Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(20)

So it went, on and on and on, Nathan fighting for his life and the hospital staff fighting with him.

Afterwards, when the worst had passed, when the nurses and residents had moved on to more pressing cases, when only Nathan remained, unconscious, breathing strained, a tiny form lost in the middle of the metal-framed hospital bed, Dr. Rocco took her aside.

“Catherine . . . I know things must be difficult at home right now.”

“You think?” The words came out too harshly. Catherine regretted her tone almost immediately. She turned her head away from Dr. Rocco and stared at the walls, which were really much too white. She could hear the beep of Nathan's monitor, faithfully counting out the rhythm of his heart. Sometimes, she heard that sound in her sleep.

“Jimmy, we have to do something about Nathan.”

“Jesus, Catherine, can't you leave the poor boy alone?”

“Jimmy, look at him. He's sick. Really, really sick . . .”

“Is he? None of these fancy tests you order ever prove anything. Maybe the problem isn't with Nathan, Cat. I'm beginning to wonder—maybe the problem's with you.”

“Catherine, he has pancreatitis again. That's the third time this year. Given his heart and the rest of his health, he can't keep battling these kinds of infections. His liver is enlarged, he's still showing signs of malnutrition, and worse, he's lost a pound since I saw him last. Have you been following the special diet we discussed? Lots of small meals, only soy products?”

“It's hard to get him to eat.”

“What about favorite foods?”

“He likes the soy yogurt, but even then, after a bite or two, he's done.”

“He's got to eat.”

“I know.”

“He must take his vitamins.”

“We're trying.”

“Catherine, four-year-olds don't get anorexia. Four-year-olds don't starve themselves to death.”

“I know,” she whispered helplessly. “I know.” And then, more tentatively, “Isn't there anything else you can do?”

“Catherine . . .” The doctor sighed. Now he stared at the walls, too. “I'm recommending you to Dr. Iorfino,” he said abruptly.

“You're sending me to another doctor?”

“He can see you on Monday. Three p.m.”

“But another doctor will mean more tests.” She was flabbergasted. “Nathan is tired of tests.”

“I know.”

“Tony . . .” The word came out as a plea. She was sorry the instant she said it.

Dr. Rocco finally looked at her. “The head of Pediatrics has formally asked me to remove myself from this case. I'm sorry, Catherine, but my hands are tied.”

And then finally, Catherine got it. James. Her father-in-law had gotten to him, or had intervened with the higher-ups in the hospital, or maybe both. It didn't matter anymore. As a doctor for Nathan, as an ally for her, Tony Rocco was done.

She rose steadily, careful to keep her chin up and her back straight. As gracefully as she could, she held out her hand. “Thank you for your assistance, Doctor,” she murmured.

For one moment, he hesitated. “I'm sorry, Cat,” he said softly. “Dr. Iorfino, he's a good doctor.”

“Older? Balding? Fat?” she asked bitterly.

“A good doctor,” Tony repeated.

She just shook her head. “I'm sorry, too.”

She left the room, went down the hall where she could stand outside the window of ICU and watch Nathan's skinny chest rise and fall amid the sea of wires. In the morning, if his temperature was down and the worst of the inflammation past, she would take him home. He would sit in his own room, surrounded by his own toys. He would not ask many questions, this somber child of hers. He would simply wait, as they always waited, for the next crisis to occur.

She would have to think of a good time to tell him about the new doctor. Maybe she would have Prudence take him to a movie first, or make him some kind of treat. Or maybe it was better to wait for when he was already in a bad mood. She could layer on the misery and let him deal with it all at once.

Prudence would be there. Prudence would hold his hand if he finally cried.

Catherine couldn't stand being in the ICU anymore. She headed for the families' lounge, desperate for brighter lights, fresher air. People didn't make eye contact here or worry about some infamous widow whose husband had just been shot; they were too busy with problems of their own.

She was halfway right.

A man walked up to her the minute she appeared. He wore a brown suit and bad hairpiece and moved with a single-minded focus.

“Catherine Rose Gagnon?”

“Yes.”

“Consider yourself served.”

She took the sheaf of paper in bewilderment, barely noting the surprised glances of the other families. The man disappeared as quickly as he'd come, an intruder who knew he didn't belong. Then it was just her and a room full of strangers, all with loved ones battling for their lives down the hall.

Catherine unfolded the thick legal document. She read the heading, and even though she thought she'd considered everything, she was still stunned. Her stomach went hollow, she swayed on her feet.

And then she started laughing, the hysteria building like a bubble in her throat.