The Promise of Stardust (46 page)

“Jabert, however, is critically injured, with a serious chest wound. The flight surgeon is stabilizing him while
Atlantis
prepares for an emergency landing. Medical personnel are awaiting the shuttle on the ground. The crew is currently expected to land at eighteen-forty EST.”

I dropped into an empty chair.

“Are you all right, Matt?” Dr. Shah asked.

“Elle's okay. Hell, yeah, I'm fine.”

Two days later, via satellite, Elle looked a little shaky as she approached a podium in Sweden. She wore a NASA-issued polo shirt and a pair of khaki pants. She cleared her throat. “I'm Dr. Elle McClure, mission specialist. You know the Mark Twain quote, right? The news of my death was greatly exaggerated. Greatly. Those of you who saw me walking in here might have noted that I was a little unsteady. I'm still readjusting to gravity. Nothing more. Let me get straight to the real issues. Andre Jabert is awake and talking—and joking about the landing being so smooth he barely remembers it. However, I assure you the rest of the crew always will.

“What occurred is something NASA has considered to be one of the major risk factors for space walks for some time. Space exploration is an inherently risky endeavor, but those of us involved believe it is worth the risks. We are passionate about our work and its necessity. Each of us takes our love of space with us when we leave Earth's atmosphere. Although some will point to this day and say we endangered more lives, I see this more like the
Apollo 13
mission. We overcame the obstacles, and we
saved our crew
. We'd practiced for this very contingency and were able to complete our mission. When Andre was injured, everyone immediately geared into action, and we released Hubble in working order.”

A British-sounding reporter said, “Dr. McClure, you're being hailed for your heroism. Do you care to comment?”

Elle chuckled, but she looked uncomfortable, shifting her feet. “Heroism? No. I did what needed to be done, what I've been trained to do, what we
all
learn to do. The entire
Atlantis
crew brought us inside. Our commander did a fantastic job of coordinating the rescue. Hubble is working, and I'm repeating myself here, but we're alive.” Elle smiled broadly and then a sober expression fell over her face. “I do apologize for the worry the false reports of my death caused my family.”

“Speaking of your family, have you spoken to them?”

“I've only talked to my dad. I promise I'll try to reach the rest later. Matt, if you're listening, I'll get ahold of you soon.”

“Who's Matt? Your husband?”

Elle grinned. “No. Not yet.”

   46   

Blythe Clarke told me that when Paul Klein interviewed her, he grilled her for nearly three hours, asking very specific questions about Elle's obstetrical history. Although I was still hoping he would be blindsided by what she would reveal, I was dreading her testimony today.

Jake started out with the usual questions, establishing Blythe's formidable qualifications. After he reviewed Elle's history of miscarriages and the diagnosis of Elle's autoimmune issues, he proceeded into the current world. This world. Elle's physical status, the likelihood she might deliver this baby—alive.

Jake entered into evidence—with a few overruled protests from Klein—the ultrasound of this baby, doing somersaults. Watching the two-minute video gave me a brief reprieve of peace, and even Mom looked moved; at least she tried to make eye contact with me, which I avoided.

Jake took a long sip of water then approached the witness stand. “Dr. Clarke, would you tell me about the phone call you received from Dr. Beaulieu on February second of this year?”

Blythe nodded once. “Yes. As I said, because of my professional relationship with Linney and Matt's position on staff, I did something I very rarely do: I gave them my home phone number. I knew that Matt was very concerned about Elle, but I also knew he wouldn't make a pest of himself. On February second, he called me in the late evening and said Elle was in trouble. She'd gone into preterm labor, and her water had broken. You see, the protocol with APS dictates we keep the woman on the blood thinner heparin for the duration of her pregnancy to prevent abnormal blood clotting. We schedule the delivery early, usually by week thirty-six, because we see a higher number of complications at the end. First we admit the mother to the hospital and take her off the blood thinners. That way, her blood will be able to clot normally during delivery. Then we induce labor once it's safe. But Elle went into labor while still on blood thinners, and she was hemorrhaging.”

Blythe paused, and Jake told her to continue.

“Matt said he'd called an ambulance, and the 911 operator was trying to talk him through a normal delivery, but the baby's umbilical cord prolapsed, which in and of itself was dire.”

“Dr. Clarke, I'm showing you what's marked as Respondent's Exhibit Fifty-one. Could you please identify it?” Jake asked.

“It's an obstetrical diagram of a prolapsed umbilical cord.” Blythe rose and walked over to the cross-section poster now displayed on an easel. “You see, the umbilical cord supplies the baby with oxygen. When the umbilical cord comes out before the baby does, it's an obstetrical emergency because the baby can lose his lifeline. In the hospital, we would have taken Elle straight to the OR for an immediate C-section. We would have had her under anesthesia within five minutes. And even then, we might not have saved the baby.

“Matt had a little OB experience and was able to determine the baby was breech, which means the baby was coming out with his feet first instead of his head first. Another problem. Breech deliveries are more risky for a number of reasons. And finally, Elle was bleeding heavily. Matt wanted me to tell him what to do.”

“What
did
you tell him?”

“He put the phone on speaker so I could talk him through it. Initially, we knew the baby was all right because the umbilical cord had a strong pulse. If we could get Elle to the hospital before the blood supply in the cord was cut off, we could save the baby. I wanted Matt to keep the baby from compressing the cord by manually pushing up on the fetus. Not exactly pretty, but he was trying. Unfortunately, when Elle had her next contraction, the baby came down into the birth canal and cut off his own oxygen supply. This was a precipitous delivery, which means very hard, very fast contractions. The pulse in the cord stopped. Matt's a smart guy. I didn't have to tell him we were losing the baby. He asked me to tell him what to do, but what we needed was a miracle.”

“What did you tell him?”

“What he already knew … I said if they were in the hospital we'd do a cesarean section. But at home …” Blythe shook her head. “I told him he just had to try to get the baby out as fast as possible.”

“Could you hear what was going on at the Beaulieu household?”

“Yes,” Blythe said. “Elle was crying, and she told Matt that he should operate on her.”

“At
home
?”

“Elle begged him to save the baby. Matt said he couldn't do it because he wasn't an OB. He couldn't operate without anesthesia. He told her that she'd bleed to death.”

“How did she respond?”

“She said there were sharp knives in the kitchen and to just get the baby out—even if it killed her.”

A collective gasp slipped out of the courtroom gallery. Jake's eyes widened, and honestly, if I didn't know that he'd already heard the story, I would have believed his reaction was completely unrehearsed.

“Obviously,” Blythe continued, “he said no, but Elle continued to beg him to save the baby—to put the baby first.”

“What did you say?”

“I was calling to Matt, but he didn't seem to hear me. He was telling Elle to calm down.”

“But he didn't … cut her open?” Jake asked.

“No. Of course not. He told her to push. And she did. But it took nearly ten minutes to get the baby out. And then it wasn't good. And worse—because Elle was bleeding profusely.”

“Was she conscious?”

“Objection,” Klein said, jumping to his feet. “Your Honor, the witness was not even present. This is all hearsay.”

“Could you hear what was transpiring?” the judge asked.

“Yes, sir. Your Honor. I was on speakerphone,” Blythe said.

“Overruled. You may continue your questions,” Wheeler said.

My mother was sniffling, swiping her cheeks from tears, raking her hair away from her face.

“Was Elle conscious?” Jake repeated.

“In and out. Matt kept telling her to try to stay awake.” Blythe shook her head. “The baby had no pulse, so Matt had started CPR. The ambulance arrived within a minute or two after the delivery.” She glanced in Klein's direction and added, “I could hear them.”

“Could you also hear Elle's reaction while Matt was doing CPR?”

“She was crying, praying really, and she sounded very weak.” Blythe picked up the water glass and took another drink. “Matt told Elle to lie down, but apparently she kept trying to get up to help Matt save the baby. That's when she passed out, the EMTs said.”

“Objection,” Klein said.

“I'll be happy to call the EMT as a witness, if you like, Mr. Klein,” Jake said.

“Withdrawn,” Klein said, looking defeated.

“You may continue,” Wheeler said.

“Even though she was hemorrhaging,” Jake said, “she tried to get up to try to help the baby?”

“Yes,” Blythe said.

I cradled my face in my hands. The memory flooded back at me, and I found myself holding my breath again, remembering my hands wrapped around Dylan's tiny chest, compressing his sternum with my thumbs, blowing puffs of air into his lungs, looking up at the pool of blood collecting on the kitchen floor, Elle turning whiter and whiter.

Jake put his hand on my shoulder. “You need a recess? You look sick,” he whispered.

“I'm okay.” I didn't feel okay, but didn't want to admit that my emotions were sucking the air out of the room, that I didn't feel like I could breathe.

“Dr. Clarke, were you at the hospital when the ambulance brought Elle, Matt, and the baby into the ER?” Jake asked.

“Yes. I drove in. The roads were bad that night. Snow. I was at the hospital almost thirty minutes before the ambulance arrived.”

“When the ambulance reached the hospital, what were the conditions of Elle and the baby?”

“The baby, Dylan …” Blythe looked at me as if to say she remembered the name we'd given him. “Dylan was dead. Elle had lost a lot of blood. An IV was started in the field, but she was in and out of consciousness.”

“How premature was Dylan Beaulieu?”

“He was thirty-four weeks gestation. By definition, an infant is term between thirty-seven to forty weeks gestation, but as I said we deliver infants of mothers with APS a little preterm because we see more complications during the last few weeks. So Elle was scheduled to be induced nine days later, just before her thirty-sixth week.”

“Excuse me, Doctor, but what do you mean by ‘induced'?”