Page 21 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

T he ambulance ride was horrible. Carole perched on a little jump seat thing as they bounced over the potholed streets, rushing Frank-O to the hospital.

She couldn’t even hold his hand because the EMT was between them, bent over Frank-O, whose face was covered with an oxygen mask.

Since she couldn’t reach his hand, she grabbed his ankle, holding on for dear life as if by hanging on to him she could keep him from slipping away.

Through the windows in the rear doors, she could see the headlights of Frank’s GMC truck; he was following close, slip-streaming behind the ambulance.

She couldn’t see his face, but she knew how he looked: his jaw set, his eyes straight ahead, fixed on the ambulance containing his wife and son.

Nothing was going to come between him and that ambulance. Nothing.

It seemed to take an eternity before they swooped down the ramp beneath the hospital and braked outside the emergency room.

The EMTs must have alerted the ER that they were coming; people in scrubs were waiting for them, and as soon as the stretcher was unloaded, they rushed it inside.

Carole ran after them, only to be blocked by a large woman with frizzy gray hair.

“I’ll need some information,” she said, taking Carole’s arm and attempting to steer her toward a desk.

“That’s my son!” protested Carole. “I have to be with him.”

“Against policy,” insisted the woman, as Frank suddenly loomed behind Carole.

“Let go of my wife,” he said.

The woman looked up and, seeing Frank’s expression, let go. Frank was in motion, and the woman stepped aside, letting them continue through the swinging doors to the curtained bay where Frank-O was being treated. Frank pulled the green curtain aside and demanded, “How’s he doing?”

A number of doctors and nurses were bent over Frank-O; one seemed to be in charge and was talking steadily to the others, who responded with curt answers. It was enough to drive you crazy, thought Carole, who wanted to scoop up her baby in a big hug and make everything all right.

After getting a nod from the guy in charge, one of the team members broke from the group and approached Frank and Carole. He tried the arm tactic on Frank, but it didn’t work; if Frank didn’t want to move, he didn’t move. “How’s my boy?” he asked.

“Let’s go outside,” said the doctor, Dr. Huang, according to the name embroidered on his white coat.

Carole felt desperate; she was hanging on to Frank’s hand.

All she could think of was that awful nightclub fire years ago when a rock band’s pyrotechnic display sparked a quick-moving fire.

A hundred people were trapped inside and died in the flames; others made slow and agonizing recoveries, but were scarred for life, both physically and emotionally.

Frank glared at the doctor. “I got a simple question for you,” he said. “Is he gonna make it?”

The doctor looked at Frank as if he were seeing him for the first time, then nodded and pulled down his mask. Carole thought he looked about sixteen years old.

“Is he burned or what?” demanded Frank.

“As far as we can tell from the initial exam,” said the doctor, holding up a cautionary hand, “he does not appear to have any burns, but …”

Frank let out a big sigh of relief. Carole waited to hear the rest.

“… smoke inhalation is our major concern right now,” continued the doctor.

“But you’re giving him oxygen, right?” asked Frank.

“Smoke inhalation is tricky,” warned the doctor. “The symptoms tend to get worse before they get better.”

“Meaning?” asked Carole.

“He will have to be watched very carefully, especially for swelling; we have to make sure his airways remain open and that his brain hasn’t been oxygen starved. We’ll sedate him tonight, to keep him comfortable and allow his body to begin healing. He’ll be in the ICU, where he can be monitored.”

“But he’s in no immediate danger?” asked Frank.

“Can we stay with him?” asked Carole.

“Once he’s settled in the ICU,” said the doctor. “But I have to warn you, if his condition changes, you may have to leave.” He was looking past them, at the woman with frizzy gray hair who was hovering behind them. “But now I think you have to provide some information to admissions.”

Frank gave him a look, but the doctor wasn’t fazed. “Like I said, your son is in no immediate danger, and we’ll let you know as soon as you can see him.”

“Okay,” said Carole, taking Frank’s arm. “Let’s get this over with.”

One thing about Frank, he didn’t skimp when it came to health insurance for his workers or his family.

Even the admissions clerk was impressed when he handed over his card and her computer produced the platinum plan.

Frank-O was on the move by the time they finished, and they followed the little procession to the elevator that took them up to the ICU.

There, the beds were arranged in a circle of curtained bays surrounding a central nursing command post. Everything was high-tech; Frank-O’s bed was surrounded by an array of beeping and flashing monitors.

Frank-O himself was quiet, a peaceful little island surrounded by all the machinery.

There was one recliner by the bed, and the nurse brought a small armchair for Carole; they sat and watched and waited.

Eventually, Frank dozed off, but Carole remained awake, watching every rise and fall of her son’s chest. Her thoughts wandered back to the night he was born and how she’d held him to her breast, concentrating on every swallow of milk that he took as if she could will him to feed and grow and thrive.

She eventually began to relax when she became convinced that he was a normal, healthy baby, but whenever he got sick, even with a little cold, the old anxiety would reassert itself.

Then she would hover over him, willing him to get well with every fiber of her body.

And it was physical as much as mental; she was rooted in place and couldn’t pull herself away until she knew he was going to be okay.

Carole was unaware of the hours passing, but the sky was pink with dawn when a nurse urged them to go home.

“He’s really doing fine,” she reported, after checking his vitals. “Why don’t you go home and get some rest, eat something …”

Carole suddenly remembered that they hadn’t had any supper the night before. And poor Poopsie! She must have been upset, alone in the apartment all night. And by now she would be more than ready for a walk. But still, Carole was reluctant to leave.

“He’ll be here when you get back,” the nurse told her, brushing Frank-O’s hair off his brow. “Honest. And we have your cell phone number if there are any changes.”

“Okay,” said Carole, rising stiffly from her chair and bending over Frank, gently waking his shoulder until he woke up.

“Whuh … what’s the matter?” he demanded, snapping to attention.

“Nothing. The nurse says he’s doing fine and we can go home, get a shower and something to eat.”

Frank looked at the bed where Frank-O was still sleeping. “I’d feel better if he was awake,” said Frank.

“He’s sedated,” said the nurse. “They won’t be waking him up until this afternoon, at the earliest.”

Frank yawned and stretched, then stood up. “Okay,” he said, holding up a finger, “but the least little change, you give us a call, right?”

“Right,” agreed the nurse.

The way home took them past Connie’s condo, and Carole suggested they stop in and tell her about her brother. “I want to do it in person, Frank,” she told him. “They’ve always been real close, and I know she’s going to be upset.”

“Okay,” agreed Frank, whose stomach was rumbling. “Not too long, though.”

“Sure,” said Carole, thinking she would stay as long as she was needed.

Frank parked in the visitor spot in front of Connie’s town house, and together they walked up the little path and stood on the stoop.

Carole rang the bell, and they waited for what seemed a long time before a puzzled Connie opened the door.

She was dressed for work in a gray pantsuit and holding her purse and a tote bag, ready to leave. “Mom! Dad! What are you doing here?”

“Uh, we got somethin’ important to tell you,” said Frank.

“I was just leaving,” said Connie.

“We’re comin’ in,” said Frank, starting through the doorway and forcing Connie to step aside. Carole followed him.

“So what’s so important that it’s going to make me late for work,” snapped Connie, impatient to leave.

“It’s your brother …” began Carole.

Connie’s eyes widened. “Ohmigod, is he okay?”

“He’s in the ICU; they’re keeping an eye on him.”

Connie sat down on her sofa; she went in big for the retro-fifties look, and it was lean and minimalist, behind a kidney-shaped coffee table. She picked up the one throw pillow; it was a bull’s-eye pattern, and she held it in her lap, hugging it. “The ICU. What happened?”

“There was a fire down at the Factory, and they pulled him out, unconscious,” said Frank.

“Was he, um, burned?” Connie could barely make herself say the word.

“They say not, but he’s got smoke inhalation,” said Carole, seating herself beside Connie and giving her a hug.

“That’s awful. Can I go see him?”

“Maybe this afternoon,” said Frank, who had plopped himself down, mansplaying his legs, on an uncomfortable upholstered chair with bare wood arms. “They say they’re going to try to wake him then.”

Connie had gone white as a sheet. “What?”

“They’ve got him sedated, for now,” offered Carole, taking her hand and squeezing it.

“Uh, so what’s the plan?” demanded Frank, standing up. “We gotta get some breakfast; we were at the hospital all night.”

“I’d offer you something,” began Connie, looking blank, “but I don’t think I’ve got anything.”

“That’s okay, honey,” said Carole, still holding her hand. “You go on to work; keep yourself busy, that’s the best thing. I’ll let you know if anything changes. Your dad and I are gonna eat something and shower and head back to the hospital.”

Frank was ready to go. “So, uh, let’s get a move on.”