Danielle Steel - Palomino

It was an hour and a half later when they came back to find Charlie sitting frozen like a lost child in a waiting-room chair. He hadn't moved, he hadn't smoked, he hadn't even had a cup of coffee. He had just sat there, waiting, barely daring to breathe himself.

“Mr. Peterson?” Someone had taken his name when they had asked him to sign the admission forms. He had continued to claim that he was her brother, and he didn't give a damn if he lied, if it helped her, not that he was sure what difference it made.

“Yes?” He sprang to his feet. “How is she? Is she all right?” Suddenly he couldn't stop talking, but the doctor nodded very slowly and looked Charlie full in the face.

“She's alive. Barely.”

“What is it? What happened?”

“To put it to you simply, Mr. Peterson, her back is broken. Her spine is fractured in two places. Bones are shattered. There's a hairline fracture in her neck, but we can work around that. The problem right now is her spine. There are so many small broken bones, we have to operate in order to take off some of the pressure. If we don't, there could be permanent damage to her brain.”

“And if you do?” Charlie had instantly sensed that the sword had two edges.

“If we do, she may not live.” The doctor sat down and indicated to Charlie to do the same. “The problem is that if we don't, I can almost guarantee you that she'll be a vegetable for the rest of her life, and probably a quadriplegic.”

“What's that?”

“Entirely paralyzed. That means she'd have no control of her arms and legs, but could possibly move her head.”

“And if you do operate, that won't be the case?” Charlie suddenly felt a desperate urge to throw up, but he fought it. What in God's name were they discussing here, like buying carrots and onions and apples, move her head or her arms or her legs or… Jesus Christ!

The doctor was careful with his explanation. “She'll certainly never walk again, Mr. Peterson, but if we do operate, we might salvage the rest of her. At best she'll wind up a paraplegic, with no use of the lower half of her body. But if we're lucky, we can save her mind. She might not be a vegetable if we go in now.” He hesitated for an interminable moment. “The risk is much greater though. She's in bad shape, and we could lose her. I can't make you any promises.”

“All or nothing, isn't it?”

“More or less. In all fairness I should tell you even if we do nothing for her, or if we do everything we can, she might not live through the night. She's in very critical condition.” Charlie nodded slowly, suddenly understanding that it was his decision and feeling desperately sorry that it was. He knew Sam had family still alive, but he had gone this far, and besides, she was closer to him than anybody… Oh, poor sweet Sam.

“You want an answer from me, Doctor?”

The man in the white coat nodded. “I do.”

“When?”

“Right now.”

But how do I know you're any good, Charlie wanted to ask him. What choice do you have? another voice asked. Not to operate meant that Sam would die in effect, there would be nothing left but a lot of blond hair and a broken body, no mind, no heart, no soul-he choked at the thought. To operate meant they might kill her… but… if she lived, she'd still be Sam. In a wheelchair, but still Sam.

“Go ahead.”

“Mr. Peterson?”

“Operate. Operate, dammit… operate!” Charlie was shouting and as the doctor hurried away, Charlie turned and began to pound the wall. It was when he stopped that he went to buy himself cigarettes and coffee and that he huddled in a corner, like a frightened animal, watching the clock. One hour… two hours… three… four… five… six… seven… At two o'clock in the morning the doctor returned to find him wide-eyed and terrified and almost green with anguish as he waited, convinced that by now Sam must have died. She had died and no one had told him. And he had never been so frightened in his life. He had killed her with his lousy goddamn decision. He should have told the man not to operate, should have called her ex-husband, God, her mother… He didn't even begin to think of the consequences of his decision. The doctor had wanted an answer…

“Mr. Peterson?”

“Hmm?” He looked at the man as though he were in a trance.

“Mr. Peterson, your sister is all right.” He gently touched his arm, and Charlie nodded. He nodded again, and then the tears came, and then suddenly he was clasping the doctor tightly in his arms.

“My God… my God…” was all he could whimper. “I thought she was dead…”

“She's all right, Mr. Peterson. Now you should go home and get some rest.” And then he remembered that they were all New Yorkers. “Do you have a place to stay?” Charlie shook his head and the doctor jotted the name of a hotel on a piece of paper. “Try that.”

“What about Sam?”

“I can't tell you much. You know the stakes we were playing for. We reconnected as much as we could. Her neck will be fine. Her spine… well, you knew… she will be a paraplegic. I'm almost sure there was no brain damage, neither from the fall, nor from the pressure before we operated. But we just have to wait now. It was a very long operation.” One could see that much on his face. “We'll just have to wait.”

“How long?”

“We'll know a little more every day. If she makes it until tomorrow, we'll have much better odds.”

Charlie looked at him then, realizing something. “If she… if she lives, how long will she be here? Before we can take her back to New York?”

“Ohh…” The doctor exhaled slowly, staring at the ground as he thought, and then looked back into Charlie's face. “That really is hard to say. I would say though that if she does exceptionally well we could move her in an air ambulance sometime in the next three or four months.”

Three or four months? “And then?” He dared to say the words.

“It really is too soon to even think about all this,” the doctor chided, “but you're looking at at least a year in the hospital, Mr. Peterson. If not more. She's going to have to make a lot of readjustments.” Charlie shook his head slowly, only beginning to comprehend what lay in store for Sam. “But first, let's just get her through tonight.” He left Charlie then, sitting alone in a corner of the waiting room, waiting for the others to arrive from Steamboat Springs.

They got there at three thirty in the morning, found Charlie asleep, hunched over with his head on his chest and snoring softly, and they woke him to hear the news. He told them what he knew, and there was sober silence among the others, and then quietly they left together to find a hotel. When they got there, Charlie sat staring in agony out the window at Denver, and it was only when Henry and his friend came to sit with him, that at last he let it all go, all the pain and the terror and the worry and the guilt and the confusion and the sorrow, and he sobbed for over an hour as Henry held him in his arms. And from that moment on, as they sat with him through the night and brought him solace, they were his friends. It was the darkest night that Charlie could ever remember, but when they called the hospital in the morning, it was Henry who dropped his face in his hands and cried. Samantha was still alive.

The day after Sam's accident the entire crew disbanded, but after several long phone conversations with Harvey, Charlie opted to stay. He didn't know how long he'd have to be there, and he couldn't leave Mellie alone with four kids forever, but right now he knew he wasn't leaving. She was alone in a strange city, and she was almost half dead. Harvey had been stunned when he had heard the news. It had been easy for Charlie to convince him to let him stay. But Harvey had also suggested that Charlie at least try to contact Sam's mother in Atlanta. She was, after all, Sam's only living relative, and she had a right to know that her only child was in intensive care in Denver with a broken back. But when Charlie called her, he discovered that she and her husband were on vacation for a month in Europe, so there was nothing more he could do. He knew anyway that Sam wasn't overly fond of her mother, thought her stepfather was a horse's ass, and her father had been dead for years. There was no one else to call. By then of course, though, he had called Mellie, and she had cried like a baby at the news. “Oh, poor Sam… oh, Charlie… how will she do it… in a wheelchair… and all alone…?” They had cried for a few moments together, and then Charlie had gotten off the phone. He wanted to put another call in to Harvey, because he had wanted him to check on the doctor who did the operation, even though by now it was more than a little late. But he was relieved when he got back to Harvey. Harvey had called every bone man he knew in Boston, New York, and Chicago, he had even called a friend who was the chief orthopedic surgeon for the Mets.