The Book Of The Dead by Douglas Preston

Author:Douglas Preston
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi

Chapter 38

* * *

Mrs. Doris Green paused at the open doorway to the intensive–care room. The afternoon light filtered through the partly screened windows, throwing peaceful stripes of light and shadow across her daughter’s bed. Her eye moved across the bank of medical equipment, which sighed and beeped softly in a regular cadence, and came to rest on her daughter’s face itself. It was pale and thin, a stray lock of hair running over the forehead and cheek. Mrs. Green took a few steps inside and gently moved the lock to its proper place.

“Hello, Margo,” she said softly.

The machines continued to beep and sigh.

She eased herself down on the side of the bed and took her daughter’s hand. It was cool and light as a feather. She gave it a gentle squeeze.

“It’s a beautiful day outside. The sun’s shining, and the cold weather seems to have broken. The crocuses are already coming up in my garden, just poking their little green shoots out of the ground. Do you remember when you were a little girl, just five years old — you couldn’t resist picking them? You brought me a fistful of half–crushed flowers one day, cleaned out the whole garden. I was so upset at the time …”

Her voice faltered and she fell into silence. A moment later, the nurse entered, her cheerful, rustling presence adding a sudden efficiency to the gauzy atmosphere of bittersweet memory.

“How are you, Mrs. Green?” she asked, straightening up some flowers in a vase.

“All right, thank you, Jonetta.”

The nurse checked the machines, jotting quick notes on a clipboard. She adjusted the IV, examined the breathing tube, then bustled about, plumping up more flowers and adjusting some of the get–well cards that covered the table and shelves.

“The doctor should be in at any moment, Mrs. Green,” she said, smiling and heading for the door.

“Thank you.”

Peace descended once more. Doris Green stroked her daughter’s hand ever so lightly. The memories came back, crowding in with no discernible order: diving with her daughter off the dock at the lake; opening the envelope containing her SAT scores; roasting Thanksgiving turkey; standing hand in hand beside her husband’s grave …

She swallowed, continued to stroke Margo’s hand. And then she felt a presence behind her.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Green.”

She turned. Dr. Winokur was standing there, a dark, handsome man in crisp white, exuding self–confidence and sympathy. Doris Green knew it wasn’t just his bedside manner: this doctor really cared.

“Would you care to talk in the waiting room?” he asked.

“I’d prefer to stay here. If Margo could hear — and who knows, maybe she can — she’d want to know everything.”

“Very well.” He paused, seated himself in the visitor’s chair, rested his hands on his knees. “The bottom line is this: we simply don’t have a diagnosis. We’ve performed every test we can think of and then some; we’ve consulted with the country’s top coma and neurology specialists, at Doctors’ Hospital in New York and Mount Auburn Hospital in Boston — and we just don’t have a handle on it yet.

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