But the stalker thing wasn't holding water well either. The doctors had already ruled out poison in Nathan's case, and it was obvious that what Thomas had done, he'd done to himself. Still, she promised herself that she would call that detective, Walt something, who had taken Thomas's statement about his own suspicions and the possibility of foul play regarding Nathan's catatonia.
But that would have to wait. Already, Emily had too many things to think about today. Things that needed to be done.
Things she didn't want to do.
Refreshed by her shower and feeling much more comfortable in a clean pair of jeans and a magenta cotton top, Emily slipped behind the wheel, turned the key in the ignition, and stared at the cellular phone. She was prone to doing business in the car, using that otherwise wasted time as best she could.
Purposely moving her eyes away from the phone, Emily put the car into reverse and pulled out of the driveway. The entire ride north on Broadway toward the hospital, Emily was hyperaware of the calls that needed to be made. But before she would make those calls, she needed to see her son. And she needed to see Thomas.
In Thomas's hospital room, which was two floors below Nathan's, Emily stared at the pallid features of her ex-husband. The urge to curse him had waned, but she could not escape the anxiety his condition caused. She wanted to ask him again, to whisper to him though she knew he could not answer. She had to know why he had done it. But she wasn't alone, so she said nothing.
"How is he?" she asked.
Dr. Gershmann, who had been tending to Nathan, seemed to deflate when Emily asked the question. They'd come in together only moments ago, and the doctor had obviously been waiting for that question. Rather than answer, however, he inclined his head to defer the question to the young woman who stood at his side. She had the blackest, most perfect skin Emily had ever seen. When she smiled, Emily could not help but smile in return.
"I'm Callie Cardiff," the woman said pleasantly, moving forward with her hand extended. Emily shook it, and noticed simultaneously the surprising firmness of her grip and the fact that she was much shorter than she had originally appeared. Charisma, Emily thought. It did wonders.
"I'm the doctor handling your ex-husband's case," Dr. Cardiff went on. "To answer your question, he's stable. I'm not going to use the word 'fine.' He's far from fine."
Emily glanced over at Thomas. "The pills?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
"Phenobarbital," Dr. Cardiff replied. "Washed down with scotch, apparently. If there had been just a few more in that bottle, he'd probably be dead already. According to his records, he'd had the medication for seizures, and that means he would have been given the usual warnings. But he must have known what he had might not be enough to kill him, so his actions puzzle me. Nobody takes a fistful of barbiturates and washes them down with whiskey unless suicide was their goal."
Emily stared at her. Whatever charm the woman possessed was gone. She almost made a comment about how the real puzzle was Dr. Cardiff's bedside manner, but she remained silent. Taking that silence as her cue to continue, Dr. Cardiff moved toward Thomas's bed.
"We almost lost him during the night," the doctor said.
With a start, Emily looked at Thomas, and then over at Dr. Gershmann. She felt a lot more at ease with him than Cardiff, but Gershmann was a pediatrician.
Still, it was Gershmann who explained, hands on his belly as usual, as though he were keeping it from exploding even further. "Your ex-husband experienced respiratory failure shortly after you brought him in. He's stabilized now, so it probably won't happen again."
"Probably?" Emily asked.
"At this point, we're doing everything we can to get him out of this," Dr. Cardiff explained. "Maybe I'm an optimist, but given the actual number of pills he took, I'd have thought he might have come around already. The longer he stays in a coma, the less of a chance that he'll simply wake up. It's really just a wait and see situation now."
Emily shook her head slowly, sighed, and tried to keep the tears at bay. "Just like Nathan," she said.
"Not exactly," Dr. Gershmann replied. "That's one of the reasons I wanted to come down here and speak with you. Nathan's case differs significantly from his father's. Mr. Randall has done something radical to his body. The reaction is severe and possibly fatal."
Emily blinked at that.
"Nathan is perfectly healthy," Gershmann added. "All our tests confirm it. We've sent his MRI results and other lab reports to specialists in Boston and Chicago, and nobody has ever seen anything like it. For all intents and purposes, Nathan is fine. His brain activity shows a very normal and very wide-awake pattern. Now it isn't unusual for a comatose person to show high brain activity — the imagination and the sub-conscious are powerful things. But the level here is extraordinary."
"Which all boils down to you still not knowing what's wrong with my son," Emily said bitterly. "There's nothing wrong with him except that he won't wake up. You're just waiting on a visit from Princess Charming, is that it?"
Gershmann frowned, seemed put off, and Dr. Cardiff picked up Thomas's chart, completely ignoring her.
"Now, Ms. Randall," Dr. Gershmann said grumpily, stroking his mustache, "there's really no need to . . ."
"No need?" Emily said, her mind reeling. "You tell me the only thing that matters in my life has been taken away from me and you can't figure out why, and the only person who could understand what that's doing to me decides to overdose . . . and then you want me to be calm, never mind be fucking civil?"
Part of her was revolted by this tirade. The doctors were doing their best. She knew that. But another part of her needed it so desperately. Needed to vent on someone. Gershmann and Cardiff just looked at her a moment, matching looks of concern on their faces. Which only made it worse.
"I'm . . . I'm sorry, I . . ." Emily began. Then she waved at the air as though an insect had been harrying her.
"Not at all, Ms. Randall." Dr. Gershmann stepped toward her, effectively eclipsing Cardiff, who seemed relieved at the rescue. "Would you like to go upstairs and see Nathan now?"
Emily chewed her lower lip. Her purse sat on a brown cushioned chair in the corner of Thomas's hospital room. She stared at it for a long moment. Her flip phone was inside the purse. As was her small personal phone book.
"I'll be up in a little while," she said absently. "I've got some business to take care of, first, and I might as well do it here."
Emily went over to sit in a chair next to Thomas's bed. There was a strange smell in the room, as if something were burning. She frowned and leaned in toward Thomas, somehow not surprised when she realized the smell came from him. He'd been nowhere near a fire, of course, but his clothes smelled of smoke.
The doctors excused themselves and turned toward the door. When Gershmann held the door for Cardiff, Emily glanced over at Thomas and wondered what the odds were that something like this could happen to anyone. Her son and her ex-husband, so near to one another and yet far, far away from anyone.
What were the odds?
"Dr. Cardiff?" she asked sharply, causing both physicians to pause at the door to the room.
Out of the direct light from the room, Dr. Cardiff's skin looked even darker. Sable black, with a sheen so distracting that Emily felt the momentary urge to touch her face. Her eyes so dark, her nose so aquiline and perfect, her cheekbones high.