undefeated.
A nurse poked her head into the cubicle. “Dr. Sutcliffe?
X-ray
called to say that the portable chest film’s ready, if you want to go down
and
see it.”
“Thanks.” He looked at Maura. “We can look at the
skull
films too, if you’d like.”
They shared the elevator with six young candy stripers,
fresh-faced
and glossy-haired, giggling among themselves as they shot admiring glances at
Dr.
Sutcliffe. Attractive though he was, he seemed oblivious to their attention, his
solemn gaze focused instead on the changing floor numbers. The glamour of a
white
coat, thought Maura, remembering her own teenage years working as a volunteer in
St. Luke’s Hospital in San Francisco. The doctors had seemed untouchable to
her. Unassailable. Now that she herself was a doctor, she knew only too well
that
the white coat would not protect her from making mistakes. It would not make her
infallible.
She looked at the candy stripers in their crisp uniforms, and
thought
of herself at sixteen—not giggly, like these girls, but quiet and serious.
Even
then, aware of life’s dark notes. Instinctively drawn to melodies in a
minor
key.
The elevator doors opened, and the girls spilled out, a sunny
flock
of pink and white, leaving Maura and Sutcliffe alone in the elevator.
“They make me tired,” he said. “All that energy. I
wish
I had a tenth of it, especially after a night on call.” He glanced at her.
“Do
you have many of those?”
“Nights on call? We rotate.”
“I guess your patients don’t expect you to rush
in.”
“It’s not like your life here in the trenches.”
He laughed, and suddenly he was transformed into a blond surfer
boy
with smiling eyes. “Life in the trenches. That’s what it feels like
sometimes.
The front lines.”
The X rays were already waiting for them on the clerk’s
counter.
Sutcliffe carried the large envelope into the viewing room. He slid a set of
films
under the clips and flipped on the switch.
The light flickered on through images of a skull. Fracture lines
laced
across bone like lightning strikes. She could see two separate points of impact.
The first blow had landed on the right temporal bone, sending a single fine
crack
downward, toward the ear. The second, more powerful, had fallen posterior to the
first blow, and this one had compressed the plateau of cranium, crushing it
inward.
“He hit her first on the side of the head,” she said.
“How can you tell that was the first blow?”
“Because the first fracture line stops the propagation of an
intersecting
fracture from a second blow.” She pointed to the fracture lines. “You
see
how this line stops right here, where it reaches the first fracture line? The
force
of impact can’t jump across the gap. That tells me this blow to the right
temple
came first. Maybe she was turning away. Or she didn’t see him, coming at
her
from the side.”
“He surprised her,” said Sutcliffe.
“And it would have been enough to send her reeling. Then the
next
blow landed, farther back on the head, here.” She pointed to the second
fracture
line.
“A heavier blow,” he said. “It compressed the skull
table.”
He took down the skull films and put up the CT scans. Computerized
axial tomography allowed one to look into the human cranium, revealing the brain
slice by slice. She saw a pocket of collected blood that had leaked from torn
vessels.
The mounting pressure would have squeezed the brain. It was an injury as
potentially
devastating as that done to Camille.
But human anatomy and human endurance are variable. While the much
younger nun had succumbed to her injuries, Ursula’s heart kept beating, her
body unwilling to surrender its soul. Not a miracle, merely one of those quirks
of
fate, like the child who survives a fall from a sixth-floor window, and is only
scratched.
“I’m amazed she survived at all,” he murmured.
“So am I.” She looked at Sutcliffe. The glow of the
light
box lit half his face, glancing
A nurse poked her head into the cubicle. “Dr. Sutcliffe?
X-ray
called to say that the portable chest film’s ready, if you want to go down
and
see it.”
“Thanks.” He looked at Maura. “We can look at the
skull
films too, if you’d like.”
They shared the elevator with six young candy stripers,
fresh-faced
and glossy-haired, giggling among themselves as they shot admiring glances at
Dr.
Sutcliffe. Attractive though he was, he seemed oblivious to their attention, his
solemn gaze focused instead on the changing floor numbers. The glamour of a
white
coat, thought Maura, remembering her own teenage years working as a volunteer in
St. Luke’s Hospital in San Francisco. The doctors had seemed untouchable to
her. Unassailable. Now that she herself was a doctor, she knew only too well
that
the white coat would not protect her from making mistakes. It would not make her
infallible.
She looked at the candy stripers in their crisp uniforms, and
thought
of herself at sixteen—not giggly, like these girls, but quiet and serious.
Even
then, aware of life’s dark notes. Instinctively drawn to melodies in a
minor
key.
The elevator doors opened, and the girls spilled out, a sunny
flock
of pink and white, leaving Maura and Sutcliffe alone in the elevator.
“They make me tired,” he said. “All that energy. I
wish
I had a tenth of it, especially after a night on call.” He glanced at her.
“Do
you have many of those?”
“Nights on call? We rotate.”
“I guess your patients don’t expect you to rush
in.”
“It’s not like your life here in the trenches.”
He laughed, and suddenly he was transformed into a blond surfer
boy
with smiling eyes. “Life in the trenches. That’s what it feels like
sometimes.
The front lines.”
The X rays were already waiting for them on the clerk’s
counter.
Sutcliffe carried the large envelope into the viewing room. He slid a set of
films
under the clips and flipped on the switch.
The light flickered on through images of a skull. Fracture lines
laced
across bone like lightning strikes. She could see two separate points of impact.
The first blow had landed on the right temporal bone, sending a single fine
crack
downward, toward the ear. The second, more powerful, had fallen posterior to the
first blow, and this one had compressed the plateau of cranium, crushing it
inward.
“He hit her first on the side of the head,” she said.
“How can you tell that was the first blow?”
“Because the first fracture line stops the propagation of an
intersecting
fracture from a second blow.” She pointed to the fracture lines. “You
see
how this line stops right here, where it reaches the first fracture line? The
force
of impact can’t jump across the gap. That tells me this blow to the right
temple
came first. Maybe she was turning away. Or she didn’t see him, coming at
her
from the side.”
“He surprised her,” said Sutcliffe.
“And it would have been enough to send her reeling. Then the
next
blow landed, farther back on the head, here.” She pointed to the second
fracture
line.
“A heavier blow,” he said. “It compressed the skull
table.”
He took down the skull films and put up the CT scans. Computerized
axial tomography allowed one to look into the human cranium, revealing the brain
slice by slice. She saw a pocket of collected blood that had leaked from torn
vessels.
The mounting pressure would have squeezed the brain. It was an injury as
potentially
devastating as that done to Camille.
But human anatomy and human endurance are variable. While the much
younger nun had succumbed to her injuries, Ursula’s heart kept beating, her
body unwilling to surrender its soul. Not a miracle, merely one of those quirks
of
fate, like the child who survives a fall from a sixth-floor window, and is only
scratched.
“I’m amazed she survived at all,” he murmured.
“So am I.” She looked at Sutcliffe. The glow of the
light
box lit half his face, glancing
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