He shrugged. “Could be. I didn’t do a complete physical. But there are ways to stick someone and be subtle: Use a really small needle—a newborn spike. Pick a site that’s easy to miss—the folds of the buttocks, knee folds, between the toes, right under the scalp. My doper patients get creative all the time, and insulin goes right into the skin. Little pinprick like that can heal really quickly.”
“Have you mentioned your suspicions to Stephanie?”
He nodded. “Sure I did, but she’s still hopped up on something esoteric. Between you and me, I didn’t get the feeling she wanted to hear it. Not that it matters to me personally. I’m off the case—quits, vamoose. Out of here, as a matter of fact.”
“Leaving the hospital?”
“You bet. One more month, then off for quieter pastures. I need the time I have left to wrap up my own cases. It’s gonna be a mess—lots of angry families. So the last thing I want to do is muck around in Chuck Jones’s family affairs when there’s nothing I can do about it anyway.”
“Because it’s his family?”
He shook his head. “It would be nice to say yup, that’s it, the whole thing’s politics. But actually, it’s the case itself. She could be anyone’s granddaughter and we’d still be spitting into the wind because we have no facts. Just look at you and me, right here. You know what’s going on; I know what’s going on; Stephanie used to know what was going on until she got all horny about the hypoglycemia. But knowing doesn’t mean a thing, legally, does it? ’Cause we can’t do anything. That’s what I hate about abuse cases—someone accuses parents; they deny it, walk away or just ask for another doc. And even if you could prove something was going on, you’d get into a circus of lawyers, paperwork, years in court, dragging our reputations through the mud. Meantime the kid’s a basket case and you couldn’t even get a restraining order.”
“Sounds like you’ve had experience.”
“My wife’s a county social worker. The system’s so overloaded, even kids with broken bones aren’t considered a priority anymore. But it’s the same all over—I had a case back in Texas, diabetic kid. The mother was witholding insulin and we still had a hell of a time keeping the kid safe. And she was a nurse. Top O.R. gal.”
“Speaking of nurses,” I said, “what do you think of Cassie’s primary R.N.?”
“Who’s that? Oh, yeah, Vicki. I think Vicki’s a cranky bitch but generally real good at what she does—” The droopy eyes perked. “Her? Shit, I never thought about that, but that doesn’t make sense, does it? Till this last seizure, the problems started at home.”
“Vicki visited the home, but only a couple of times. Not enough to do all the damage.”
“Besides,” he said, “it’s always the mother, isn’t it, these Munchausens? And this one’s strange—at least in my uneducated opinion.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know. She’s just too damned nice. Especially considering how inept we’ve been diagnosing her kid. That were me, I’d be pissed, demanding action. But she keeps smiling. Smiles too much for my taste. ‘Hi, Doctor, how are you, Doctor?’ Never trust a smiler, Al. I was married to one the first time. Those white teeth were always hiding something—you can probably give me all the psychodynamics behind it, right?”
I shrugged and said, “Perfect world.”
He laughed. “Lot of good you are.”
I said, “Any impressions of the father?”
“Never met him. Why? Is he strange too?”
“I wouldn’t say strange. He’s just not what you’d expect of Chuck Jones’s son. Beard, earring. Doesn’t seem to have much affection for the hospital.”
“Well, at least he and Chuck have something in common.… Far as I’m concerned the case is a loser and I’m tired of losing. That’s why I punted to you. And now you’re telling me you’ve got squat. Too bad.”
He retrieved the hammer, tossed it, caught it, used it to drum the top of the table.
I said, “Would hypoglycemia explain any of Cassie’s earlier symptoms?”
“Maybe the diarrhea. But she also had fevers, so there was probably some kind of infectious process going on. In terms of the breathing problems, it’s also possible. Mess with the metabolism, anything’s possible.”
He picked up his stethoscope and looked at his watch. “Got work to do. Some of the kids out there, this’ll be the last time I see them.”
I got up and thanked him.
“For what? I’ve accomplished squat on this one.”
I laughed. “Same way I feel, Al.”
“Consultancy blues. You know the story of the oversexed rooster who was bothering the hens in the henhouse? Sneaking up behind ’em and jumping their bones, just generally making a nuisance of himself? So the farmer had him castrated and turned him into a consultant. Now he just sits on the fence, watching and giving advice to the other roosters. Trying to remember what it felt like.”
I laughed again. We left the exam room and returned to the waiting room. A nurse came up to Macauley and handed him a pile of charts without comment. She looked angry as she walked away.
“Good morning to you, too, darling,” he said. To me: “I’m a rotten deserter. Next few weeks are gonna be my punishment.”
He looked out at the turmoil and his hound face sagged.
“Does quieter pastures mean private practice?” I said.
“Group practice. Small town in Colorado, not far from Vail. Ski in the winter, fish in the summer, find new modes of mischief for the rest of the year.”
“Doesn’t sound too bad.”
“Shouldn’t be. No one else in the group does endocrinology, so maybe I’ll even have a chance to use my training once in a while.”
“How long have you been at Western Peds?”
“Two years. One and a half too long.”
“The financial situation?”
“That’s a big part of it but not all of it. I was no Pollyanna when I came here, knew an inner-city hospital would always be struggling to balance the books. It’s the attitude that bugs me.”
“Grandpa Chuck?”
“And his boys. They’re trying to run this place like just another company. We could be manufacturing widgets for all they’re concerned. That’s what grinds—their not understanding. Even the gypsies know things are bad—you know about our Hollywood gypsies?”
“Sure,” I said. “Big white Cadillacs, twelve to a car, camp-outs in the hallways, the barter system.”
He grinned. “I’ve been paid with food, spare parts for my MG, an old mandolin. Actually, it’s a better reimbursement rate than I get from the government. Anyway, one of my diabetics is one of them. Nine years old, in line to be king of the tribe. His mother’s this good-looking woman, educated, about a hundred years of living behind her. Usually when she comes in she’s full of laughs, buttering me up, telling me I’m God’s answer to medical science. This time she was really quiet, as if she was upset about something. And it was just a routine exam—the boy’s doing well, medically. So I asked her what the matter was and she said, ‘This place, Dr. Al. Bad vibrations.’ She was narrowing her eyes at me like some storefront fortuneteller. I said, what do you mean? But she wouldn’t explain, just touched my hand and said, ‘I like you, Dr. Al, and Anton likes you. But we won’t be coming back here. Bad vibrations.’ ”
He hefted the charts and transferred them to one hand. “Pretty dicey, huh?”
I said, “Maybe we should consult her on Cassie.”
He smiled. Patients continued to stream in, even though there was no room for them. Some of them greeted him and he responded with winks.
I thanked him again for his time.
He said, “Sorry we won’t have a chance to work together.”
“Good luck in Colorado.”
“Yup,” he said. “You ski?”
“No.”
“Me neither …” He looked back at the waiting room, shook his head. “What a place … Originally, I was gonna be a surgeon, slice and d
ice. Then, when I was a second-year med student, I came down with diabetes. No dramatic symptoms, just some weight loss that I didn’t think much about because I wasn’t eating properly. I went into shock in the middle of gross anatomy lab, collapsed on top of my cadaver. It was just before Christmas. I got home and my family handled it by passing the honey-baked ham right by me, no one saying anything. I handled that by rolling my pants up, hoisting my leg up on the table and jabbing it, in front of everyone. Eventually, I figured it was time to forget about scalpels and think about people. That’s what appealed to me about this place—working with kids and families. But when I got here I found out that was all gone. Bad vibes is right. That gypsy lady could tell the moment she walked in the door. It might sound nuts to you, but she crystallized what had been going on in my head for a while. Sure, Colorado’s gonna be boring—sniffles and sneezes and diaper rash. And I haven’t been here long enough to collect any pension, so financially the two years have been a wash. But at least I won’t be sitting on the fence. Cock-a-doodle-doo.”
15
Robin called at seven to say she was on her way over. She was at my door a half hour later, hair drawn back and French-braided, accentuating the sweet, clean lines of her neck. She wore black teardrop earrings and a cool-pink denim dress that hugged her hips. In her arms were bags of Chinese takeout.
When we’d lived together, Chinese had been the cue for dinner in bed. Back in the good old days I’d have led her into the bedroom, Joe Suave. But two years apart and a reconciliation that was still confusing had shaken my instincts. I took the bags, placed them on the dining room table, and kissed her lightly on the lips.
She put an arm around me, pressed the back of my head, and enlarged the kiss.
When we broke for breath she said, “I hope this is okay—not going out?”
“I’ve been out plenty today.”
“Me too. Delivering the Stealths to the boys’ hotel. They wanted me to stay and party.”
“They’ve got better taste in women than in music.”
She laughed, kissed me again, pulled back, and did some exaggerated heavy breathing.
“Enough with the hormones,” she said. “First things first. Let me heat this up and we’ll have ourselves an indoor picnic.”
She took the food into the kitchen. I hung back and watched her move. All these years I’d never tired of watching her move.
The dress was nouveau-rodeo sweetheart—lots of leather fringe and old lace on the yoke. She wore ankle-high boots that echoed sharply on the kitchen floor. Her braid swung as she walked. So did the rest of her but I found myself looking at the braid. Shorter than Cindy Jones’s and auburn instead of dark-brown, but it got me thinking about the hospital again.
She deposited the bags on the counter, started to say something, then realized I hadn’t followed her in. Looking over her shoulder, she said, “Something the matter, Alex?”
“No,” I lied, “just admiring.”
One of her hands darted to her hair and I realized she was nervous. That made me want to kiss her again.
I said, “You look gorgeous.”
She flashed a smile that tightened my chest and held out her arms. I went into the kitchen.
“Tricky,” she said later, trying to knit my chest hair with chopsticks.
“The idea,” I said, “is to show your devotion by knitting me a sweater. Not turning me into one.”
She laughed. “Cold moo goo. What a gourmet treat.”
“At this moment, wet sand on toast would be okay.” I stroked her face.
Placing the chopsticks on the nightstand, she moved closer. Our sweaty flanks stuck together and made wet-plastic noises. She turned her hand into a glider and flew it over my chest, barely touching skin. Propping herself up, she bumped her nose against mine, kissed my chin. Her hair was still braided. As we’d made love, I’d held it, passing the smooth rope between my fingers, finally letting go when I began to lose control, for fear of hurting her. Some of the curly strands had come loose and they tickled my face. I smoothed them back and nuzzled her under her chin.
Her head lifted. She massaged my chest some more, stopped, inspected, looped a finger under a single hair, and said, “Hmm.”
“What?”
“A gray one—isn’t that cute.”
“Adorable.”
“It is, Alex. You’re maturing.”
“What’s that, the euphemism of the day?”
“The truth, Doctor. Time’s a sexist pig—women decay; men acquire a vintage. Even guys who weren’t all that cute when they were young have a second shot at studliness if they don’t let themselves go completely to seed. The ones like you, who were adorable to begin with, can really clean up.”
I started panting.
“I’m serious, Alex. You’ll probably get all craggy and wise—look like you really understand the mysteries of life.”
“Talk about false advertising.”
She inspected each of my temples, turning my head gently with strong fingers and burrowing through the hair.
“This is the ideal place to start silvering,” she said in a teacher’s voice. “Maximum class-and-wisdom quotient. Hmm, nope, I don’t see anything yet, just this one little guy, down here.” Touching a nail to the chest hair, she brushed my nipple again. “Too bad you’re still a callow youth.”
“Hey, babe, let’s party.”
She put her head back down and reached lower, under the blanket.
“Well,” she said, “there’s something to be said for callow too.”
We moved to the living room and listened to some tapes she’d brought. The new Warren Zevon casting cold light upon the dark side of life—a novel in miniature. A Texas genius named Eric Johnson who produced musical textures from the guitar that made me want to burn my instruments. A young woman named Lucinda Williams with a beautiful, bruised voice and lyrics straight from the heart.
Robin sat on my lap, curled small, her head on my chest, breathing shallowly.
When the music was over she said, “Is everything okay?”
“Sure. Why?”
“You seem a little distracted.”
“Don’t mean to be,” I said, wondering how she could tell.
She sat up and undid her braid. Her curls had matted and she began separating the strands. When she’d fluffed them and restored the natural perm, she said, “Anything you want to talk about?”
“It really isn’t anything,” I said. “Just work—a tough case. I’m probably letting it get to me too much.”
I expected her to let that go, but she said, “Confidential, right?” with just a trace of regret.
“Limited confidentiality,” I said. “I’m a consultant and this one may spill over into the criminal justice system.”
“Oh. That kind of case.”
She touched my face. Waited.
I told her the story of Cassie Jones, leaving out names and identifying marks.
When I finished, she said, “Isn’t there anything that can be done?”
“I’m open to suggestions,” I said. “I’ve got Milo running background checks on the parents and the nurse, and I’m doing my best to get a feel for all of them. Problem is, there isn’t a shred of real evidence, just logic, and logic isn’t worth much, legally. The only fishy thing so far is the mother lying to me about being the victim of an influenza epidemic when she was in the army. I called the base and managed to find out there’d been no epidemic.”
“Why would she lie about something like that?”
“The real reason she was discharged could be something she wants to hide. Or, if she’s a Munchausen personality, she just likes lying.”
“Disgusting,” she said. “A person doing that to their own flesh and blood. To any kid … How does it feel to be back at the hospital?”
“Kind of depressing, actually. Like meeting an old friend who’s gone downhill. The place seems gloomy, Rob. Morale’s low, cash flow’s worse than ever, lots of staff have left�
�remember Raoul Melendez-Lynch?”
“The cancer specialist?”
“Uh-huh. He was married to the hospital. I watched him weather crisis after crisis and keep on ticking. Even he’s gone—took a job in Florida. All the senior physicians seem to be gone. The faces I pass in the halls are new. And young. Or maybe I’m just getting old.”
“Mature,” she said. “Repeat after me: ma-ture.”
“I thought I was callow.”
“Mature and callow. Secret of your charm.”
“Top of all that, the crime problems out on the street are leaking in more and more. Nurses beaten and robbed … A couple of nights ago there was a murder in one of the parking lots. A doctor.”
“I know. I heard it on the radio. Didn’t know you were back working there or I would have freaked.”
“I was there the night it happened.”
Her fingers dug into my hand, then loosened. “Well, that’s reassuring.… Just be careful, okay? As if my saying it makes a difference.”
“It does. I promise.”
She sighed and put her head on my shoulder. We sat there without talking.
“I’ll be careful,” I said. “I mean it. Old guys can’t afford to be reckless.”
“Okay,” she said. A moment later: “So that’s why you’re down. I thought it might be me.”
“You? Why?”
She shrugged. “The changes—everything that’s happened.”
“No way,” I said. “You’re the bright spot in my life.”
She moved closer and rested a hand on my chest. “What you said before—the hospital being gloomy? I’ve always thought of hospitals that way.”
“Western Peds was different, Rob. It used to be … vital. Everything meshing together like this wonderful organic machine.”
“I’m sure it was, Alex,” she said softly. “But when you get down to it, no matter how vital or caring a hospital is, it’s always going to be a place of death, isn’t it? Mention the word hospital to me and what comes to my mind is my dad. Lying there, all tubed and punctured and helpless. Mom screaming for the nurse every time he moaned, no one really caring … The fact that your place treats kids only makes it worse, as far as I’m concerned. ’Cause what’s worse than suffering kids? I never understood how you stayed there as long as you did.”
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