As with so many
miracles, it was pure chance that finally turned the key.
Brigit Flannagan
was twenty-four years old, and she loved her nursing job. During her
preteen years, she’d often helped care for her aging granny, and had shown
an empathy for the task that ranged far beyond her tender years.
Medical school had been a logical step in her education, and she hoped to
someday finish her degree and become a full-fledged doctor. She had
a unique gift, Gran had told her, a special sense for helping and healing.
She also had a
broken-down car that hated bad weather.
When a raging storm
had pelted across the sky that afternoon, she’d known her entire night
would be a disaster. Predictably, "The Bomb" had refused to start.
Its rusty old alternator got temperamental when the humidity rose.
And her roommate, who could often be counted on for an emergency ride, was
working late to cover for a co-worker on maternity leave.
So she’d scurried
through pounding rain for six endless blocks to catch the crosstown
bus--and had arrived just in time to see its red taillights fading into
the distance. In theory, the bus was supposed to run every fifteen
minutes. But with the current union strike in full force, it often
only appeared once an hour. And of course there were no dry bus
shelters within a mile of her stop.
As a result, she’d
gotten to work late, soaked to the bone, and was still running behind.
Normally she’d have spent an hour with the coma case in Room B14, brushing
her lackluster auburn hair, rubbing restorative cream on her pale hands
and face. A faint trace of beauty, carefully reconstructed by the
finest plastic surgeons, remained beneath the woman’s waxy pallor and
sunken cheeks. Brigit was determined not to let it fade away
completely.
But tonight she
simply couldn’t spare the time. So she ruefully flipped on the TV,
brushed an apologetic kiss on her patient’s cool forehead, and resisted
the impulse to watch a few minutes of her favorite adventure show.
Beep, beep...beep, beep. The monitors sang out their lonely rhythmic song as
she turned to leave. Beep, beep...beep, beep.
She was almost
through the narrow doorway when it happened.
Beep,
beep...beep, BLIP.
Brigit spun around and stared.
Nothing had changed. Her patient was still motionless. The
machines were still forcing air into her lungs. Her brain wave was
still a sluggish green squiggle moving across the sensitive EEG screen.
She might have
imagined it--but Brigit Flannagan couldn’t walk away without being
certain. Cautiously she approached the purring monitors, and pulled
up a detailed readout.
There! She
hadn’t imagined it! A single short spike in B14's brainwave
line!
Beep,
beep...beep, BLIP.
Again!
Brigit’s heart began to pound. One spike might be a random chance,
but two in as many minutes...
She gripped her
patient’s lax hand, then spun away to summon the doctor on staff.
On the television,
her favorite show continued to play.
• • • • • •
The spikes
continued, in an irregular pattern, for nearly an hour. Then they
stopped. Brigit wanted to cry with frustration. Somewhere
inside that thin motionless body, a helpless mind was struggling to
return. She knew it, could feel it, with all the boundless
empathy her granny had once praised.
Maybe it was
selfish, but she wanted to be the one to break through, to
establish a link. Something had triggered a response in her
patient, but what?
So the next night,
she carefully recreated the entire scene. Hurry into the room a few
minutes late, turn on the TV, kiss B14's pale forehead. Only this
time, she hovered in the doorway, watching, praying for a miracle.
"The Bureau"
was a popular, exciting show already in its fourth season. She loved
its distinctive musical score, its intriguing plots, its clever and
talented actors. It had all the elements of a perfect adventure
show--plenty of excitement, brain teasing whodunits, and just the
slightest hint of romance between Troy MacAllister and his lovely partner,
Mariah Conners.
Alex Matthews, who
played MacAllister, had just been voted Sexiest Man of the Year by
People Magazine. It was easy to understand why. His thick
coal-black hair framed an angular face that was neither rugged nor
patrician, but an intriguing mix of both. Deep navy blue eyes
reflected an agile mind and ready sense of humor. He was tall,
muscular, and utterly irresistible when he spoke with that faint, charming
hint of Texas drawl. Women flocked to his side everywhere he went.
Alicia Huntington,
his elegant co-star, was the perfect foil for his dark, mysterious appeal.
Though slender and petite, she radiated strength and a vibrant energy that
had made her Hollywood’s newest darling. Vivid, slanting emerald
eyes and rich auburn hair bespoke her Gaelic heritage. Her voice was
low and clear, refreshingly free of the sultry overtones cultivated by
most aspiring actresses. Young women yearned to be like her.
Young men simply yearned to be with her.
Ever since the
series premiere, trashy gossip magazines had been speculating about her
true relationship with Alex Matthews. And six months later, when his
fairy-tale marriage to starlet Cheryl Anne Monroe had collapsed, they’d
burned the presses, hinting that she’d been responsible. Those
vicious rumors had never been confirmed--but neither had they been denied.
Three years later, their names were still linked on every corner
newsstand.
As actors, Matthews
and Huntington were hot items. Their award-winning series reflected
their personal popularity. MacAllister and Conners were larger than
life, quick and witty, utterly devoted to each other and their dangerous
assignments.
Excellent
screenwriters, Brigit knew, but that didn’t lessen the dramatic impact, or
the way her heart raced, each time they appeared onscreen. She had
every single episode recorded, and could quote whole sections from memory.
Beep, beep...beep, BLIP. Beep, BLIP. Beep, BLIP.
Brigit’s nimble
hands began shaking. Sweet Mother of God, it couldn’t be that
simple! Could it?
She took a deep,
steadying breath. Then raced to the phone.
Within minutes, she
was intently studying her patient’s personal history, while MacAllister
dodged bullets on the screen above her head. Anthony Templeton’s
autocratic parents had spared no expense here, either. Every detail
about B14's quiet life was laid out in terse black and white for anyone
who cared enough to look.
She’d glanced
through it once before, when she’d first been assigned to this floor.
Now she read every page in earnest. Somewhere in this thick, heavy
file there must be an answer, a key that would help her reach out to the
lost mind she could feel struggling to return.
Hmmm...
Twenty-seven years old,
birthday in June. Husband Patrick and son Sean killed in the same
accident that had nearly taken her own life. Brigit’s green eyes
filled with tears as she reread that line. Sweet Jesus, where was
the justice?
The police report
was attached to her ER charts. Anthony Templeton had been driving
too fast on a rain-slickened road, had hit a patch of glare ice, and lost
control of his zippy little sports car. A grim twist of fate had
sent him careening into an oncoming station wagon, which had swerved to
avoid impact. His front fender had smashed into the wagon’s
midsection, forcing it off the road and down a steep embankment.
After rolling several times, it had collided violently with a wooden
telephone pole, which had splintered and toppled through the battered
passenger-side roof.
By all rights,
there should have been no survivors. The EMT’s had been stunned to
find the driver still just barely alive, despite being half-crushed
between the steering wheel and the crumpled roof. She’d been
immediately air-lifted to the nearest hospital for emergency treatment.
Anthony’s little
red speedster had ricocheted back from the impact, spun three or four
times, and come to rest against the metal center guard rail. He’d
been examined at the scene, then released--only to appear at the hospital,
an hour later, with his seething father in tow.
At least, Brigit
thought with a pensive sigh, William Templeton was by reputation a fair
and honorable man. His gigantic pharmaceutical company ranked among
the world’s top ten most successful industries. Few other men
could--or would--have pulled so many strings so quickly, just to save the
life of an unknown accident victim.
Because she was
incapacitated and had no other surviving family members to decide her
fate, B14 had briefly been named a Ward of the Court--a fate Brigit
wouldn’t have wished upon her worst enemy. Then Templeton’s
battalion of lawyers had successfully appealed the decision. A
high-ranking judge had agreed that since Templeton’s son had caused her
injuries, it was only fitting that his family should be responsible for
her care, for as long as that remained necessary.
Three years later,
B14 was still receiving the best available medical attention.
Skilled surgeons had repaired the extensive damage to her body; a team of
brilliant plastic surgeons had reconstructed her mangled face.
Physical therapists worked every day to keep her lax muscles and tendons
from atrophying.
But after all this
time, no one really expected her to recover.
Brigit refused to accept
that dire verdict. Stubbornly she continued poring through the reams
of scribbled notations and neatly typed reports. She was certain
she’d seen something important before, about B14's personal interests and
hobbies...
Ah, here it was!
Small home-based business, freelance photographer, unpublished writer...
Bingo!
Heart pounding, she
reached for the phone again.
Twenty minutes
later her roommate arrived, lugging a heavy bag full of video tapes.
"You’re a true gem, Nance!" Brigit praised, affectionately brushing rain
from the younger girl’s curling black hair. "Now come sit with me,
an’ watch a miracle happen!"
Gulping, Nancy
stared down at the frail body nearly hidden beneath tubes and wires.
She admired Brigit’s tireless dedication, but dead people made her
twitchy. And this one looked like she’d been dead a long time.
"She’s not dead."
Brigit’s lyrical Irish voice was reproving as she pushed the first tape
into B14’s VCR. "She’s in a coma. There’s a huge difference."
She still looked
dead to Nancy, and invisible bugs began crawling up her arms.
"Listen, Brig, shouldn’t you call a doctor or something? Someone’s
gonna be awful mad if you jump the gun here."
"An’ that’s exactly
why I’m not callin’ anyone ’til I’m certain," the energetic redhead
insisted. "You just watch her monitor. Tell me I’m not
imaginin’ this!"
Palms sweating, she
zipped through the tape. There, where MacAllister was explaining a
new case to Conners. Plenty of dialogue in that scene. She
pushed the Play button, and turned to stare at the EEG.
Beep, BLIP.
Beep, BLIP. Beep, BLIP.
"It’s his voice!"
she whispered. "Sweet Mother of God! She’s respondin’ to his
voice!"
Trembling, she
fast-forwarded to another long exchange.
Beep, BLIP.
Beep, BLIP. BLIP, BLIP. BLIP, BLIP.
BLIP, BLIP.
"Nancy, go get the
head nurse!" she gasped. "Hurry!"
• • • • • •
They thought she’d
lost her mind, she could see it in their eyes. Her legs were shaking
so badly, she could barely stand. "Watch, now! Just watch!"
she pleaded, and pushed the Play button again. It took two tries
before her fumbling thumb could hit the right switch.
MacAllister’s rich
voice boomed out of the television. Two top neurologists, a brain
surgeon, six nurses, and four doctors stared dubiously at the humming EEG.
The monitors went
crazy.
Twenty minutes
later, Kayla Farrell slowly opened her eyes, and stared in blank confusion
at the jubilant people crowding around her bed.
A familiar voice
was echoing from the television above their heads. She focused her
bleary gaze on the set, managed a weak smile, and whispered one faint word
like a reverent benediction: "Mac!"
