by Robin Cook
“Coffee?” he asked.
Cathryn shook her head, keeping her eyes riveted on Charles as he poured himself a cup. Then he sat down opposite Cathryn.
“First I want to say something,” began Charles, looking directly at Cathryn. “I’ve had a chance to think and I now understand the position you were in at the hospital. I’m sorry my own indecision about Michelle’s treatment was inadvertently taken out on you. And I, more than a layman, know how doctors can bully patients and their families to get their own way. Anyway, I understand what happened in the guardianship situation. I understand there was no one at fault and there was no malevolence on anyone’s part, least of all yours. I’m sorry that I reacted as I did, but I couldn’t help it. I hope you’ll forgive me. I know that you were trying to do what was best for Michelle.”
Cathryn didn’t move. She wanted to rush to Charles and throw her arms around him because all at once he sounded so normal, but she couldn’t move. So much had happened and there were still unanswered questions.
Charles picked up his coffee cup. His hand shook so much he had to use his left hand to steady it.
“Deciding what was best for Michelle was a very difficult problem,” continued Charles. “Like you, I hoped that orthodox medicine could give her more time. But it got to the point where I knew that they were failing and I had to do something.”
Cathryn could sense Charles’s sincerity. What she couldn’t decide was his rationality. Had he cracked under the strain as everyone suggested? Cathryn realized that she wasn’t equipped to decide.
“All the doctors agreed that the medicines were her only chance to get a remission,” said Cathryn, feeling defensive about her actions. “Dr. Keitzman assured me that it was her only chance.”
“And I’m sure he believed what he said.”
“It’s not true?”
“Of course she has to get a remission,” agreed Charles. “But their chemotherapy, even in the experimentally high doses, was not touching her leukemic cells. At the same time they were destroying normal cells, particularly her own immune system.”
Cathryn wasn’t sure she fully understood what Charles was saying but at least it sounded consistent. It didn’t sound like the product of a deranged mind.
“And I feel,” continued Charles, “that if she has a chance, she has to have an intact immune system.”
“You mean you have another treatment?” asked Cathryn.
Charles sighed. “I think so. I hope so!”
“But all the other doctors agreed that chemotherapy was the only way.”
“Of course,” said Charles. “Just like a surgeon believes in surgery. People are biased by what they know. It’s human. But cancer research has been my life for the last nine years, and I think there’s a chance I can do something.” Charles paused.
Obviously he believed what he was saying, but was it based on reality or on delusion? Cathryn wanted desperately to believe also, but under the circumstances, it was difficult. “Do you mean there’s a chance you can cure her?”
“I don’t want to get your hopes up too high,” said Charles, “but I think there is a chance. Maybe small, but a chance. And, more important, my treatment won’t hurt her.”
“Have you been able to cure any of your laboratory animals that had cancer?” asked Cathryn.
“No I haven’t,” admitted Charles, but then he added quickly, “I know that makes it sound unrealistic, but I think I didn’t have luck with the animals because I was working so slowly and carefully. The purpose there was pure research. But I was just about to try a new technique to use healthy mice as an intermediary to cure the diseased mice.”
“But you don’t have any animals here,” said Cathryn, remembering Detective O’Sullivan’s questions.
“Not true,” said Charles. “I have one large experimental animal. Me!”
Cathryn swallowed. For the first moment in the conversation a red flag went up, questioning Charles’s state of mind.
“That idea surprises you,” he said. “Well, it shouldn’t. In the past most great medical researchers used themselves as experimental subjects. Anyway, let me try to explain to you what I am doing. First of all my research has advanced to the point where I can take a cancerous cell from an organism and isolate a protein, or what is called an antigen, on its surface, which makes that cell different from all the other cells. That, in itself, is a major advance. My problem then was getting the organism’s immune system to react to the protein and therefore rid itself of the abnormal cancerous cells. This, I believe, is what happens in normal organisms. I think cancer is a fairly frequent occurrence but that the body’s immune system takes care of it. When the immune system fails, that’s when a particular cancer takes root and grows. Do you understand so far?”
Cathryn nodded.
“When I tried to get the cancerous animals to respond to the isolated protein, I couldn’t. I think there is some kind of blocking mechanism and that’s where I was when Michelle got sick. But then I got the idea to inject the isolated surface antigen into well animals to make them immune to it. I didn’t have time to carry out the tests but I’m certain it would be easy because the well animal will recognize the antigen as being very foreign to itself whereas in the sick animal the antigen is only slightly different from its normal proteins.”
Cathryn’s comprehension faltered, though she tried to smile.
Charles impulsively reached across the table and grasped Cathryn’s shoulders. “Cathryn, try to understand. I want you to believe in what I’m doing. I need you to help me.”
Cathryn felt some inner bond loosen and fall. Charles was her husband and the fact that he needed her and admitted it was a tremendous incentive.
“Do you remember that horses were used to make diphtheria antiserum?” asked Charles.
“I think so,” said Cathryn.
“What I’m explaining to you is something like that. What I’ve done is to isolate the surface antigen of Michelle’s leukemic cells that makes them different from her normal cells, and I’ve been injecting the antigen into myself.”
“So you become allergic to Michelle’s leukemic cells?” asked Cathryn, struggling to comprehend.
“Exactly,” said Charles with excitement.
“Then you’ll inject your antibodies into Michelle?” asked Cathryn.
“No,” said Charles. “Her immune system wouldn’t accept my antibodies. But luckily modern immunology has found a way to transfer what they call cellular immunity or sensitivity from one organism to another. Once my T-lymphocytes are sensitized to Michelle’s leukemic antigen, I will isolate from my white cells what is called a transfer factor and inject that into Michelle. Hopefully that will stimulate her own immune system to sensitize against her leukemic cells. In that way she’ll be able to eliminate her existing leukemic cells and any new ones that evolve.”
“So she’d be cured?” said Cathryn.
“So she’d be cured,” repeated Charles.
Cathryn was not sure she understood everything Charles had said, but his plan certainly seemed sound. It didn’t seem possible that he could have figured it out if he were in the midst of a nervous breakdown. She realized that from his point of view, everything he’d done had been rational.
“How long will all this take?” asked Cathryn.
“I don’t know for sure it will even work,” said Charles. “But from the way my body is reacting to the antigen, I’ll know in a couple of days. That’s why I’ve boarded up the house. I’m prepared to fight any attempts to have Michelle taken back to the hospital.”
Cathryn glanced around the kitchen, noting again the boarded windows. Turning back to Charles, she said: “I guess you know the Boston police are looking for you. They think you’ve fled to Mexico to get Laetrile.”
Charles laughed. “That’s absurd. And they can’t be looking for me too hard because our local police know very well that I’m here. Did you notice the mailbox and the playhouse?”
“I s
aw that the mailbox was crushed and the windows were broken in the playhouse.”
“That’s all thanks to our local authorities. Last night a group came up from Recycle, Ltd. bent on vandalism. I called the police and thought they’d never showed up until I noticed one of the squad cars parked down the road. Obviously they condoned the whole thing.”
“Why?” asked Cathryn, aghast.
“I retained a young aggressive lawyer and apparently he’s successfully giving Recycle some trouble. I think they believe they can frighten me into calling him off.”
“My God!” exclaimed Cathryn, beginning to appreciate the extent of Charles’s isolation.
“Where are the boys?” asked Charles.
“Chuck’s at Mother’s. Jean Paul is in Shaftesbury, staying with a friend.”
“Good,” said Charles. “Things might get rough around here.”
Husband and wife, both at the limits of their emotional reserves, stared at each other across the kitchen table. A surge of love swept over them. They stood up and fell into each other’s arms, holding on desperately as if they were afraid something would force them apart. They both knew nothing was resolved, but the reaffirmation of their love gave them new strength.
“Please trust me, and love me,” said Charles.
“I love you,” said Cathryn, feeling tears on her cheek. “That’s never been a problem. The issue has only been Michelle.”
“Then trust that I have only her best interests at heart,” said Charles. “You know how much I love her.”
Cathryn pulled away to look up into Charles’s face. “Everyone thinks you’ve had a nervous breakdown. I didn’t know what to think, particularly with your carrying on about Recycle when the real issue was Michelle’s treatment.”
“Recycle just gave me something to do. The most frustrating part of Michelle’s illness was that I couldn’t do anything, which is what happened with Elizabeth. Back then all I could do was watch her die, and it seemed as if it was going to be the same situation with Michelle. I needed something to focus on, and Recycle galvanized my need for action. But my anger about what they’re doing is real enough, as well as my commitment to get them to stop. But obviously my main interest is Michelle, otherwise I wouldn’t be here now.”
Cathryn felt as if she’d been freed from an enormous weight. She was now certain that Charles had never lost contact with reality.
“What about Michelle’s condition?” asked Cathryn.
“Not good,” admitted Charles. “She’s a terribly sick child. It’s amazing how aggressive her disease is. I’ve given her morphine because she’s had awful stomach cramps.” Charles embraced Cathryn again and averted his face.
“She had some while I was with her, too,” said Cathryn. She could feel Charles tremble as he fought back his tears. Cathryn held him as tightly as she could.
They stood together for another five minutes. There were no words but the communication was total. Finally Charles pulled away. When he turned back she saw that his eyes were red, his expression serious.
“I’m glad we had the opportunity to talk,” said Charles. “But I don’t think you should stay here. Without doubt there will be trouble. It’s not that I don’t want you to be with me; in fact, selfishly I’d like you to stay. But I know it would be better if you got Jean Paul and went back to your mother’s.” Charles nodded his head as if he were convincing himself.
“I want you to be selfish,” said Cathryn. She experienced a new sense of confidence that she could be a wife. “My place is here. Jean Paul and Chuck will be all right.”
“But Cathryn . . .”
“No buts,” said Cathryn. “I’m staying and I’m helping.”
Charles examined his wife’s face. She looked positively defiant.
“And if you think,” she continued with a vehemence that he had never seen, “that you can get rid of me now that you’ve convinced me what you’re doing is right, you are crazy! You’ll have to throw me out bodily.”
“All right, all right,” said Charles with a smile. “I won’t throw you out. But we could be in for a rough time.”
“It’s as much my responsibility as yours,” said Cathryn with conviction. “This is a family affair and I’m part of this family. We both recognized that when we decided to get married. I’m not here just to share the happiness.”
Charles experienced a mixture of emotions, but the primary one was pride. He had been guilty of not giving Cathryn the credit she deserved. She was right; Charles had tried whenever it was possible to shield her from the negative aspects of their life, and that was wrong. He should have been more open, more trusting. Cathryn was his wife, not his child.
“If you want to stay, please do,” he said.
“I want to stay,” said Cathryn simply.
Charles kissed her gently on the lips. Then he stepped back to look at her with an admiring eye.
“You really can help,” he said, checking his watch. “It’s almost time to give myself another dose of Michelle’s antigen. I’ll explain what you can do to help after I get it prepared. Okay?”
Cathryn nodded and let Charles squeeze her hand before he walked back to the living room.
Holding on to the back of one of the kitchen chairs, Cathryn felt a little dizzy. Everything that had happened in the last several days was unexpected. There had never been a moment that she’d thought Charles would have taken Michelle to their home. She wondered if there were some way to cancel the guardianship proceedings and eliminate one of the reasons Charles was being sought by the police.
Picking up the phone, she dialed her mother. While she waited for the connection, she realized that if she told her mother that Charles was there it would precipitate an argument, so she decided to say nothing.
Gina answered on the second ring. Cathryn kept the conversation light, not mentioning her visit to the Weinburger or the fact that Charles was suspected of grand larceny. When there was a pause, she cleared her throat and said: “Provided you don’t mind seeing that Chuck gets some dinner and gets off to school in the morning, I think I’ll spend the night here. I want to be available in case Charles calls.”
“Honey, don’t feel that you have to sit around and wait for that man. I tell you, he’ll call here if there’s no answer at your house. Besides, I’ve been planning on having a wonderful dinner tonight. Try and guess what I’m making.”
Cathryn let out her breath in a quiet sigh. It never failed to amaze her that her mother always believed that a good meal could fix everything.
“Mother, I don’t want to guess what you are having for dinner. I want to stay here tonight in my own home.”
Cathryn could tell she’d hurt her mother’s feelings, but under the circumstances she didn’t feel she had much choice. As quickly as she could without seeming to be rude, Cathryn hung up.
Thinking of food, Cathryn checked the refrigerator. Except for being low on milk and eggs, they were reasonably well stocked, especially with the old-fashioned root cellar in the basement. Closing the refrigerator, Cathryn looked around her boarded-up kitchen, marveling at being a prisoner in her own house.
She wondered about Charles’s treatment for Michelle. She acknowledged that she didn’t understand its details, but it sounded good. At the same time, she recognized that if she were with Dr. Keitzman, she’d probably believe what he said. Medicine was too complicated for her to feel confident enough to question the experts. As a lay person she was put in an impossible situation when the doctors disagreed.
When she went into the living room, Charles was holding a syringe with its needle up, tapping it with his index finger to get rid of air bubbles. Quietly she took a seat and watched. Michelle was still sleeping, her thin hair splayed out on the white pillow. Through the boards on the windows, Cathryn could see it was snowing again. In the basement, she could hear the oil burner kick on.
“Now I’m going to inject this into my arm vein,” said Charles, looking for a tourniquet. “I don’t suppos
e you’d be willing to do it for me.”
Cathryn felt her mouth go dry. “I can try,” she said reluctantly. In truth she wanted no part of the syringe. Even looking at it made her feel faint.
“Would you?” asked Charles. “Unless you’re an addict, it’s harder than hell to stick yourself in a vein. Also I want to tell you how to give me epinephrine if I need it. With the first intravenous dose of Michelle’s antigen, I developed some anaphylaxis, meaning an allergic reaction which makes breathing difficult.”
“Oh, God,” said Cathryn to herself. Then to Charles she said: “Isn’t there another way to take the antigen, like eating it?”
Charles shook his head. “I tried that but stomach acid breaks it down. I even tried sniffing a powdered form like cocaine, but the mucous membrane in my nose swelled unbelievably. Since I’m in a hurry I decided I’d have to mainline it. The problem is that my body’s first response has been to develop a simple allergy, what they call immediate hypersensitivity. I’ve tried to cut down on that effect by altering the protein slightly. I want delayed hypersensitivity, not immediate.”
Cathryn nodded as if she understood, but she’d comprehended nothing except the cold feel of the syringe. She held it with her fingertips as if she expected it to injure her. Charles brought a chair over and placed it in front of hers. On a counter top within reach he put two smaller syringes.
“These other syringes are the epinephrine. If I suddenly go red as a beet and can’t breathe, just jam one of these into any muscle and inject. If there’s no response in thirty seconds, use the next one.”
Cathryn felt a strange terror. But Charles seemed blithely unconcerned. He unbuttoned his sleeve and rolled it up above his elbow. Using his teeth to hold one end of the tourniquet, Charles applied the rubber tubing to his own upper arm. Quickly his veins engorged and stood out.
“Take off the plastic cover,” instructed Charles, “then just put the needle into the vein.”
With visibly trembling hands, Cathryn got the cover off the needle. Its sharp point glistened in the light. Charles tore open an alcohol pad with his right hand, holding the packet in his teeth. Vigorously he swabbed the area.