“Winfield,” Derian said.
“This is Dr. Carter Armstrong. I’m one of the
cardiothoracic surgeons consulting on Henrietta Winfield. I understand you’re
her medical surrogate.”
“That’s right. I’m her niece.” Derian tamped
down the suffocating swell of anxiety. “Is something wrong?”
“Your aunt’s coronary arteries are extremely
fragile, with substantial blockages in all three major tributaries.
Unfortunately, the obstructions occur at multiple levels, making stenting
impractical.”
“What does that mean in terms of treatment?”
Derian wondered why it took doctors and lawyers so many words to say the
simplest things. Did they want to make communications difficult or was it just
safer to be incomprehensible?
“She needs surgery, and my recommendation is
to proceed immediately.”
“Has something changed?”
“No, she’s medically stable, but another
insult could irrevocably damage substantial portions of the cardiac muscle,
endangering her long-term prognosis.”
Derian rose and started for the door, vaguely
aware that Aud was following her. “I’m on my way. Is she awake?”
“Enough that she appears to understand what
I’ve told her, but I don’t believe she’s capable of signing a surgical consent
form.”
Derian stepped into the street and waved for
a cab. “When do you plan on operating?”
“As soon as you say I can.”
“I want to see her first.”
“The OR will be ready in forty minutes. I’d
prefer not to wait.”
Derian lunged in front of a cab and it
screeched to a stop, spraying her trousers with the melt from yesterday’s snow.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be there.” She yanked open the back door and jumped in. Aud,
close on her heels, yanked the door shut.
“You crazy, lady?” the cabbie shouted,
scowling at her in the rearview mirror. “I almost hit you.”
“I knew you wouldn’t. Get me to St. Luke’s in
fifteen minutes, and I don’t care how you do it.”
“I couldn’t get you there in fifteen minutes
if the streets were empty, and that isn’t going to happen.”
Aud leaned forward. “There’s a hundred-dollar
tip for you if you make it happen.”
He shoved the car into gear and shot into
traffic, squeezing into line in front of a bus. When he slammed on his brakes
to narrowly miss hitting a black stretch limo, Derian and Aud were thrown back
against the seat. Brakes screeched and horns blared.
“Maybe you should’ve offered him fifty,”
Derian muttered, as Aud, pressed to Derian’s side, struggled to right herself.
“We might actually get there alive.”
“We’ll get there. What did they say?”
Derian recounted the doctor’s
recommendations.
“Emergency surgery. God, Dere. Everything is
happening so quickly.”