The Brass Ring Read online

  "You'll have to wait," the nurse said, glancing at

  Shawna's wet hair, her bedraggled wedding dress, the fire in her gaze.

  "I want to see him. Now."

  "I'm sorry, Dr. McGuire. If you'd like, you could wait in the doctors' lounge and I'll tell Dr. Lowery you're here."

  Seeing no other option, Shawna clamped her teeth together. "Then, please, tell me how serious he is. Exactly what are his injuries? How serious?"

  "I can't give out that information."

  Shawna didn't move. Her gaze was fixed on the smaller woman's face. "Then have someone who can give it out find me."

  "If you'll wait."

  Swallowing back the urge to shake information out of the young woman, Shawna exhaled a deep breath and tried to get a grip on her self-control. "Okay—but, please, send someone up to the lounge. I need to know about him, as his physician and as his fiancee."

  The young nurse's face softened. "You were waiting for him, weren't you?" she asked quietly, as she glanced again at Shawna's soiled silk gown.

  "Yes," Shawna admitted, her throat suddenly tight and tears springing to her eyes. She reached across the counter, took the nurse's hand in her own. "You understand—I have to see him."

  "I'll send someone up as soon as I can," the girl promised.

  "Thank you." Releasing her grip, Shawna suddenly felt the eyes of everyone in the waiting room boring into her back. For the first time she noticed the group of people assembled on the molded-plastic couches as they waited to be examined. Small children whined and cuddled against their mothers and older people, faces set and white, sat stiffly in the chairs, their eyes taking in Shawna's disheveled appearance.

  Turning back to the young nurse, she forced her voice to remain steady. "Please, I want to know if there's any change in his condition." Whatever that is, she added silently.

  "Will do, Dr. McGuire. The doctors' lounge is just to the left of the elevator on the second floor."

  "Thank you," Shawna said, scooping up her skirts and squaring her shoulders as she started down the hall. The heels of her soaked satin pumps clicked on the tile floor.

  "Shawna! Wait!" Jake's voice echoed through the corridor. In a few swift strides he was next to her, oblivious to the eyes of all the people in the waiting room. Still dressed in his tuxedo, his wet hair curling around his face, he looked as frantic as she felt. "What did you find out?" he asked softly.

  "Not much. I'm on my way to the lounge on the second floor. Supposedly they'll send someone up to give me the news."

  "If not, 111 check around—I've got connections here," Jake reminded her, glancing at all the pairs of interested eyes.

  "You what?"

  "Sometimes I consult here, at Mercy, in the psychiatric wing. I know quite a few of the staff. Come on," he urged, taking her elbow and propelling her toward the elevators. "You can change in the women's washroom on the second floor."

  "Change?" she asked, realizing for the first time that he was carrying her smallest nylon suitcase, one of the suitcases she'd packed for her honeymoon. Numb inside, she took the suitcase from his outstretched hand. "Thanks," she murmured. "I owe you one."

  "One of many. I'll add it to your list," he said, but the joke fell flat. "Look, Mom went through that," he gestured at the bag, "and thought you could find something more suitable than what you're wearing." Frowning, he touched her dirty gown.

  The sympathy in Jake's eyes reached out to her and she felt suddenly weak. Her throat was hot, burning with tears she couldn't shed. "Oh, Jake. Why is this happening?" she asked, just as the elevator doors whispered open and they stepped inside.

  "I wish I knew."

  "I just want to know that Parker will be all right."

  "I'll find out," he promised as the elevator groaned to a stop and Shawna stepped onto the second floor. Pushing a button on the control panel, Jake held the doors open and pointed down the hallway. "The lounge is right there, around the corner, and the washroom—I don't know where that is, but it must be nearby. I'll meet you back in the lounge as soon as I find Tom Handleman—he's usually in charge of ER—and then I'll be back to fill you in."

  "Thanks," she whispered. The brackets around Jake's mouth deepened as he grimaced. "Let's just hope Parker and Brad are okay."

  "They will be! They have to be!"

  "I hope so. For your sake."

  Then he was gone and Shawna, despite the fact that she was shaking from head to foot, found the washroom. Trying to calm herself, she sluiced cold water over her face and hardly recognized her reflec-

  tion in the mirror over the sink. Two hours before she'd been a beaming bride, primping in front of a full-length mirror. Now, she looked as if she'd aged ten years. Eyes red, mouth surrounded by lines of strain, skin pale, she stripped off her wedding dress, unable to wear it another minute. Then she changed into a pair of white slacks, a cotton sweater, and a pair of running shoes, the clothes she had thought she would wear while holding hands with Parker and running along the gleaming white beach at Martinique.

  Parker. Her heart wrenched painfully.

  Quickly folding her dress as best she could and stuffing it into the little bag, she told herself to be strong and professional. Parker would be all right. He had to be.

  Quickly, she found the lounge. With trembling hands, she poured herself a cup of coffee. Groups of doctors and nurses were clustered at round tables chattering, laughing, not seeming to care that Parker, her Parker, was somewhere in this labyrinthine building clinging to his very life. Forcing herself to remain calm, she took a chair in a corner near a planter filled with spiky leafed greenery. From there she could watch the door.

  Doctors came and went, some with two days' growth of beard and red-rimmed eyes, others in crisply pressed lab coats and bright smiles. Each time the door opened, Shawna's gaze froze expectantly on the doorway, hoping that Jake would come barging into the room to tell her the entire nightmare was a hellish mistake; that Parker was fine; that nothing had changed; that later this afternoon they would step on a plane bound for white sand, hot sun, and aquamarine water . . .

  "Come on, Jake," she whispered to herself, watching the clock as the second hand swept around the face, the minutes ticking by so slowly the waiting had become excruciating. She eavesdropped, listening to the conversations buzzing around her, dreading to overhear that Parker was dead, hoping to hear that his injuries were only superficial. But nothing was said. Please, let him be all right! Please. Somehow she finished her coffee and was shredding her cup when Jake pushed open the door and headed straight for her. Another young man was with him—tall and lean, with bushy salt and pepper hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a sober expression. "Dr. McGuire?" he asked.

  Bracing herself for the worst, Shawna met the young man's eyes.

  "This is Tom Handleman, Shawna. He was just in ER with Parker," Jake explained.

  "And?" she asked softly, her hands balling into fists.

  "And he'll live," Tom said. "He was pinned in the car a long time, but his injuries weren't as bad as we'd expected."

  "Thank God," she breathed, her voice breaking as relief drove aside her fears.

  "He has several cracked ribs, a ruptured spleen, a concussion and a fractured patella, including torn cartilage and ripped ligaments. Besides which, there are facial lacerations and contusions—"

  "And you don't think that's serious!" she cut in, the blood draining from her face.

  Jake met her worried eyes. "Shawna, please, listen to him."

  "I didn't say his condition wasn't serious," Tom replied. "But Mr. Harrison's injuries are no longer life-threatening."

  "Concussion," she repeated, "ruptured spleen—"

  "Right, but we've controlled the hemorrhaging and his condition has stabilized. As I said, his concussion wasn't as bad as Lowery and I had originally thought."

  "No brain damage?" she asked.

  "Not that we can tell. But he'll have to have knee surgery as soon as his body's well enough for the
additional trauma."

  She ran a shaking hand over her forehead. Parker was going to be all right! She felt weak with relief. "Can I see him?"

  "Not yet. He's still in recovery," Tom said quietly. "But in a few hours, once he's conscious again— then you can see him."

  "Was he conscious when he was brought in?"

  "No." Dr. Handleman shook his head. "But we expect him to wake up as soon as the anesthetic wears off."

  Jake placed his hand on Shawna's shoulder. "There's something else," he said quietly.

  His grim expression and the fingers gripping her shoulder warned her. For the first time, she thought about the other man in Parker's car. "Brad?" she whispered, knowing for certain that Parker's star pupil and friend was dead.

  "Brad Lomax was DOA," Tom said softly.

  "Dead on arrival?" she repeated, the joy she'd felt so fleetingly stripped away.

  "He was thrown from the car and his neck was broken."

  "No!" she cried.

  Jake's fingers tightened over her shoulders as she tried to stand and deny everything Tom was saying. She could see heads swing in her direction, eyes widen in interest as doctors at nearby tables heard her protest.

  "I'm sorry," Tom said. "There was nothing we could do."

  "But he was only twenty-two!"

  "Shawna—" Jake's fingers relaxed.

  Tears flooded her eyes. "I don't believe it!"

  "You're a doctor, Miss McGuire," Tom pointed out, his eyes softening with sympathy. "You know as well as I do that these things happen. Not fair, I know, but just the way it is."

  Sniffing back her tears, Shawna pushed Jake's restraining hands from her shoulders. Still grieving deep in her heart, she forced her professionalism to surface. "Thank you, Doctor," she murmured, extending her hand though part of her wanted to crumple into a miserable heap. As a doctor, she was used to dealing with death, but it was never easy, especially at a time like this, when the person who had lost his life was someone she'd known, someone Parker had loved.

  Tom shook her hand. "I'll let you know when Mr. Harrison is awake and in his room. Why don't you go and rest for a couple of hours?"

  "No—I, uh, I couldn't," she said.

  "Your choice. Whatever I can do to help," he replied before turning and leaving the room.

  "Oh, Jake," she said, feeling the security of her brother's arm wrap around her as he led her from the lounge. "I just can't believe that Brad's gone—"

  "It's hard, I know, but you've got to listen to me," he urged, handing her the nylon suitcase he'd picked up and helping her to the elevator. "What you'll have to do now is be strong, for Parker. When he wakes up and finds out that Brad is dead, he's going to feel guilty as hell—"

  "But it wasn't his fault. It couldn't have been."

  "I know," he whispered. "But Parker won't see the accident that way—not at first. The trauma of the accident combined with an overwhelming sense of guilt over Brad's death might be devastating for Parker. It would be for anyone." He squeezed her and offered a tight smile. "You'll have to be his rock, someone he can hold on to, and it won't be easy."

  She met his gaze and determination shone in her eyes. "I'll do everything I can for him," she promised.

  One side of Jake's mouth lifted upward. "I know it, Sis."

  "The only thing that matters is that Parker gets well."

  "And the two of you get married."

  Her fingers clenched around the handle of her suitcase and she shook a wayward strand of hair from her eyes. "That's not even important right now," she said, steadfastly pushing all thoughts of her future with Parker aside. "I just have to see that he gets through this. And I will. No matter what!"

  ❧

  The next four hours were torture. She walked the halls of the hospital, trying to get rid of the nervous tension that twisted her stomach and made her glance at the clock every five minutes.

  Jake had gone back to the church to explain what had happened to the guests and her parents, but she'd refused to give up her vigil.

  "Dr. McGuire?"

  Turning, she saw Dr. Handleman walking briskly to her.

  "What's happened?" she asked. "I thought Parker was supposed to be put in a private room two hours ago."

  "I know," he agreed, his face drawn, "but things changed. Unfortunately Mr. Harrison hasn't regained consciousness. We've done tests, the anesthesia has worn off, but he's still asleep." Dread climbed up her spine. "Meaning?" "Probably that he'll come to in the next twenty-four hours."

  "And if he doesn't?" she asked, already knowing the answer, panic sending her heart slamming against her rib cage. "Then we'll just have to wait." "You're saying he's in a coma." Tom pushed his glasses up his nose and frowned. "It looks that way." "How long?" "We can't guess."

  "How long?" she repeated, jaw clenched, fear taking hold of her.

  "Come on, Dr. McGuire, you understand what I'm talking about," he reminded her as gently as possible. "There's no way of knowing. Maybe just a few hours—"

  "But maybe indefinitely," she finished, biting back the urge to scream. "That's unlikely."

  "But not out of the question."

  He forced a tired smile. "Prolonged coma, especially after a particularly traumatic experience, is always a possibility."

  "What about his knee?"

  "It'll wait, but not too long. We can't let the bones start to knit improperly, otherwise we might have more problems than we already do."

  "He's a tennis pro," she whispered.

  "We'll take care of him," he said. "Now, if you want, you can see him. He's in room four-twelve."

  "Thank you." Without a backward glance, she hurried to the elevator, hoping to stamp down the panic that tore at her. On the fourth floor, she strode briskly down the corridor, past rattling gurneys, clattering food trays, and the soft conversation of the nurses at their station as she made her way to Parker's room.

  "Excuse me, miss," one nurse said as Shawna reached the door to room four-twelve. "But Mr. Harrison isn't allowed any visitors."

  Shawna faced the younger woman and squared her shoulders, hoping to sound more authoritative than she felt. "I'm Dr. McGuire. I work at Columbia Memorial Hospital. Dr. Harrison is my patient and Dr. Handleman said I could wait for the patient to regain consciousness."

  "It's all right," another nurse said. "I took the call from Dr. Handleman. Dr. McGuire has all privileges of a visiting physician."

  "Thank you," Shawna said, entering the darkened room and seeing Parker's inert form on the bed. Draped in crisp, white sheets, lying flat on his back, with an IV tube running from his arm and a swath of bandages over his head, he was barely recognizable. "Oh, Parker," she whispered, throat clogged, eyes suddenly burning.

  She watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, saw the washed-out color of his skin, the small cuts over his face, noticed the bandages surrounding his chest and kneecap, and she wondered if he'd ever be the same, wonderful man she'd known. "I love you," she vowed, twining her fingers in his.

  Thinking of the day before, the hot sultry air, the brass ring, and the Gypsy woman's grim fortune, she closed her eyes.

  You love him too much—you will lose him, the fortune-teller had predicted.

  "Never," Shawna declared. Shivering, she took a chair near the bed, whispering words of endearment and telling herself that she would do everything in her power as a doctor and a woman to make him well.

  Chapter 3

  A breakfast cart rattled past the doorway and Shawna started, her eyelids flying open. She'd spent all day and night at Parker's beside, watching, waiting, and praying.

  Now, as she rubbed the kinks from her neck and stretched her aching shoulder muscles, she looked down at Parker's motionless form, hardly believing that their life together had changed so drastically.

  "Come on, Parker," she whispered, running gentle fingers across his forehead, silently hoping that his eyelids would flutter open. "You can do it."

  A quiet cough caught her attent
ion and she looked up to the doorway, where her brother lounged against the door frame. "How's it going?" Jake asked.

  She lifted a shoulder. "About the same."

  He raked his fingers through his hair and sighed. "How about if I buy you a cup of coffee?"

  Shaking her head, Shawna glanced back at Parker. "I don't think I could—"

  "Have you eaten anything since you've been here?"

  "No, but—"

  "That's right, no buts about it. I'm buying you breakfast. You're not doing Parker any good by starving yourself, are you. Doctor?"

  "All right." Climbing reluctantly to her feet, she stretched again as she twisted open the blinds. The morning rays of late summer sun glimmered on the puddles outside. Deep in her heart, Shawna hoped the sunlight would wake Parker. She glanced back at him, her teeth sinking into her lower lip as she watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, noticed the bandage partially covering his head. But he didn't move.

  "Come on," Jake said softly.

  Without protest, she left the room. As she walked with Jake to the cafeteria, she was oblivious to the hospital routine: the nurses and orderlies carrying medication, the incessant pages from the intercom echoing down the corridors, the charts and files, and the ringing phones that normally sounded so familiar.

  Jake pushed open the double doors to the dining room. Trays and silverware were clattering, and the smell of frying bacon, sizzling sausages, maple syrup, and coffee filled the air. Despite her despondency, Shawna's stomach grumbled and she let Jake buy her a platter of eggs, bacon, and toast.

  Taking a seat at a scarred formica table, she sat across from her brother and tried to eat. But she couldn't help overhearing the gossip filtering her way. Two nurses at a nearby table were speaking in a loud whisper and Shawna could barely concentrate on her breakfast.

  "It's a shame, really," a heavyset nurse was saying, clucking her tongue. "Parker Harrison of all people! You know, I used to watch his matches on TV."