Wonders Never Cease (6 page)

“The doctor tells me they'll keep her in a coma.”

“That's what her chart says.”

“So if she's in a coma, what is it you do?”

“I check her vital signs. I turn her over every two hours to keep her from getting bedsores. I empty her catheter and adjust her IV fluids. I chart her BIS readings.”

“That's it? Cushy job.”

“Only I don't get ten percent.”

“Believe me, ten percent is not what it used to be.”

Kemp sneered. “I'll take ten percent of Liv Hayden any day. The woman must be worth millions.”

“Worth millions, sure. She just doesn't make millions—not anymore.”

“You're kidding.”

“This is Hollywood, kid. By the time she was thirty she was already making top dollar, but producers get tired of paying top dollar. There's always some up-and-comer who'll do the role for half. Besides, the public wants to see new faces, younger faces—younger bodies.”

Kemp looked down at the bed. “Hers still looks good to me.”

“The camera doesn't lie—neither does the box office. Producers and directors, that's another story.”

Kemp took a look at his watch.

“I get the hint,” Biederman said. “I'll be back to check on her tomorrow. You take real good care of her now, you hear? And if she needs anything at all, you call me.” He took out a business card and handed it to Kemp.

Kemp dropped the card into his pocket. “Don't worry. She's in good hands.”

When Biederman left, Kemp turned back to the bed again. “So you're Liv Hayden,” he said. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Hayden. My name is Kemp—Kemp McAvoy. I'll be your night nurse while you're with us here at UCLA, so we'll be getting to know each other quite well. By the time you leave, I suspect we'll be very good friends.”

He took her pulse and blood pressure and recorded them in her chart.

“Your agent was just here,” he said. “Mr. Biederman—a nice enough fellow, though I'd think you'd get tired of finding his hand in your purse all the time. He says he owns ten percent of you—though I have a hard time believing that any man owns a piece of a woman like you.”

He gave her a wink and checked her BIS reading; the digital display read 61.

“This? Oh, this is what we call a BIS monitor—that stands for ‘bispectral index.' It continually analyzes your electroencephalograms to assess your level of consciousness. See, when you're awake your cerebral cortex is very active, but that changes under sedation. It all has to do with the metabolic ratio of glucose in the brain. Trust me, it's very complicated; I won't bore you with the details.”

He made a notation in the chart along with the current time.

“Well, yes, now that you mention it, I suppose I do sound awfully intelligent for a nurse. That's a long story, but I can give you the
Reader's Digest
version. See, I was planning to be a doctor—an anesthesiologist in fact. My father is a very successful anesthesiologist, did I mention that? Right here in Beverly Hills—he might have even been the one who put you under when you went in for that chin tuck. I was following in the old man's footsteps, you see. I aced my MCATs and got accepted to Johns Hopkins no less. I finished med school and started my residency there—that's right, at Hopkins too. I know, it's impressive, isn't it? And I almost finished my residency, but there was this silly disagreement over a minor ethical violation. You know what happened? They kicked me out. That's right—seven years of medical education, and suddenly they tell me that I'm not going to be an anesthesiologist after all. Seven years of my life down the toilet—I don't mind telling you, Liv, that hurt.

“So I moved back to L.A. I know—‘Why L.A.? Why not take a job where no one knows you?' Simple—I've got family here, and I was a little strapped for cash at the time. You'd think Dad would have been glad to have his beloved son home again. I mean, it's not like he couldn't afford me—he's not exactly living on food stamps there in Bel Air. But no, my old man's got this thing about ‘making it on your own.' So what was I supposed to do after seven years of medical school, wait tables and detail cars? I don't think so. So I went down to the local community college and enrolled in a nursing program. I finished in less than a year. All I needed was the clinical nursing courses—‘Bed Pans 101' and things of that sort—just enough to fulfill the requirements and qualify me to take the boards.

“So here I am—Kemp McAvoy, MD, RN, arguably the most overqualified nurse in America. I have to tell you, the job is a little demeaning, but it's as close to medicine as I can get right now—until I figure out something else, that is. And I will too—wait and see. I'll make it happen right here in L.A., just like I always said I would.

“But enough about me; let's talk about you. Your agent says that you're a washed-up has-been—is that true? Personally, Liv, I have a hard time believing it. I think you're quite beautiful, even if you have had a little work done. No, I don't blame you for that—that's just routine maintenance. It's a competitive world out there, and a woman has to look her best if she wants to keep a man's attention.”

There was a soft knock at the door and a nurse poked her head into the room. “Kemp, I'm taking my break now. Can you keep an eye on 616 for me?”

“I'm just getting a patient settled in,” he said. “Can't you ask Natalie to do it? She's probably not doing anything.”

When the door closed Kemp turned back to his patient again. “See, that's what I have to put up with all the time. Can you believe it? They expect me to do all the trivial things that ordinary nurses do—but I'm not exactly an ordinary nurse, now am I?”

He checked her Foley, then drained it and recorded the fluid level.

“Mr. Biederman thinks you're out of my league. What do you think? Personally, I think he's underestimating me and overestimating you. I mean, if you're a has-been and I'm an almost-was, doesn't that put us in roughly the same category?”

Having completed his check-in, he set the chart aside and pulled up the chair that rested against the wall. He sat down next to her bed and relaxed, folding his hands across his chest.

“Seriously, Liv, I think you and I have a lot in common. You used to be on top of the world, and I was definitely headed there. Now look at you—a shadow of the woman you used to be—and look at me, stuck in this degrading job. I think I understand you, Liv, and I think if you had the chance you might understand me. Who knows? Under different circumstances we might have really hit it off. I mean, we both have talent, we both have ambition, and to be quite honest, women don't find me unattractive.”

Kemp heard a sound behind him and turned to see Emmet emptying the trash can just to the left of the door.

Kemp looked him over. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long. Why?”

“Never mind. Come in here for a minute.”

Emmet hesitated, but finally stepped into the room and shut the door.

“You want to see a really beautiful woman?”

Emmet frowned. “Is this appropriate, Mr. Kemp?”

“C'mon, we're not peeking under the sheets. I just thought you might like to see a world-class beauty up close. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

Emmet looked doubtful but stepped closer to the bed.

“This is Olivia Hayden, the famous movie star,” Kemp said. “Recognize her?”

Emmet shook his head sadly. “Poor thing. What happened to her?”

“Rolled her car or something. Women—they always want more car than they can handle—more man too.”

“Is she hurt real bad?”

“She'll recover—they're just keeping her in a coma as a precautionary measure. Now I ask you: Is that a beautiful woman or what?”

Emmet nodded. “But there's a sadness about her somehow.”

“That's just the propofol.”

“I wonder if she's happy.”

“Are you kidding? She's a movie star. She's got millions of adoring fans and they all buy tickets.”

“Still.”

“You're probably right,” Kemp said. “I'll bet what she really longs for is to be a janitor working nights at UCLA—then she might finally be fulfilled.”

Emmet shrugged. “You never know.”

“Get back to work, will you?”

“You asked me in.”

“Now I'm asking you out. Good-bye.”

When Emmet left Kemp sat down in the chair again. “It looks like I'm the only one who understands you,” he said. “Can't say I'm surprised—you're probably the only one around here who could understand me. We need to help each other out, Liv. We need to figure out a way to get both our stars back on course.”

6

K
emp looked down the rolling fairway at the glistening oval 455 yards away. The hole was a long two-shot-ter and he'd need a strong drive to set up his approach to the green. He took out his driver and approached the tee.

“Watch those bunkers on the right.”

Kemp rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Dad, I can see them. How many times have we played this course?”

“I'm just saying—with that slice of yours and all. You never did break that habit.”

“I can't play golf all day. Some people have to work for a living.”

“Whose fault is that?”

It was a near perfect day for golf, and the North Course at the Los Angeles Country Club was a near perfect place to play. The 13th hole was one of Kemp's favorites, with its jewel-like green and sculpted bunkers surrounded by a dense screen of spruce and pine. With nothing but rolling hills visible in the distance, you could almost forget you were in Los Angeles; on a day like this, you could almost forget you were on earth. The sun, the breeze, a round of golf on one of the most exclusive courses in the nation—life didn't get much better than this. It would have been almost perfect—if it wasn't for the company.

“See that stand of trees behind the green?” his father asked.

“The Playboy Mansion is right behind it,” Kemp said, “and Hugh Hefner once applied for membership at the country club but they turned him down.”

“Have I told you that story before?”

“Every time we teed off since I was twelve. Are we going to talk or are we going to play?”

Kemp shook his head. It was just another one of his father's not-so-subtle reminders of how exclusive the Los Angeles Country Club was. The old man had spent ten years on a waiting list before he was finally granted membership, and he was sickeningly proud of it. Kemp had always hoped that he would someday become a member himself—after he completed his residency and fellowship and set up his practice here in L.A. He used to dream about it—not just about the golf, but about the time when he could play here without his condescending old man talking his ear off all day long. But Kemp knew it would never happen unless his current situation changed dramatically. The Los Angeles Country Club was private and exclusive, and you didn't play unless you were a member or a guest—and if they looked down their noses at old Hugh Hefner, they weren't exactly going to welcome a nurse from UCLA.

“Twenty bucks says you end up in the bunker,” his father prodded.

“No thanks.”

“What's the matter, son? No guts, no glory.”

Kemp teed up and pretended to ignore him. It wasn't just a friendly bet—it was a pointed reminder that Kemp didn't have twenty bucks to burn. Nothing the old man did was friendly, and nothing was without a point. It was the sort of veiled insult that his father seemed to find clever; Kemp found it annoying and rude.

“Twenty bucks says you're in the sand in two strokes.”

Twenty bucks says I punch you in the face
. “Don't waste your money. I'll be on the green in two.”

“Then put your money where your mouth is. C'mon—nobody bets on a man who won't bet on himself.”

That was a veiled reminder too—and Kemp knew what it meant. “Okay, you're on. Get out your wallet, old man.”

He sized up the ball and took his swing. The ball left the head of the titanium driver with a hollow
ping
and rocketed down the fairway high and long. Kemp watched the ball, willing it to go straight—but halfway down the fairway it began to veer sharply to the right. The ball rolled to a stop two hundred yards from the green with a yawning bunker directly in front of it.

His father grinned. “I can smell that money now.”

“Don't count on it,” Kemp said. “That's an easy iron shot.”

“Easy for some people—but you're no Tiger.”

They grabbed their bags and began the long walk.

“Still too cheap to rent a cart,” Kemp said. “What would it set you back, twenty, twenty-five bucks?”

“It's not the money,” his father replied. “I can make that up on a bet with a sucker like you. You appreciate things when you work for them, son. It's true in golf; it's true in life.”

You appreciate things when you work for them
—how many times had Kemp heard that one growing up? It was one of his father's favorite sayings. It represented his entire philosophy of parenting; it was his golden compass in life, and it had almost ruined Kemp's.

Halfway across the fairway his father asked, “So what's on your mind?”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm not stupid, son. You never take me up on golf anymore unless there's something you want. What is it this time?”

Kemp considered denying it, but it wasn't worth the energy just to protect the old man's feelings. “I was wondering if we could arrange a loan.”

“A loan or a handout?”

“That depends on what kind of mood you're in.”

“You know how I feel about handouts.”

“A loan, then.”

“What's it for?”

Kemp stopped and set down his bag. “There's a place in Santa Monica we've got our eye on—a place near the beach.”