Saving Meghan(8)

He gave a wink. The anemic attempt at a joke failed to register with anyone.

“Beck—Mrs. Gerard,” Dr. Walker said, catching himself. “I was wondering if I could speak with you in private.”

Carl was too distracted—or too oblivious—to notice that Dr. Walker had requested Becky, and only Becky. They left the curtained room and found a private corner to talk.

Becky touched his arm again—she was not a touchy person in general, but she wanted assurances he’d answer the next time she called.

“I got a list of Meghan’s current medications, but I have to ask this, even though we’ve already run a tox screen. Is there a history of illicit drug use?”

Oh God, Becky thought. Must we go down this rabbit hole again?

“No. Never.”

Dr. Walker glanced at the ER bay a bit apprehensively, as if encouraging her to be honest. “It’s okay to tell me, even if it’s just a suspicion on your part,” he said. “It’s just that prolonged PR intervals can be a consequence of drug use or electrolyte disturbance, but her electrolytes are normal.”

“No. I promise you, Meghan doesn’t use drugs.”

“Very well,” Dr. Walker said. “Call my office number, and we’ll get Meghan seen right away.”

That’s all I needed to hear, thought Becky.

“And I’m so very sorry about that episode on the airplane. Wendy called when she saw the video online—thank you again for your help with her apartment, by the way. It was terrible how badly the airline mistreated you. I hope you get some sort of compensation for the trouble and embarrassment.”

Becky thought of all sorts of things to say—questions about his trip, how Wendy’s medical school applications were coming along—but she did not have the stamina to play any part other than the real one.

“Thanks for the concern, but all I care about is Meghan.”

Becky returned to the ER bay to find Nurse Alexandra disconnecting the monitors.

“I don’t know what happened to me,” Meghan said after Alexandra departed, sounding like she was pleading for answers. “I still feel strange.”

“I’ll make you some of my chicken soup when we get home,” Becky said, which was the only meal Meghan seemed capable of eating these days. “I think I need some, too.” That raised a smile on Meghan’s lips, but it also brought that look from Carl again, the one that came with accusations. She was glad she had not told him about her call to Michael—aka Dr. Cohen, a.k.a. the neurologist who was coming by—and that Meghan would not be leaving until he saw her. And no way would Becky settle for anything less than a CAT scan.



* * *



THREE HOURS later, they were still in the hospital, seeing another doctor.

Dr. Cohen, who had a horseshoe of white hair and sallow skin, would have been headed for retirement if only his wife had not surprised him with a divorce late in life. Becky had learned the sad news months ago, after Dr. Cohen examined Meghan for a persistent headache. She had seen the pictures in his office, studied them closely (thank you, Cora), and thought to ask about his family when she noticed that the photographs of his wife were no longer up. Becky offered to help with his search for a new home, but what he wanted was to have coffee with her, as she reminded him of his daughter who he’d been estranged from since the divorce.

Bad for him, good for me, Becky had thought at the time, hating herself for feeling anything other than sympathy. But she reminded herself what was at stake, and that had lessened her guilt several degrees.

Dr. Cohen entered the ER bay carrying a small doctor’s bag that was so familiar to Becky, she could guess the contents without looking: a reflex hammer, a portable ophthalmoscope, some tuning forks, a broad cloth tape covered with a pattern of black stripes, a number of safety pins, and even a small vial of ground coffee to test for sense of smell if the occasion called for it.

“We’re not sure just why Meghan fainted today,” said Dr. Cohen, looking alternately at Carl and Becky with an occasional obligatory glance at his patient. “I spoke at length with Dr. Walker, who thinks it may be her heart, but I understand that a friend said Meghan stiffened up when she lost consciousness. I can’t rule out a seizure. The good news is that the CAT scan looks normal to my eyes.”

Becky let go a sigh of relief. Dr. Cohen looked the way a grandparent might upon receiving good news.

“We had to give a small sedative to get the blood test, but we didn’t find anything in her labs that was overly concerning.” Dr. Cohen sent Becky a conspiratorial glance, as if to say they should chat in private about her daughter’s fear of needles. “Still, I’d like to see Meghan in the office for an EEG and possibly run some more tests, depending on the results. You have my office number. Call first thing in the morning. We’ll make sure to get Meghan in right away.”

Becky could imagine what Carl was thinking: More doctors. More tests.

“Of course. Thank you,” Becky said. “It’s been a long day. We’ll call in the morning.”

“I’ve had it,” Carl said after Dr. Cohen had departed.

“Not here,” responded Becky.

Carl left in a huff so Becky could help Meghan out of her hospital gown and back into her street clothes.

How can Carl be so cavalier with Meghan’s health? Becky asked herself as she helped her daughter get dressed. Didn’t he want to make sure they turned over every stone, explored all avenues, and examined every possibility? Why wasn’t he willing to do anything and everything in his power so they would not have to endure the unshakable grief and unyielding sorrow of losing another child?