certain that he was dead? Really dead?
Oh, Christ, imagine the horror. Completely immobile, unable to cry out or even blink an eye—and then someone opens your eyelids, holds them open with cold metal . . . and you can see the blade coming down, actually see it. And all you can do is lie there, every nerve ending shrieking in a single inaudible scream.
And with your other eye you see the first one torn free of its bed, plopped like an olive into a waiting jar. . .
(What do they put in the sockets?)
Then the knife finds the vulnerable flesh of your belly, oh yes, your warm, gut-filled belly, and it traces, its fine and your nerves cry out again and again, a chorus of agony heard only by the angels, the dark angels—
A hand, tightened on Karen's forearm; she let out a yelp.
"Hey, hey, pumpkin, it's only me. Your dad. She pulled herself up and hugged him desperately. "What is it, child? You're sweatin', breathin' like you just. run a mile. What. . . ?"
"'Just hold me awhile, Dad. Please."
Without another word Albert Lockhart drew his daughter close and held her, just as he'd done all those years ago.
It was seven thirty-five.
"When do I get the fistula out?"
In the Children's Hospital across town, Dr. Forget smiled. "It's like I told you before, Shirley," he said, patting the child's decidedly plumper bottom. "We have to keep the fistula in your arm until we're sure-sure-sure that your new kidney's going to work. If you have to go back on dialysis for a while, we don't want to have to operate on you to put it back again."
Shirley Bleeker, seven, affected her most persuasive pout. Lending force to her argument, she held out her scarred, ravaged little arm and examined it with disgust. Like a fat worm under the skin, the Gore-Tex graft which served as a hookup point for dialysis pulsed and writhed. "When will you be sure?"
The doctor glanced at Shirley's mother, who stood by the closed examining-room door. Realizing what he was after, Mary Bleeker nodded. She was always honest with her baby, even when it hurt.
"Could be as long as a year, honey."
Shirley's bottle green eyes brimmed with tears, the anguish of chronic illness never very far from the surface.
"But, hey," the doctor said with real enthusiasm. "You're going to be good as new!" He crouched and hugged his tiny patient to his chest, a great weight of compassion filling his heart. Nudging her out to arm's length, he looked her over appraisingly.
Although she had gained some weight since her surgery, and the anemia she'd endured throughout her life had begun to improve, Dr. Forget could still see the listless, sad-eyed child underneath; the waif who'd always looked as if she'd just stepped out of a Romero film; the innocent whose
life had been a dark carnival of bland meals, constant thirst, repeated painful operations to keep her fistula patent, and twelve hours a week skewered to a dialysis machine. . . hours that should have been spent just being a kid.
“Think of all the good things you can do now that you couldn't do before," he told her. "Think of all the big tall glasses of Pepsi you can drink in the hot weather, and all the ice cream you can gobble, whenever you want."
The child gave him a hopeful grin, then glanced fetchingly at her mom.
"Almost whenever you want," her mother added, and laughed. Right now, with her only child free at last of that horrid dialysis machine, she'd probably let her consume ice cream as her staple diet if that was what she wanted.
Stretching to his full height, Dr. Forget shifted his attention to Mary, whose young face bore the telling hallmarks of constant strain.
"She's past the worst of it now, Mrs. Bleeker. It's been three weeks, and so far the transplant shows every sign of holding its own. We're going to let you take Shirley home today, but we'll have to see her weekly for the next couple of months."
Her own eyes welling tears now, Mary Bleeker nodded her thanks.
"We're going home?"' Shirley shrilled
Oh, Christ, imagine the horror. Completely immobile, unable to cry out or even blink an eye—and then someone opens your eyelids, holds them open with cold metal . . . and you can see the blade coming down, actually see it. And all you can do is lie there, every nerve ending shrieking in a single inaudible scream.
And with your other eye you see the first one torn free of its bed, plopped like an olive into a waiting jar. . .
(What do they put in the sockets?)
Then the knife finds the vulnerable flesh of your belly, oh yes, your warm, gut-filled belly, and it traces, its fine and your nerves cry out again and again, a chorus of agony heard only by the angels, the dark angels—
A hand, tightened on Karen's forearm; she let out a yelp.
"Hey, hey, pumpkin, it's only me. Your dad. She pulled herself up and hugged him desperately. "What is it, child? You're sweatin', breathin' like you just. run a mile. What. . . ?"
"'Just hold me awhile, Dad. Please."
Without another word Albert Lockhart drew his daughter close and held her, just as he'd done all those years ago.
It was seven thirty-five.
"When do I get the fistula out?"
In the Children's Hospital across town, Dr. Forget smiled. "It's like I told you before, Shirley," he said, patting the child's decidedly plumper bottom. "We have to keep the fistula in your arm until we're sure-sure-sure that your new kidney's going to work. If you have to go back on dialysis for a while, we don't want to have to operate on you to put it back again."
Shirley Bleeker, seven, affected her most persuasive pout. Lending force to her argument, she held out her scarred, ravaged little arm and examined it with disgust. Like a fat worm under the skin, the Gore-Tex graft which served as a hookup point for dialysis pulsed and writhed. "When will you be sure?"
The doctor glanced at Shirley's mother, who stood by the closed examining-room door. Realizing what he was after, Mary Bleeker nodded. She was always honest with her baby, even when it hurt.
"Could be as long as a year, honey."
Shirley's bottle green eyes brimmed with tears, the anguish of chronic illness never very far from the surface.
"But, hey," the doctor said with real enthusiasm. "You're going to be good as new!" He crouched and hugged his tiny patient to his chest, a great weight of compassion filling his heart. Nudging her out to arm's length, he looked her over appraisingly.
Although she had gained some weight since her surgery, and the anemia she'd endured throughout her life had begun to improve, Dr. Forget could still see the listless, sad-eyed child underneath; the waif who'd always looked as if she'd just stepped out of a Romero film; the innocent whose
life had been a dark carnival of bland meals, constant thirst, repeated painful operations to keep her fistula patent, and twelve hours a week skewered to a dialysis machine. . . hours that should have been spent just being a kid.
“Think of all the good things you can do now that you couldn't do before," he told her. "Think of all the big tall glasses of Pepsi you can drink in the hot weather, and all the ice cream you can gobble, whenever you want."
The child gave him a hopeful grin, then glanced fetchingly at her mom.
"Almost whenever you want," her mother added, and laughed. Right now, with her only child free at last of that horrid dialysis machine, she'd probably let her consume ice cream as her staple diet if that was what she wanted.
Stretching to his full height, Dr. Forget shifted his attention to Mary, whose young face bore the telling hallmarks of constant strain.
"She's past the worst of it now, Mrs. Bleeker. It's been three weeks, and so far the transplant shows every sign of holding its own. We're going to let you take Shirley home today, but we'll have to see her weekly for the next couple of months."
Her own eyes welling tears now, Mary Bleeker nodded her thanks.
"We're going home?"' Shirley shrilled
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