Rose sat in the waiting room, watching the sun rise outside the window. She held her crutches at an angle, propping up her injured foot.
It had been five o’clock before anyone had seen her. Twenty more severely injured people had been brought in, though only one had been in as bad a condition as Jack. As the night had worn on, a large number of people with less life-threatening injuries had also arrived. The volume had grown so great that emergency services had been set up in the parking lot for those whose injuries could be easily treated.
The waiting room was packed with people, and Rose wondered why she had not been asked to leave after her own injuries had been cared for. There was barely enough room for those in need of help, let alone those who were only waiting for word on friends or relatives.
Rose shifted uncomfortably and picked up a magazine, trying to concentrate on something other than her worry. She had seen a doctor an hour before, and had had the cut on her arm stitched and her ankle X-rayed. Fortunately, it was only sprained, and a nurse had wrapped it and given her a set of crutches before sending her back to the waiting room.
Rose glanced at the clock. It had been four hours since they had arrived, and there had been no word. She was about to go over to the front desk and ask about Jack when an exhausted-looking nurse stepped into the waiting room and called her name.
"Rose DeWitt-Bukater?"
Picking up the crutches and swinging herself forward, Rose made her way over to the woman, her heart in her throat. For all that she had hated waiting, at least the lack of news had meant that nothing serious had happened. Now she would have to face whatever news she received.
"You were with a patient named Jack Dawson?"
Rose nodded worriedly, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.
"He’s out of surgery now; you can see him."
Rose was visibly relieved. "He survived?"
The nurse regarded her cautiously. "He’s alive, but in critical condition. He was in shock from blood loss when he was brought in, and he had to undergo surgery to remove the bullet and repair the damage. The broken leg and head injury didn’t help matters." When Rose began to speak, she held up her hand. "The doctor may be able to give you more details. I don’t have all the information."
They made their way to an elevator and started up.
"He’s in intensive care right now," she told Rose, stopping at the third floor.
"Do you think he’ll make it?" Rose was almost afraid to ask.
"I really can’t say. We’ll know more when he wakes up."
"He hasn’t regained consciousness?"
"He was put under anesthesia for the surgery."
"But if he was already unconscious..."
"He could have awakened during the surgery. For the safety and comfort of both patient and surgeon, it’s best if that doesn’t happen."
Rose nodded, agreeing. She would hate to wake up in the middle of someone probing her insides with a scalpel.
They had reached the room that Jack was in, and the nurse entered first, moving amongst the beds.
"There’s more people in this room than we usually allow because of the earthquake. Two of the other hospitals in Southland were destroyed, as was the hospital in Masline. We got most of the critical patients."
They had reached Jack’s bed. Rose stared, shocked, at the array of life-support equipment. He was surrounded by machines, each performing a different function to keep him alive.
She moved closer, trying not to disturb anything. An IV line supplied essential fluids and nutrients, while another transfused blood into his body. Another machine helped him to breathe.
"This is the ninth unit of blood we’ve pumped into him," the nurse told her. "He had lost so much blood by the time he was brought here, it’s amazing he was still alive. He’ll probably need more."
If he survives, Rose thought. He looked almost as bad as when he had been brought in. His face was so pale it was almost white, and he lay very still. The only indication that he was alive was the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, and the jagged lines that moved across the screen of the heart monitor, indicating that his heart was still beating.
Balancing on her crutches, she looked more closely at him. His left leg was in traction, suspended above him. His head was partly shaved and bandaged, turned slightly to the side to avoid putting pressure on the injured part.
She looked up as the nurse pulled a chair over to where Rose was standing.
"Sit down," the woman told Rose. "I’m going to find the doctor. He’ll be able to tell you what’s going on."
Gratefully, Rose sat down, not taking her eyes from Jack. He looked so weak, lying there; it was hard to believe that only hours earlier he had been strong and healthy. But she had learned a lot the previous night about how quickly things could change.
She reached for his hand, careful not to jar the needles. Had it been only hours earlier that they had raced down the hill together, laughing, unable to believe that things would change so quickly? Rose squeezed Jack’s hand gently, praying that he would be all right.
The doctor hurried in, clipboard in hand. "Miss DeWitt-Bukater? I’m Dr. Rodriguez."
Rose turned to look at him, and stopped, startled. It was the same doctor who had seen her in the emergency room two weeks earlier. She wondered if he remembered her.
He didn’t appear to. Rose guessed that an emergency room physician saw a lot of injuries similar to hers, many of them blamed on accidents.
"I remember you," she told him. “I saw you when I was in the emergency room here a couple of weeks ago with broken ribs and a concussion.”
He looked a bit embarrassed, looking at her more closely and trying to place her. "I’m sorry…I don’t quite—"
“It’s okay,” Rose assured him. “You probably see a lot of cases where women try to blame their injuries on accidents or their own clumsiness. However…” She took a deep breath, trying to think of the right words. “…my injuries weren’t accidental, and the man who caused them was the same one who shot him last night, and for the same reason…jealousy.”
He nodded. "There’s someone already investigating this. They’ll probably want your statement."
"I’ll be glad to give it."
He nodded, then gestured for her to step out of the room so he could examine Jack. Rose stood and moved the chair out of the way, stepping outside the room but staying near the door.
When Dr. Rodriguez had completed his examination, he allowed her to come back in. "Are you family?"
"No."
"I need to speak to a family member, for reasons of confidentiality."
"I don’t think he has any family." Rose mentally crossed her fingers as she said this. Jack had mentioned an uncle and some cousins in his home state of Wisconsin, but she had no idea how to contact them, or even if they would want to be contacted. "I’m his girlfriend."
He raised an eyebrow at that, guessing that whoever had shot the young man in the bed and beaten the woman some weeks earlier would object to that statement. Nevertheless, someone needed to know what was happening. He looked at the paperwork she’d filled out earlier; it listed Rose as Jack’s emergency contact.
Glancing around to make sure no one was listening, he spoke softly to her. "Since you are his emergency contact, I’ll tell you what’s going on."
Rose nodded, unable to speak.
"He’s in critical condition. When he was brought in, he was in shock. We were able to stabilize him, but shock from hemorrhage is often fatal. The bullet severed an artery, which was why he bled so much. He was lucky in one respect—when the bullet came to a stop, it partially blocked the severed artery, slowing the bleeding somewhat. We removed the bullet and reconnected the artery, but there are other injuries as well. He has a compound fracture in his left leg, and his skull is fractured, with some swelling of the brain. He has some other bruises and scrapes, but those are minor."
Rose had stood quietly through this explanation, her face growing paler with each new piece of bad news, until it was almost as pale as Jack’s. She stumbled dizzily, leaning on her crutches for support. Dr. Rodriguez looked at her with concern.
"Here. Sit down. Put your head between your knees," he told her, trying to keep her from fainting.
Rose did as he asked, and after a moment she looked up at him. Taking a deep breath, she asked, "Overall, what are his chances?"
"At this moment, I’d say he has about a thirty-five percent chance of survival. But we’ll know more when he wakes up."
"How long should it take until he recovers from the anesthesia?"
"Probably not more than twenty minutes to half an hour, if that."
Rose nodded shakily. "Can I stay here with him for now?"
"As long as you stay out of the way." He pointed to the call button. "Let the nurse know when he wakes up."
"I will." Rose settled down to wait.