The glance Witner shot him contained a spark of irritation.
“As I was saying, Ms. Andersen, this is the impetus behind New Canterbury’s Medical Media program—showing the public they have nothing to fear from such procedures. We estimate that fifty-five million Americans will be watching next week when Brenda’s procedure is aired on the Learning Channel.”
“That’s very interesting,” she said. “What other procedures are you planning?”
“Your fact sheet will tell you that we have commitments from William Camden for a transurethral prostatectomy, Roger James Kilburn for a polypectomy, Sharon Ropeling for a lumpectomy, and Bernice McLain’s going to have her hysterectomy with us.”
“And we’ve got a tentative agreement with Robert Beddington, don’t we, Bryson, for his vasectomy?” Atwood piped up.
“Dr. Witner, what benefits do you see your medical center reaping from this?”
Witner smiled.
“Ms. Andersen, some might call this an elaborate publicity campaign, but I assure you, it’s not. Our top priority is to spread information about the miracles of modern preventive and palliative medicine. It’s already well known that New Canterbury is a national resource.”
“Dr. Atwood says this was your idea,” said Zellie, putting down her pen.
Witner laughed and shook his head. “Well…”
“Don’t be modest, sir,” said Atwood. “Dr. Witner has done the work of ten people pulling this together. When the university chooses a permanent dean, we hope that Dr. Witner will not have to move from this office.”
“I can imagine,” said Zellie, stifling a yawn.
“Dr. Atwood overstates the case,” said Witner, glancing at his watch. “Well, this has been a very pleasant interlude, but I’m afraid we must go meet the candidate. You can leave your coat here.”
“Thank you,” Zellie said, rising to her feet. “By the way, I’d like to have a brief interview with your assistant, Greta.”
“Might I ask why?”
“The more perspectives I get, the better.”
“Of course,” he said. “Would three-thirty or four o’clock this afternoon be acceptable?”
* * *
A short while later they were back on the mezzanine above the old lobby. The dais below was fully assembled. She looked in vain to see if, by some chance, Jack Forester was still there, and was startled by Dr. Witner’s sudden grip on her elbow as he guided her toward a set of doors labeled “The Flexner Room.”
A half-a-dozen people were clustered inside, talking to a swarthy, good-looking man she recognized as Brad Claxton. The atmosphere was festive.
A portly man broke away from the group and strode toward them.
“Hello, Bryson.”
“Good morning, Nelson. Please allow me to introduce Ms. Zellie Andersen, the writer from Coast to Coast magazine I mentioned. Ms. Andersen, this is the Nelson Debussy, the marvelous president of New Canterbury University.”
“A pleasure, Ms. Andersen,” Debussy said. “Delighted you’re here.”
“Nelson,” continued Witner, “have you seen Dr. Gavin? I’m surprised he’s not here.”
“No, I haven’t, Bryson. He’s probably catching up on rest after his long voyage. He is scheduled, however, to come see me this afternoon.”
“I would like to speak with you before then.”
“Fine, we shall do that,” Debussy agreed. He turned back to Zellie. “Please come and let me introduce you to the candidate. He’s quite a fellow, even if he does belong to the wrong party.”
As they approached him, Claxton’s eyes latched onto her, and such was the man’s charisma the smile he beamed at her was among the warmest and most exciting she had ever received. He didn’t give Debussy a chance to make introductions.
“So, this must be Dr. Bryson Witner, the top gun around here. It’s truly a great pleasure to finally meet you, Doctor. I’ve heard nothing but inspiring things about you and this extraordinary hospital. It’s one of the jewels in our state’s crown.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Witner. “We welcome you to our institution and to the wonderful community we live in.”
“Call me Brad. Someone like you, a healer and a scientist, a great New Yorker, I automatically consider a friend, and I hope you will give me the honor of a first-name relationship.”
“I would suggest the honor is mine,” purred Witner. “May I introduce you to Zellie Andersen, a journalist who’s writing about us for Coast to Coast magazine?”
“Ah, Ms. Andersen,” he said, beaming at her. “Your publication brings a good deal of pleasure to people.”
“And this one of our junior faculty members, Dr. Humphrey Atwood.”
Claxton pumped Atwood’s hand like he was trying to raise water.
“Nice to meet you, Hump. I’d guess you took some ribbing in your younger days about that nickname.”
Face crimson, Atwood mumbled something unintelligible as laughter filled the room.
Ten minutes later, the group descended en masse down the grand old staircase. Atwood offered Zellie a seat between him and Nelson Debussy behind the dais.
“Thanks for the honor,” she said. “But I need to see faces, remember?”
She stood out front as Debussy introduced Witner, who uttered a few pleasantries and then introduced Claxton, who leapt onto the platform and started off with a joke about a Long Island farmer and a tax collector. Then, after praising the Medical Media program, he launched into a discussion of New York’s broken political system and how he would go about fixing it.
Growing bored, Zellie looked around and noticed with a wave of pleasure that Jack Forester stood on the mezzanine, leaning over the balustrade. A moment later, his gaze met hers, and he smiled. Straightening, he waved.
There was something decidedly interesting about him. Why not interview him? Get his perspective on things. Yes, she would approach him once Claxton’s press conference was finished. Maybe he’d figured out where he knew her from. Likely story.
But by the time Claxton’s speech was over, Jack Forester had disappeared.
XIV
Inside Job
Dr. Forester, please report to the emergency department.
Jack missed hearing it the first time as he stood on the mezzanine watching Zellie Andersen, more than ever convinced he knew her, and wondering if he should wait until after the speech to join her.
Dr. Forester, please report to the emergency department, stat.
He heard it this time. They wouldn’t have called him unless it was something important. He tore his gaze away and strode off, but when he reached the ED everything appeared calm, the hustle and bustle if anything less than usual.
He marched up to the unit secretary’s station.
“What’s up, Kathy? I was stat-paged.”
“It’s Gail. One of the nurses is having a breakdown or something.”
“Since when am I a psychiatrist?”
“She tells me, I page.”
At that moment, Gail Scippino, the ED nursing director, scurried around the corner. She had taken the position only two months before, and now wore the flustered expression of someone who’d crash-landed on the wrong planet.
“Thank you so much for coming, Jack,” she said. “I hate to bother you, but I need some assistance.”
She explained on the way to her office. Darcy, one of her best nurses, was about to walk out.
“I’ll let her tell you the situation. You’ve known her a lot longer than I have.”
Gail flung open her door. Darcy McFeely, elbows on Gail’s desk, sat with her face buried in her hands and her shoulders shaking, wads of tissue scattered over the desk like the aftermath of a snowball fight.
“Hi, there,” Jack said as Gail closed the door behind him.
“It’s no good, Jack,” Darcy informed him. “I’ve got to get the hell out of here before I completely lose my mind. I’ve had it.”
Gail opened the door and handed him two foam cu
ps of coffee then shut the door again. He set a cup in front of Darcy. She looked up. A pretty woman in her early forties, her eyelids were swollen, and mascara had run down her cheeks.
“You want to talk?” he said, pulling up a chair.
Mechanically, she lifted the cup of coffee, blew on it and sipped.
“Tell me what happened, Darcy,” he persisted.
“You name it, Jack. My ex-husband is being a bastard about custody again. I covered somebody’s shift last week and left the twins with a sitter he doesn’t like. He’ll use any excuse. I covered the shift, you see, because Joan was sick, and guess what? Today I’m feeling like crap myself, and do you think I can find anybody to relieve me? Fuck, no! Nobody gives a shit. And then there’s this little son-of-a-bitch schizophrenic I triaged this morning who calls me a stinking old whore and spits on me. I can take that crap, but what pushed me over the edge was when I heard you’re leaving.”
“What? Who told you that?”
“I heard it when I took a patient to radiology. People are saying you’re upset because they voted down your plan. They said Dr. Witner is trying to get you to stay, but you’ve decided to go, and that Humphrey Atwood is going to take your place.”
Jack felt his forehead grow hot. He shook his head vigorously.
“It’s true I was upset, but I have no intention of quitting, Darcy. They’re wrong. Dr. Gavin is back, and things are going to get better.”
She looked up at him with bloodshot eyes and an unconvinced expression.
“I couldn’t blame you if you did,” she said, sniffling. “I’ve come to believe this place is run by a bunch of assholes.”
He laughed.
“My leaving is a false rumor, I promise you, and I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you ask Gail to help find someone to cover the rest of your shift?”
“Can I tell you something else?” she said.
“Sure.”
“I don’t want you to tell a soul.”
“I promise. What is it?”
“Jack, I’ve started having fantasies about killing patients. Has that ever happened to you?”
He paused.
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
“I can see myself marching some of them outside and shooting them. Like that drunk yesterday who caused the fatal accident. And the schizophrenic who spit on me today.”
He reached over and put his hand on her arm.
“I’m glad you shared that, Darcy, and I know it’s not you. It’s stress. You know that.”
“But just the thought I can have ideas like this, Jack—I can’t stand it.”
“Do you have any vacation time left?”
“I used it up when the twins had summer break.”
“Let me talk to Gail about maybe getting you a week of R-and-R.”
She swirled the coffee in her cup and sipped again. Then she looked him in the eyes.
“Okay,” she said. “But I want you to promise me something.”
“Name it?”
“If you do leave, give me some warning. If that jerk Atwood gets your job, I’m out of here. I have to work with him this afternoon, Jack, and it makes me want to vomit. He’s lazy, he’s arrogant, and he’s mean to patients. He likes to work the three-to-eleven shift because you’re not here most of that time. He lets the residents do all the work and disappears. We can’t find him when we need him. Somebody’s going to get hurt, Jack, and I don’t want to be around when it happens.”
* * *
Before the applause died away, Brad Claxton jumped off the platform and began shaking hands and patting shoulders. Zellie was still looking around for Jack Forester when Atwood found her in the crowd. He escorted her down a long corridor, through the chrome-glass-and-tile new lobby, then down another corridor and up in an elevator to the endoscopy floor to the VIP. Room. A few minutes later, Zellie was sitting across a small table from Brenda Waters, and wondering aloud how Waters could make an ordinary pale-blue hospital gown look exotic and glamorous.
Waters laughed. She was unpretentious and likable.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s told me all day,” she said. “No, I take that back. A litter of medical students came by this morning. I say litter because they were like little puppies. You want to scratch their ears. God, to be that young again.”
A woman peered around the doorway.
“Brenda, they’ll be coming to give you an IV in about half an hour.”
“Well, bully for them. Tell them to bring it on.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“There,” she said. “Zellie—what a lovely name.”
“Thank you, Ms. Waters—”
“Brenda, please.”
The same woman reappeared in the doorway.
“George wants to know if you’ll need makeup?”
“Makeup? They’re not going to see my face, for God’s sake. Tell George if he can figure out how to beautify the inside of my large intestine, he can be my guest. Tell him I want a colonic makeover. Now, leave me alone for a while. Wait a minute. Zellie, would you like something to drink?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Beryl, there’s some Perrier in the little fridge.”
“You’re not supposed to have anything by mouth, Brenda.”
“Thank you very much. I know that. I’m not asking for myself, though Lord knows I’m thirsty. I shat myself crazy yesterday. I must have lost ten pounds. Have you ever had this done, Zellie?”
“No.”
“Anything else, ma’am?”
“Peace and quiet.”
“After they start the IV, Brenda, they’re going to give you a sedative.”
“Well, there’s something to look forward to.”
“I’ll let you know when the nurse is here.”
“I have no doubt.”
The woman disappeared again.
“Zellie, I suppose you want to know why I agreed to do this in the first place?”
“Bingo.”
“Because it would be the worst thing in the world to die of an illness that could be easily cured. I watched my father die of colon cancer, and he was in such misery you wouldn’t believe. I was eighteen, and he’d been the rock of my life. I’m doing this for him. I’m not making a cent on it. You can write that down.”
“I will.”
Brenda Waters leaned across the table towards her.
“Zellie, is that some kind of new Bluetooth in your ear?” She reached over and lifted Zellie’s hair. Zellie felt herself blush.
“No, it’s a hearing aid,” Zellie acknowledged, leaning back.
“Are you deaf without it?”
“Not quite.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about.”
“What happened? Were you born that way?”
“No.”
“What’s it like? I mean when you’re not wearing it?”
“What do you mean, what’s it like?”
“To not be able to hear. I ask you that as an actor, sweetheart. I liked you immediately.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Brenda Waters smiled and looked at the tabletop.
“I do now,” she said.
Beryl reemerged.
“Nurse is here, Brenda.”
“Thank you, Beryl. Another couple of minutes.” Brenda took Zellie’s hand in both of hers. “That was true about my father,” she said. “I’m not a vicious person. But, please, tell me what it’s like. Take me inside your mind for a moment. Just one sentence.”
Zellie smiled.
“I can perceive smells better than you.”
* * *
Zellie found Humphrey Atwood just outside leaning against the wall, his arms folded, looking bored.
“How’d it go?” he said.
“She’s…interesting.”
He took her to a small café located on the ground floor of the medical sch
ool. They sat by a window and ate sandwiches. The courtyard outside was scattered with wet leaves, and beneath a maple tree lay patches of snow. Dr. Atwood chatted away about his work and his background.
“So, as you can imagine, me having grown up in San Francisco, I find this a cultural wasteland. Still, I suppose there’s an up side. The lack of distractions allows me to focus more on my career.”
“What exactly is the focus of your career, Dr. Atwood?”
“Good question. You see, I’m a general internist by training, but my academic interests range from endocrinology to health care resource utilization.”
“Ah.”
“Yes, indeed. My latest study involves finding a simple way to reduce inappropriate usage of the emergency department, and I think I’ve hit upon a great idea. Are you interested in that sort of thing?”
“What other things are you studying?”
“Oh, I’m also trying to come up with a cost-effective way to screen hospital employees for breast cancer.”
“I see. That sounds like a worthy thing to study.”
“Very much so. I must admit, I don’t know where I got my scientific bent from. My mother was an accountant and my father just a dentist, though he had a very upscale practice. My great-grandfather was a mining engineer, though, and he did a lot of inventing. Maybe that’s where it comes from.”
“Maybe so.”
“Well, Ms. Andersen, do you think you’ve seen enough of our hospital for the day?”
“I’d love to wander around some more. I’d like to visit, oh, let’s see, a lecture hall, and the place where you keep cadavers, and the library. I’ve always wanted to see what a medical school’s library looks like.”
Atwood pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and sniffed.
“I was hoping to do a little paperwork this afternoon. Then I have to work a clinical shift in the emergency room from three to eleven.”
“I didn’t mean you had to tag along. I don’t mind going by myself, really.”
He stiffened.
“I’ll be delighted to keep touring with you. It’s easy to get lost in this place.”
For the next two hours, they explored the complex, and finally arrived at the library.
Final Mercy Page 11