scrubs, and she points us out. She does not come over to greet Scotty, however; she disappears back through the doors like her tailâs on fire. The man approaches and shakes Scottyâs hand.
âIâm Doctor Russell. Are you Mrs. McLeanâs husband?â
Scotty nods once in a stony, deliberate silence. I want to attribute it to apprehension, but it isnât a huge stretch to imagine it as a strategy of intimidation. The doctor turns toward me, but I donât offer my name.
âDo you want me to go sit with the kids?â I ask Scotty.
âI think theyâre okay.â Does that mean he wants me to listen? I should have asked that instead. But I assume he would have told me to bug off if thatâs what he wanted, and I stay.
âMrs. McLean was hit from the right by a taxi that apparently had no intention of stopping for the red light. She sustained internal injuries, most critically to her liver, and so far, we have been unsuccessful in our attempts to stop the bleeding. She also has several broken ribs, a collapsed lung, and a bit of swelling in the brain. Weâve induced a coma to see if we can stop the swelling from progressing, but she will need to go back into surgery in a few hours to see if we can repair the affected organs.â
Scotty nods as the doctor speaks, as if he is processing the information appropriately, but I am totally lost. Internal bleeding that they canât stop? Theyâre going to let her bleed for a few hours while they wait to see if her brain stops swelling?
âThat sounds like bullshit,â Scotty says, startling both me and the doctor. Iâm mostly startled because he has voiced the words in my head, and itâs so surreal that I wonder a little bit if it is actually me who spoke. âIâm sorry, Doctor Russell. It just seems unbelievable to me that youâre going to let her keep bleeding until you see what her brainâs going to do. Doesnât that sound crazy to you when I say it?â
The doctor is much gentler than Rosie Ramsay. âI understand how difficult this must be to hear, Mr. McLean, but your wifeâs body is not in any condition to withstand another surgery until we can get a handle on her brain.â
Scottyâs face turns gray. Iâve never seen such a thing before, not ever, not from anyone. âI have two little boys,â he says in a low, steady tone that I would fear if I were in a boardroom with him.
âWeâre doing everything we can for her, sir,â Dr. Russell says. âIâll send my scrub nurse Rosie out with periodic updates, and I will talk to you whenever I get the chance.â
âThank you,â Scotty says, and Dr. Russell disappears through the same double set of doors that Rosie Ramsay disappeared through earlier. Rosie, the scrub nurse. The mystery is solved.
I stand and Scotty stands. After a few minutes, Scotty sits down in the nearest chair, slowly, like you would if you were doing some thigh-strengthening exercise at the gym. He rubs his hands over his eyes and leaves them there long enough to make me nervous. Itâs not a posture I want the boys to see. But he seems much calmer and of a more normal color when he looks up at me.
âI think Iâd better call her parents.â
âOkay,â I say. âCan I help? Phone calls, or anything? Do you want some coffee?â
âWhatâs that you have?â he asks, indicating my half-empty Diet Coke.
I give it to him. âItâs still cold. You can finish it.â
âGretchen hates it when I drink this shit. Iâm surprised she hasnât broken you of the habit yet.â He finishes my soda in two swallows.
âMany have tried,â I say. âGretchen equates it to shooting processed poison directly into my veins.â
âShe truly believes that. Sheâs determined to save you from a life of addiction,â he says.
âI donât have any of