Build a Man (24 page)

“Let’s go.”
Peter elbows his way through the swinging metal doors. I take a
deep breath then follow him into the operating room.

The first thing
I notice is how bright the lights are, and how white it is.
Everything gleams, as if it’s been polished a million times (it
probably has), and there’s not a scratch, scuff or fingerprint
anywhere. If ever there was a place I’d want to have my face
removed and put back on again, then this would be it. Suddenly I’m
not quite so nervous. The OR is like something out of a space ship,
Peter’s a brilliant surgeon, and I’m not even sure they
allow
things to go wrong here.

I let out my
breath and look toward the centre of the room. Jeremy’s stretched
out on a table, covered up to the shoulders in a sheet – no doubt
designed by Dolce&Gabbana. Except for the tube running into his
arm and the man standing behind Jeremy’s head monitoring a bevy of
beeping machines, Jeremy could be sleeping. Okay. This isn’t so
scary.

“Ready?” Peter
looks at the nurses. They nod, their twin chignon-heads bobbing up
and down in unison.

“Scalpel,
please,” Peter says, just like in the movies. The nurse hands him a
scary-looking metallic instrument, and my face screws up in
anticipation of Peter cutting into poor Jeremy’s skin. I know he
won’t feel a thing, but still . . .

Peter makes an
incision under Jeremy’s left eye and a nurse dabs away the blood.
Then Peter pulls back the skin flap to reveal blood and something
yellowy – fat, I presume – and a wave of nausea rolls over me.
Gross.
I gulp in some air, forcing myself to watch as Peter
neatly removes extra skin and fat, then stitches up the
incision.

He starts in on
the right eye, and this time I’m able to observe without the threat
of vomit. Still, there’s
no way
I would voluntarily do this
for a living. I’d never be able to detach myself from the fact that
it’s a living person I’m pulling apart.

Peter’s just
sewing up the bit underneath the right eye when there’s a bleep
from a machine behind Jeremy’s head. The man monitoring them
springs to his feet.

“Shit!” He
fiddles with the device’s buttons and knobs.

My heart jumps
into my throat. I’m no expert, but I can’t imagine ‘shit’ means
something good.

“Patient’s
aspiration levels have dropped to a critical level,” the man says
in a controlled voice. Suddenly the relaxed feeling in the OR
disappears.

“Decrease
anaesthetic,” Peter snaps.

“I have,” the
man shoots back. “But he’s not responding. All the levels were fine
until now. Must be an allergic reaction to the anaesthetic.”

Everything
stops as a silence like nothing I’ve ever known fills my ears. My
heart thumps and I start to count to ten, just like Mom always
instructed me to do when faced with something scary. When you get
to that final number, she’d said, everything will be better.
Granted, I was seven when she told me that, but it’s always worked
for me.

One.

The man’s eyes
are glued to the monitor and my breath comes in shallow gasps.

Two.

Everything will
be fine. It will.

“Well? Is he
responding?” Peter barks.

Three.

The man behind
the monitor shakes his head.

Four.

Come on,
Jeremy, I plead with his silent form on the bed.
Come on!
This is your dream. You
need
to be okay.

Five.

Halfway there.
He’s got to come around.

Six.

“He’s back.
Normal aspiration.”

I let out my
breath and lean against the wall, my heart galloping faster than a
race horse. Thank God, I think, as my pulse slows. I knew Jeremy
would pull through before I got to ten. I knew it! Whatever the
crisis was, it’s over.

“Thank you,”
Peter says, although his tone suggests anything but. “How long
without aspiration?”

“About two to
three minutes.” The man shakes his head.

“Fuck,” Peter
hisses in a tight voice. My eyebrows fly up. I’ve never heard him
swear in a professional context. “Serenity, wait out there.” He
points toward the door.

“But–”

“Now!” Peter’s
expression leaves no room for argument and I don’t want to distract
him from whatever’s happening with Jeremy, so I slink through the
doors, trying to figure out what’s going on. Something to do with
the anaesthetic – did they give him too much? Or too little? That’s
not such a big deal, is it? Jeremy will be all right, and this
incident will add a bit of drama to my column. We’ll have a laugh
about it tomorrow, when he’s resting comfortably eating whatever
yummy meal the hospital chef has prepared.

I cross my
fingers, praying I’m right. The alternative doesn’t bear thinking
about.

A few long –
very long – minutes later, Peter bursts through the operating room
doors. He jerks when he sees me, as if he forgot I’m here.

“So? Is Jeremy
okay?” I need to hear Peter say everything’s fine.

He peels off
his mask and gloves, washing his hands in silence until I can bear
it no longer.

“Peter!”

Sighing, he
turns toward me, his face anxious and tense. “No. No, Jeremy’s not
okay.”

My heart drops
and my pulse starts pounding. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“You know how
some people are really sensitive to pollen or seafood? They respond
in a way that’s different to normal people.” Peter dries his
hands.

I nod,
desperate for him to hurry up and get to the point.

“Well, Jeremy’s
hypersensitive to anaesthetic.”

“What does that
mean?” I ask.

“It means that
the amount we gave him – based on his weight, age, etcetera – was
too much. And when someone has too much anaesthetic, the brain
can’t get the amount of oxygen it needs to function normally.”

I watch Peter’s
mouth move but I can’t quite piece it all together. “So what does
that mean, exactly?”

“It’s like
drowning. If the brain goes without oxygen for too long, certain
centres like speech and mobility can be affected.”

“How long was
Jeremy without oxygen?” I’m almost afraid to ask.

“We reckon
around three minutes. Long enough to suffer some damage.” Peter’s
face is serious.

I sag against a
wall. Jeremy, brain damaged? My stomach flips, and for a second,
I’m certain I’m going to throw up. “What damage has he suffered?” I
croak, bracing myself to hear Peter’s words.

“We won’t know
until he regains consciousness,” Peter says. “He’ll be moved into
Critical Care for observation.”

“Can I see
him?”

“Family only,”
Peter responds brusquely. “Although it’s not common,
hypersensitivity to anaesthetic does happen. They know how to deal
with it there.”

I nod numbly. I
don’t care how frequently it happens. All I care is that it
happened to Jeremy.

“Why don’t you
go home now. I’ve got another surgery in thirty minutes, anyway.”
Peter starts stripping off his scrubs, as if he’s already forgotten
about poor Jeremy lying prostrate in Critical Care.

He notices my
expression and sighs. “Complications can happen, Serenity, I told
you. It’s part of medicine. Now go on.” Peter gives me a little
push toward the door, as if I’m Smitty. “I’ll see you later
tonight. I’ll fill you in on Jeremy then.” He turns to the sink
again, dismissing me.

I stare at his
back, unable to believe he can be so cold. Sure, Peter doesn’t know
Jeremy like I do, but he’s so damn clinical about the whole thing,
as if Jeremy’s just one damaged cog on the surgical production
line. Which, in a way, he is.

In a daze, I
change from my scrubs, then go out into the gleaming corridor and
over to a little kiosk in the corner, serving – I squint at the
food inside the case – caviar and sushi, along with a full menu of
imported sake. Suddenly I’m disgusted by this place and its
over-the-top wealth and luxury. It’s just tempting fate to step in
and make something go wrong.

I collapse onto
a distressed leather chair. Funny, until I asked, I’ve never heard
Peter mention to any patient that something could go wrong during
surgery. It’s always been about the outcome: how wonderful they’ll
look; how they’ll appear ten years younger. If this anaesthetic
thing happens as much as Peter says it does, shouldn’t he be
telling patients about it?

But as much as
I want to pin the blame on Peter for what’s happened to Jeremy,
there’s one thought blaring in my head. It presses down on me,
filtering through every pore and making me shiver with guilt.
I
was the one who convinced Jeremy to go through with the
surgery. Part of the reason he’s lying in Critical Care is because
of me.

There’s no way
I’m going home.
No way.
I’ll get into Critical Care somehow
to see Jeremy, to sit beside him so he’s not alone, even if he
doesn’t know I’m there.

Wiping away the
tears that have gathered in my eyes, I stand up, full of
determination. Heading to the interactive information stand beside
the lift, I scroll through the hospital departments until I locate
Critical Care on the eighth floor.

As the lift
rises, I rehearse my story. I’ll pretend I’m Jeremy’s sister, and
hopefully that should do the trick. If it doesn’t, well, I’ll sneak
back into the OR, grab my scrubs, and impersonate a doctor if I
need to. I can’t let Jeremy lie there alone.

I walk out into
a blinding white corridor with the same grand chandelier as in
reception. Potted orchids grace every surface, and the whole thing
feels more like an upscale boutique hotel than the Critical Care
department of a hospital.

“Hello.” Yet
another blonde nurse behind a bamboo desk smiles at me with just
the right mix of sympathy and empathy. “Can I help?”

“I’m Jeremy
Ritchie’s sister. From America,” I add quickly, remembering my
accent might be a tip-off I’m lying. “I believe he was brought to
Critical Care after an operation about twenty minutes ago?” I try
to look trustworthy but – as always when I lie – my face
flushes.

The nurse’s
expression doesn’t alter, but her eyes narrow slightly. “Just let
me check our records.” She taps away at a Mac then glances up. “Can
I see some ID, please? Sometimes we get paparazzi trying to sneak
in.” Her mouth twists like she’s tasted something foul.

“Yes, those
vultures, I know. They stop at nothing,” I say, my cheeks getting
even redder. I make a show of searching in my handbag for
identification. “I’m sure I have something in here. Just a second .
. .” My eyes widen in horror as the notebook I’d shoved in my bag
clunks onto the floor.

The nurse
stands, peering over the desk. “Did you drop something?” She spots
my notebook. “What’s that?”

“Oh, it’s just,
it’s just my journal. Journaling’s all the rage in the States.” I
smile shakily, willing her to believe me. At least my accent is
helpful this time.

“I need to see
some identification,” she repeats, sitting back down.

“Um, I don’t
have any with me. Sorry. I never thought of bringing ID to the
hospital.” That much is true, anyway. “Please let me see my
brother. I’m really worried about him.”

Something in my
expression must ring true, because the nurse waves me past the
desk. “Mr Ritchie is in suite ten. Please use the disinfectant gel
outside each room before entering.”

I nod then race
down the corridor, past numbers one, two, three . . . I pause for a
second outside suite ten, wondering what Jeremy will look like. In
my mind, he’s all wound up in bandages like a mummy or a car-crash
victim, but realistically I know Peter only did the bags under
Jeremy’s eyes before disaster struck. The real damage is inside his
head.

Taking a deep
breath to steady myself, I rub a squirt of gel from the silver wall
dispenser into my hands, then push open the door.

Inside the
spacious room, the light is dim and although they’ve made an effort
to keep up the cool – with modern art on the walls and a glass
sculpture in one corner – nothing can disguise the row of machines
and the high hospital bed. This is a room for a very ill
person.

“Jeremy?” I
whisper as I walk on tiptoes toward the bed. The room is silent
except for the beep of monitors, and it feels like I’ve crawled
into a cocoon, where the outside world doesn’t exist. Nothing
exists but Jeremy, lying here in front of me.

Wow.
If
I thought he was pale before the operation, this gives the word a
whole new meaning. Even the hospital sheet has a healthy glow
compared to him. Angry bruises make his eyes resemble a raccoon’s,
and the stitches underneath . . . I wince at the neat black thread
piercing angry-looking skin. But apart from that – and the tube
running into his arm, along with the various machines he’s hooked
up to – he could be resting.

Except he’s
not. I slump onto a retro-patterned chair beside the bed, unable to
take my eyes off him. Maybe he’ll be fine when he wakes up. No one
really knows what happens in the brain, right? It’s still a
mystery. And people can go without oxygen for a long time – what
about that David Blaine dude? He went up to, like, seven minutes or
something holding his breath. Anything is possible.

I watch
Jeremy’s chest rise and fall, then lean over to take his hand. God,
it’s freezing. I rub his fingers between my hands to try to warm
them up, then place his hand back under the sheet and cover it with
my own. I sit like that for hours, observing Jeremy’s still,
bruised face, and praying he’ll be okay when he awakens.

The shrill ring
of my mobile jerks me from my trance. I answer it quickly, ducking
out into the corridor.

“Hello?” I
whisper.

“How’s the
column coming?” Leza’s sharp nasal tone blares out at me and I hold
the phone away from my ear. Oh God, the column. With everything
that’s happened, writing it has been the last thing on my mind.