“Tout de suite, Doctor Estienne,” said the nurse, mobilizing the others with a wave of her arm.
“My mother was here an hour and a half ago,” said Nicu. “Why didn’t someone stay with her? How was it you didn’t notice she was gone?”
Dr. Estienne stuck his stethoscope in his coat pocket. He put his hand on Nicu’s shaking shoulder. “As soon as I find her chart—”
“What good will that do?” Nicu interrupted.
“Ne t’inquiète pas, young man,” said Dr. Estienne, his voice measured and reassuring. “We’ll sort this out.”
Sort this out? But Aimée knew that tone—they taught it in med school, for use with hopeless cases.
“Doctor, when’s Drina due her next medication?”
“I don’t have her chart at the moment, Mademoiselle,” he said, looking her in the eye before turning to Nicu. “I checked on your mother an hour ago, after her last meds. I wanted to monitor her pain level. She will most likely be due another dose in a few hours or so, and we will have found her and everything will be back to normal by then.”
“Her situation’s critical,” Aimée said. “As you should know. Didn’t you run tests today? Her son deserves to know her prognosis.”
“Mademoiselle, we don’t receive crystal balls on graduating from med school.”
“I learned that in my first year of med school, Doctor,” she said, neglecting to add that it had also been her last year of med school. The formaldehyde smell of the dissection-lab fridge, with its human organs sitting side by side with student lunches, had cured her of any aspirations to a medical career. “What’s her prognosis?” she repeated.
“We’re concerned about possible renal failure,” he said finally. “The hemodialysis was keeping her electrolytes out of the critical range. And I’m worried that with a heightened potassium level, she’s facing a fatal heart-rhythm disturbance.”
Good God. A hemodialysis patient yanked from the machine.
“You gave her meds an hour ago.” Nicu seized the doctor’s arm. “How long does she have if she doesn’t get her next medication dose?”
“Young man, we’ll have this under control soon,” he said, in that smooth voice again.
“And if you don’t?”
But the doctor was nodding at the arriving orderlies. “Search the X-ray center and lab wing,” he said to them, pointing down the corridor.
He turned away from them to consult with an arriving doctor. Aimée strained to catch snatches of their murmured conversation. “If she’s kept stable … dosed at six-hour intervals … fifteen, eighteen hours before it’s … irregular heart rhythm.”
Aimée inserted herself between the two doctors. “Give me the best-and worst-case scenarios,” she said, lowering her voice. “Please. I might have to prepare her son.”
“Best-case scenario?” Dr. Estienne glanced back at Nicu. “His mother’s terminal, an advanced stage of invasive cancer. We can help her to pass peacefully, control her pain over the next few days.”
“What if she’s not found? What would happen to her?”
The doctor looked at Nicu, then back at Aimée. “Not that this will happen. But the other scenario …? D’accord. Without intervention, in ten to twelve hours there will be limb paralysis, then another few hours and her heart will start to fail. Twenty to twenty-two hours, development of delirium. Twenty-four to twenty-eight, spontaneous hemorrhaging, the respiratory system, vital organs shut down. I’m sorry, but there will be nothing painless or peaceful about it.”
Aimée’s throat caught. Her heart ached for Nicu, and for this missing woman she didn’t remember knowing. Her father’s informer, she felt sure now. What could she do?
“HIM.” THE NURSE pointed to Nicu’s uncle, who’d arrived, chest heaving, at the nursing station, with the older woman and little girl in tow. “That’s him, the man who kept threatening to discharge the patient.”
The woman let out a cry and began to beat her chest. She rocked back and forth on her heels, weeping.
“Never trust hospitals.” Nicu’s uncle’s eyes narrowed. “I told you, Nicu. And Drina alone here—in our tradition we never let someone pass alone. Why didn’t you tell me earlier that she was here so we could come keep vigil?”
“I didn’t know how sick she was until last night,” he said. “Today she got worse, like I’ve told you already.” Hurt and resentment simmered in his eyes.
“So you talked her into leaving?” asked Dr. Estienne.
“Me? I haven’t seen her.” The uncle’s voice was furious. “I’ve been trying to get in, not take her out.”
“That’s impossible, as I’ve been telling you, monsieur,” said the nurse. “Hospital regulations forbid anyone after visiting hours.”
“And now look what’s happened.” His uncle stepped toward the doctor. “May the spit in your eye dry up if you’ve killed her.”
Aimée’s gaze caught on an orderly who had appeared behind Nicu’s uncle. He gave a quick shake of his head. “All patients accounted for except for one in Ward C, Doctor.”
She could tell from the staff’s faces that they were at a loss. Not good. She couldn’t just stand here, listen to this wailing woman. She had to do something.
Amid the ensuing shouting match between Nicu’s uncle and the staff, no one paid her any attention. She followed the corridor until it branched in two, one hallway heading toward the lobby, the other toward the staircase. Which way had Drina gone? Had someone bundled her out, somehow sneaking her past the reception desk? Beneath the staircase on the left was a door with an emergency-exit sign over it, but a large sign proclaimed that an alarm would go off if the door was opened.
She ran toward the lobby.
“Have you discharged anyone within the past hour?” she asked at the main reception.
The long-faced male receptionist looked up. “Visiting hours are over, Mademoiselle. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”