Rough Trade

critical,” replied the trauma surgeon, drawing us aside and speaking for the others. “He was shot two times. One bullet went through his neck, nicking his trachea before exiting his body. The other bullet entered his chest, ricocheted through his lung, and lodged in his abdomen. Normally, with this kind of injury you’d expect the victim to bleed to death pretty quickly, but apparently the way he fell exerted pressure on the exit wound and slowed the bleeding. Still, by the time he got here, he was in full cardiac arrest and his heart had stopped beating.”
    Chrissy made a sound; it was less a sob than a kind of primal mewing. I put my arm around her shoulder and immediately felt the futility of the gesture.
    The mechanic at my garage gives me the news more kindly when he tells me how much a new transmission will cost. Knowing Claudia for as long as I have, I understand that the qualities that are prized in a surgeon— concentration, a fanaticism about perfecting technical skill, self-confidence, and risk-taking ability in the face of pressure—do not necessarily a compassionate person make. But then, of course, a compassionate person would find it too soul destroying to deliver this kind of news day in and day out.
    “We did our best under the circumstances,” he continued, trying to reassure us. “But even so, we had to remove most of his spleen, and it’s too early to tell whether or not one of his kidneys might need to be repaired. We’ll be watching your husband very carefully for signs of kidney failure over the next few days. Like I said, the next twenty-four hours will be critical.”
    “Will he live?” asked Chrissy softly.
    This, when all was said and done, was the only question that mattered. To her, everything else—the bullets, their trajectories, the damage they had done as they’d ricocheted through his body—was all secondary to whether he was ever going to go home again with Chrissy, with whether he was going to be there to see baby Katharine grow up.
    “Unfortunately there are no promises,” replied the trauma surgeon, not unkindly. “The best we were able to do in the operating room was give him a chance. I’m afraid now we can only wait and see.”
    “Can I see him?” breathed Chrissy.
    “He’s in recovery right now. As soon as he’s stable enough we’ll try moving him over to intensive care. You’ll be able to stay with him there. However, bear in mind that he’ll still be unconscious and intubated. It will be a while before we’ll know whether he’ll be able to breathe on his own.”
    “Ever?” inquired Chrissy, her voice high with fear.
    “Right now I think it’s best if we just take things one step at a time.”
     
    There is absolutely nothing subtle about the press. They move in like a herd of hyenas and tear at their victim’s flesh until their hunger for a sound bite or a story is satisfied. Then they move on. While what had happened to Jeffrey Rendell was unspeakably tragic, it was also a good story and for that reason had rendered Chrissy a target. In the if-it-bleeds-it-leads school of journalism, the burglar who had tried to kill her husband had turned her into page-one news.
    Fortunately a media spokesperson from the hospital arrived close on the heels of the surgical team and carefully explained the arrangements that the hospital had made to safeguard the Rendells’ privacy. It all went by Chrissy completely. Even though she looked the young woman from the hospital in the eye and made the appropriate noises of polite gratitude, I knew that it was all just a matter of instinct.
    The only time that she was able to really get through to Chrissy was when she asked her for permission to have the surgeons who’d operated on her husband give a press conference.
    A flicker of something like shock passed across Chrissy’s face, but I urged her to say yes. I actually saw the hospital’s request as the first good sign we’d had. As crass as it might sound, I figured they’d be less likely to trot out the docs if they thought that Jeff was going to die. Besides, journalists are usually as lazy as they are venal. Why else would they spend so much time interviewing each other and trying to pass it off as news? I figured that whatever we could spoon-feed them would make them less rabid about coming after Chrissy.
    What followed was the kind of negotiation no one should ever have to enter into, hammering out what could be said about Jeffrey Rendell as we