Callie’s Last Dance

45.

HOURS GO BY.

Dr. P. arrives, checks in with me, offers encouragement, starts to leave.

“Where are you going?” I ask. “You just got here!”

“I assumed you’d want me to check on Callie.”

“They’ll never let you in there.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“Not here, you’re not.”

“Donovan. I’m Eamon Petrovsky.”

“So?”

“Go to the library sometime. Check out the books and articles written about me.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. How about The Petrovsky Method?”

“You’re famous?”

“Among the medical community, I’m a god.”

“You’re a plastic surgeon.”

“That face you’re wearing? Have you forgotten I created that? No one on earth could have done that.”

“Well if you’re so fucking great, quit bragging and go save Callie.”

“Any message you want me to give her?”

“Yeah. Tell her they’ll never let you in to see her. Because you’re a plastic surgeon, not a real doctor.”

Dr. P. leaves the room in a huff, unaware I’m busting his balls. It’ll make him work harder to get me the information I seek. I know he’s got clout. He’s not just the world’s greatest plastic surgeon, he’s Darwin. He understands bureaucracy. Knows how to cut through all the red tape. He’ll meet the chief of surgery, don some scrubs, and gain admittance to the room where Callie’s being treated. He’s a legend in the medical community. If anyone can gain access to Callie and her treatment records, it’s him.

A half hour passes before I see him again. When he enters the waiting room with another doctor in tow, I jump to my feet and ask, “How is she?”

“Donovan, this is Doctor Barnard, lead surgeon and Chief of the Medical Staff.”

Dr. Barnard and I nod. Dr. P. says, “Let’s sit.”

“I need to know Callie’s alive.”

“She’s alive.”

I breathe a sigh of relief and take a seat. If she’s alive, I can deal with anything.

Dr. P. says, “Brace yourself. Callie’s paralyzed from the waist down.”