T-shirt rucked up to reveal her pale, mud-splattered stomach, blue jeans black with water, her feet encased in what must have been brand-new tennis shoes, New Balance, black with bright yellow Ns.
Emily coughed, flipped on her side, and vomited.
“She’s alive!” Raymond shouted.
The pretty girl whose name was Rene spoke. Her voice was loud in the surrounding silence. “Jeez. Of course she’s alive.”
Harry lifted the resurrected girl in his arms. “It’s okay,” he said.
Cradling the girl in his arms, surrounded by shadows, Harry started to walk to the house, but his knees disappeared, and he would have fallen if he hadn’t been caught. Raymond took the girl and kept on toward the house while someone—the giant— helped Harry to follow.
Harry looked up and saw that the stars had come out. Like a thousand thousand cars at the bottom of an immense lake, tiny map lights flickering against inevitable night. Were their doors ajar, did they make a noise until their batteries ran down?
He was getting a little punchy, but that was all right. He would sleep in triumph, his fatigue a badge of honor. He had done it; he had saved her.
Harry was helped through the door of the cabin, and he watched as Emily, who had been divested of her wet clothes and wrapped in Helen’s flannel nightgown, suddenly arched on the bed and began to die in earnest.
Harry ran to the side of the bed, pushed past Raymond and Helen, and pressed his ear to Emily’s chest.
It was a sound he had never heard before, but he had seen the sound before. He had seen it on the monitor, there in the ER. Harry had heard the intern shout: “We got v-fib here!” That patient, an overweight, red-faced man who had come to the hospital from a restaurant when he had begun to experience sharp chest pains had been promptly hooked up to the EKG monitor, had suffered another attack, and had died.
Emily’s heart was beating wildly, like some lost sparrow trapped in a chimney. She’d failed to drown, but there were other ways to die. Her heart had gone into ventricular fibulation.
Four years working in an emergency room right after college would now pay off. Harry would be able to tell his companions just what it was that had killed Emily.
But he was powerless to prevent it.
If he had been in a hospital…if he just happened to have a crash cart handy…if—
They put the paddles on the big man’s chest and his body jumped and Harry had been reminded of a documentary, seals being clubbed on a beach, skinned, white carcasses plundered.
Harry’s eyes fell on the lamp he had been repairing. Well, why not? He had absolutely nothing to lose. Except this: he was no doctor. What if she was not dying? This first aid would kill her, surely it would kill her.
For a moment, he leaned over the girl, but there were no answers in the mask of her closed face, her blue lips, the mute, dark O of her mouth. Then Harry moved. Because he knew, beyond any logic except a sure knowledge of how life was for him, Harry Gainesborough, that if he did not act she would die, that the surest sort of murder would be to do nothing. This was the truth in his life, and since he was the person who was, well, here, then there was only one possible solution: Act.
“Raymond! Helen!” he shouted. “I want you to help me.”
One wire here, above the right breast . “Raymond, take this wire and hold it here, down here on her left side. That’s right.” Harry looked into Raymond’s eyes and saw fear, as though blue were the color of fear, and something even more troubling, a wild, absolute trust. Raymond would let Harry Gainesborough do what he pleased, because it was unfathomable to Raymond that the creator of Zod Wallop was capable of error.
Raymond stood holding the peeled-back lamp cord in hands sheathed in latex, disposable dishwashing gloves. Budget doctors , Harry thought, regarding his own gloved hands, his own spliced wire. Hand me the brain, Igor .
You’ll kill
Emily coughed, flipped on her side, and vomited.
“She’s alive!” Raymond shouted.
The pretty girl whose name was Rene spoke. Her voice was loud in the surrounding silence. “Jeez. Of course she’s alive.”
Harry lifted the resurrected girl in his arms. “It’s okay,” he said.
Cradling the girl in his arms, surrounded by shadows, Harry started to walk to the house, but his knees disappeared, and he would have fallen if he hadn’t been caught. Raymond took the girl and kept on toward the house while someone—the giant— helped Harry to follow.
Harry looked up and saw that the stars had come out. Like a thousand thousand cars at the bottom of an immense lake, tiny map lights flickering against inevitable night. Were their doors ajar, did they make a noise until their batteries ran down?
He was getting a little punchy, but that was all right. He would sleep in triumph, his fatigue a badge of honor. He had done it; he had saved her.
Harry was helped through the door of the cabin, and he watched as Emily, who had been divested of her wet clothes and wrapped in Helen’s flannel nightgown, suddenly arched on the bed and began to die in earnest.
Harry ran to the side of the bed, pushed past Raymond and Helen, and pressed his ear to Emily’s chest.
It was a sound he had never heard before, but he had seen the sound before. He had seen it on the monitor, there in the ER. Harry had heard the intern shout: “We got v-fib here!” That patient, an overweight, red-faced man who had come to the hospital from a restaurant when he had begun to experience sharp chest pains had been promptly hooked up to the EKG monitor, had suffered another attack, and had died.
Emily’s heart was beating wildly, like some lost sparrow trapped in a chimney. She’d failed to drown, but there were other ways to die. Her heart had gone into ventricular fibulation.
Four years working in an emergency room right after college would now pay off. Harry would be able to tell his companions just what it was that had killed Emily.
But he was powerless to prevent it.
If he had been in a hospital…if he just happened to have a crash cart handy…if—
They put the paddles on the big man’s chest and his body jumped and Harry had been reminded of a documentary, seals being clubbed on a beach, skinned, white carcasses plundered.
Harry’s eyes fell on the lamp he had been repairing. Well, why not? He had absolutely nothing to lose. Except this: he was no doctor. What if she was not dying? This first aid would kill her, surely it would kill her.
For a moment, he leaned over the girl, but there were no answers in the mask of her closed face, her blue lips, the mute, dark O of her mouth. Then Harry moved. Because he knew, beyond any logic except a sure knowledge of how life was for him, Harry Gainesborough, that if he did not act she would die, that the surest sort of murder would be to do nothing. This was the truth in his life, and since he was the person who was, well, here, then there was only one possible solution: Act.
“Raymond! Helen!” he shouted. “I want you to help me.”
One wire here, above the right breast . “Raymond, take this wire and hold it here, down here on her left side. That’s right.” Harry looked into Raymond’s eyes and saw fear, as though blue were the color of fear, and something even more troubling, a wild, absolute trust. Raymond would let Harry Gainesborough do what he pleased, because it was unfathomable to Raymond that the creator of Zod Wallop was capable of error.
Raymond stood holding the peeled-back lamp cord in hands sheathed in latex, disposable dishwashing gloves. Budget doctors , Harry thought, regarding his own gloved hands, his own spliced wire. Hand me the brain, Igor .
You’ll kill
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