack shit! I'm asking you-I'm pleading with you-to be completely honest with me."
She averted her eyes as she slid her hands into her coat pockets. "The prognosis is grave."
"Grave? What the hell does that mean?"
She opened her mouth, about to say it was a degree worse than poor, when he cut her off.
"Oh, wait, I get it!" He laughed sardonically. "It pretty much describes how you're gonna end up-six feet under."
"Drake, please. . . ."
But he did not hear her. Rather, he sat, still clasping the bandaged hand, though now his head was bowed, as though in defeat.
Not knowing what else to say, Dr. Foxx decided to leave. She quietly headed for the door, trying not to disturb Bobby. She stopped at the sound of his voice.
"Oh God, Jeanie, I'm so sorry. I never meant for this to happen. I never meant for you to get hurt. You don't deserve this. I'm so very, very sorry, Jeanie. So sorry." His voice broke.
Opening the door, Dr. Foxx was halfway out of the room when she hesitated. Why, she was not certain. This was so unlike her, to take such a personal interest in a patient. She never got emotionally involved. She always distanced herself, remained unattached so as to allow herself to focus on the scientific facts, to make the most appropriate, well-informed medical decisions. Because to become emotionally involved with her patients or their loved ones would no longer leave her unbiased, which would then compromise their care. And with all the pain and death she dealt with on a regular basis, it would also make her not want to get out of bed in the morning.
Despite her cardinal rule about remaining aloof-unattached-to all emotional matters of her patients, she somehow found herself drawn to this man. From the moment she had first spoken to him in the ER, despite their initial rocky exchange, there was just something about him that appealed to her. Was it his happy-go-lucky nature? His wacky sense of humor? Maybe it was his unexpected compassion and fierce loyalty to his friend. Whatever the reason, she liked Bobby Drake. And seeing him like this-devastated by what had happened to one of his oldest and dearest friends-made her own heart ache. She did not understand it-never before had a patient's dilemma moved her to such an extent. She must be getting soft with age.
Walk out that door, keep walking, don't look back, give him his privacy, he doesn't know you, he doesn't want you here, she told herself. She hesitated, considering. Oh, fuck it! You never listen to yourself anyway. . . .
Before she could change her mind, she walked back into the room and over to the wheelchair. She mulled over what to say. 'I'm sorry' seemed so trite. 'It's okay' was so untrue. 'I'm here . . . if you need to talk' sounded presumptuous. So rather than say anything, she chose just to act. A plain gesture, really. But one that spoke volumes.
Silently, she placed a hand on his back.
Slowly, Bobby turned his head, looked up at her through red-rimmed eyes. She half-expected him to scream at her, or to quietly ask her to leave. He continued to stare up at her, his bottom lip quivering as he tried to fight it.
She gazed down at him, her own eyes suddenly, unexpectedly moist. She tried to smile encouragingly, but found it difficult to put on a happy face. Still at a loss for words of comfort, she once again chose to speak through actions: She gently rubbed his back.
That one simple act of kindness was all it took. Bobby's face crumpled. Before she even realized what was happening, he was reaching for her, and she was holding him. She hesitated at first, but then she felt his arms wrap around her waist as though his life depended on it, like she was a life raft keeping him afloat during an ocean storm. Eyes screwed shut against the pain, he tried to stop the tears. But as he buried his face in her belly, the wetness soaked her scrub top.
"Shh," she soothed, one hand on his neck, the other gently stroking his hair. "I know," she whispered. "I know."
"It . . . it's all . . . my . . . f-fault," he murmured.
"What? Don't be ridiculous. How on earth is this your fault?"
"I . . . I never . . . should'a . . . asked her . . . to go sh-shopping . . . with me," he grated out between sobs. "I only l-looked away . . . for a few s-seconds. . . . The c-car . . . c-came . . . outta nowhere. . . . I t-tried . . . to s-swerve. . . ."
"It was an accident. That means it was no one's fault. Things like this happen. It makes them no less terrible, no less painful. But you're not to blame."
"But if I h-hadn't've-"
"No buts, Drake, you hear me? It's not your fault." She pulled back, taking his face in her hands. "Look at me," she said, her voice stern. Hesitantly, he complied. "I know you're feeling sorry for yourself right now. And it's easy to wallow in self-pity. But you can't be that goddammed selfish right now. Not when you claim that Jean and her husband are such dear friends of yours."
"They are," Bobby insisted.
"If that's true, then now's the time for you to prove it. Because there's no other time when they've needed you more. If there's any chance that Jean is going to make it through this, then she's going to need the love and devotion and prayers of her friends and family. And no matter what the outcome, Scott is going to need the support of his loved ones. Now, do you want to let them go through this alone, or are you going to be there for them, to help them?"
His eyes darted to the side to glance at Jean, and he bit his bottom lip. His eyes lingered there for many long moments. But then he met her gaze, and he took a deep breath. Slowly, he nodded. "I'm gonna be there for them-no matter what."
A smile spread across her face, lighting it. "Good. That's what I knew you'd say."
"You knew?"
"You're a fighter, Drake."
He grinned as he swiped at his cheeks. "Funny, I've always considered myself a lover."
Chuckling, she handed him some tissues. "No, you're a fighter. That was apparent from the moment you woke up and gave me the one-finger salute."
"Aw, geez, Doc, I'm sorry about that."
"No, you're not."
"You're right, I'm not," he agreed before blowing his nose. "I am sorry about that, though," he said, gesturing toward the wet spot in the center of her scrub shirt. "Hell, I slimed you."
"Like I said earlier, ya worn one type of bodily fluid, ya worn 'em all."
He actually managed a brief chuckle.
"I really need to get you back to bed," she told him.
He arched an eyebrow at her. "Why, Dr. Foxx, just what are you insinuating?"
"Don't even go there," she scowled. "And here I was just starting to think of you as a sensitive guy." She shook her head. "Seriously, before I take you back downstairs-to your hospital bed-would you like me to leave you two alone for a few minutes?"
"Actually, that'd be great."
"Sure thing." She started to turn toward the doorway when she felt a hand slip into hers. She stopped, and felt a gentle squeeze. Looking down, she saw Bobby smiling up at her.
"Thanks, Doc. For everything."
"My pleasure," she replied, returning the pressure briefly. "I'll be right outside if you need me."
He watched her exit the room and stared at the door for a while after she left before finally turning his full attention to Jean.
End Chapter 4