by Robin Cook
They walked to the Lexington Avenue subway and caught the No. 6 train to 110th Street. It wasn’t the greatest neighborhood, but it quickly improved the closer they got to the clinic. In fact, an entire city block had been leveled to accommodate the new health-care center. The building was a fifteen-story contemporary structure of mirrored glass, reflecting the image of the surrounding early nineteenth-century tenements. For a block in all directions, the old buildings had been renovated, sandblasted, and refurbished so that they shone with quaint splendor. And for another block beyond that, many of the buildings were fronted by scaffolding, indicating that they too were being repaired. It appeared as if the clinic was taking over a whole section of the city.
Jennifer went through the front entrance expecting the usual hospital furnishings but was pleasantly surprised by a lobby that reminded her more of a luxury hotel. Everything was new and spotlessly clean. The large reception area was so well staffed that Jennifer and Cheryl did not have to wait long before a pretty black secretary said, “May I help you?” She was dressed in a white blouse and blue jumper and wore a name tag that said “Hi! I’m Louise.”
Cheryl’s answer was barely audible. “I’m to see Dr. Foley. I’m to have an abortion.”
Louise’s face clouded over with concern. “Are you all right, Ms . . . .”
“Tedesco,” said Jennifer. “Cheryl Tedesco.”
“I’m fine,” insisted Cheryl. “Really I am.”
“We have psychologists on call for admitting if you’d like to talk to one now. We’d like to make you as comfortable as possible.”
“Thank you,” said Cheryl. “But I have my friend here.” She pointed to Jennifer. “I wanted to ask if she will be permitted to go upstairs with me.”
“Absolutely,” said Louise. “We encourage patients to have company. But first let me call up your record on my computer and then alert the admitting people. Why don’t you two go over to the lounge and relax. We’ll be with you in just a few minutes.”
As Cheryl and Jennifer walked around to the comfortable sitting area, Jennifer said, “I’m beginning to understand why you and Candy are so high on this place. If Louise is any example of how they treat you here, I’m truly impressed.”
They barely had time to slip out of their coats when an elderly gentleman approached them, pushing a cart with a coffee and tea dispenser. He was dressed in a pink jacket, which he proudly stated was worn by volunteers.
“Are the nurses this friendly, too?” asked Jennifer.
“Everybody is friendly here,” said Cheryl, but despite her smile, Jennifer could tell that she was anxious.
“How are you doing?” she asked, reaching over and squeezing Cheryl’s hand.
“Fine,” said Cheryl, nodding her head up and down as if trying to convince herself.
“Excuse me, are you Cheryl Tedesco?” asked another pleasant-looking young woman dressed in a white shirt with a blue jumper. Her name tag said “Hi! I’m Karen.”
“I’m Karen Krinitz,” she said, offering a hand which Cheryl shook uncertainly. “I’ve been assigned to coordinate your case and to make sure everything runs smoothly. If you have any problems, just page me.” She patted a small plastic device clipped over a blue belt that matched her jumper. “We want your stay here to be as pleasant as possible.”
“Are all the patients assigned a coordinator?” asked Jennifer.
“They certainly are,” said Karen proudly. “The whole idea here is that the patient comes first. We don’t want to leave anything to chance. There is too much opportunity for misunderstanding, especially now that medicine has become so highly technical. Doctors can sometimes become so engrossed in the treatment that the patient is momentarily forgotten. It’s our job to keep that from happening.”
Jennifer watched as the woman said good-bye and disappeared around a planter. There was something about her that Jennifer found strange, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.
“Did her speech seem odd to you?” she asked Cheryl.
“I didn’t understand what she was talking about. Is that what you mean?”
“No,” said Jennifer, turning to see if she could catch sight of the woman again. “I just thought there was something odd about the way she talked. But it must be me. I think morning sickness is affecting my brain.”
“At least she was friendly,” said Cheryl. “Wait until you meet Dr. Foley.”
A few minutes later a man came by and introduced himself as Rodney Murray. He was wearing a blue jacket made of the same heavy cotton as Karen’s jumper with an identical tag announcing his name. His voice also had an odd flat quality, and as Jennifer stared at him, she realized that his eyes did not seem to blink.
“Everything is ready for you, Ms. Tedesco,” he said, fastening a plastic ID bracelet around Cheryl’s wrist. “I’ll be accompanying you upstairs, but first we have to go to the lab for your blood work and a few other tests.”
“Can Jennifer come with us?” asked Cheryl.
“Absolutely,” said Rodney.
The man was extraordinarily attentive to Cheryl, and after a few minutes Jennifer dismissed her initial impression as the working of an overwrought imagination.
The lab was expecting Cheryl, so they didn’t have to wait. Again, Jennifer was impressed. She’d never been to a doctor’s office or a hospital where she didn’t have to wait for everything. Cheryl was finished in minutes.
As they rode up in the elevator, Rodney explained that Cheryl was going to a special area the hospital had for “pregnancy termination.” Jennifer noted that everyone at the Julian Clinic studiously avoided the word “abortion.” She felt it was a good idea. Abortion was an ugly word.
They got off at the sixth floor. Again, nothing about the floor resembled the average hospital. Instead of slick vinyl, the floor was covered with carpeting. The walls were painted a pale blue and hung with attractive framed prints.
Rodney took them to a central area that was carefully decorated not to look like a nurses’ station. In front of the central station was a tastefully appointed lounge where five people dressed in what Jennifer assumed was the Julian uniform were waiting. Three of the women wore name tags indicating that they were RNs. Jennifer liked the fact that they were not dressed in the traditional starched white. She had the feeling that Karen was right: the Julian Clinic had thought of everything. She began to wonder if Dr. Vandermer had admitting privileges, since she was sure the delivery floor reflected the same attention to comfort.
“Ms. Tedesco, your room is right over here,” said one of the nurses who had introduced herself as Marlene Polaski. She was a broad, big-boned woman with short blond hair who looked around Cheryl’s room as if she were checking every detail. She even opened the door to the toilet. Satisfied, she patted the bed and told Cheryl to slip out of her clothes and make herself comfortable.
The room, like the corridor, was as pleasantly furnished as one in a good hotel, except for the standard hospital bed. A television was set into the ceiling at an angle so that it could be viewed comfortably from either the bed or the easy chair. The walls were light green with lots of built-in cabinets. The floor was covered with green carpet.
After changing into her own pajamas, Cheryl climbed into the bed.
Marlene whisked back into the room, pushing an IV cart. She explained to Cheryl that they needed an IV just for safety’s sake. She started one deftly in Cheryl’s left arm, carefully attaching a small arm board. Jennifer and Cheryl watched the drops falling in the millipore chamber. All at once it didn’t seem so much like a hotel room.
“So,” said Marlene, putting on the last strips of tape. “We’ll be taking you down to the treatment room in a few moments.” Then, turning to Jennifer, she said, “You are welcome to come along. That is, of course, if Cheryl will permit it. She’s the boss.”
“Oh, yes!” said Cheryl, her face brightening. “Jennifer, you will come, won’t you?”
The room seemed to spin momentarily. Jennifer fe
lt as if she’d expected to go wading but instead was being thrown into the deep end of the pool. Both Marlene and Cheryl were looking at her expectantly.
“All right, I’ll come,” she said finally.
Another nurse swept in with a syringe.
“Here’s a little tranquilizer for you,” she said brightly as she pulled down Cheryl’s sheet.
Jennifer turned to the window, vaguely studying the rooftop scene that she could see through the slats of the blinds. When she turned back, the nurse with the syringe was gone.
“Gangway,” called another voice as a gowned and hooded nurse pushed a gurney into the room and positioned it alongside Cheryl’s bed.
“My name is Gale Schelin,” she said to Cheryl. “I know you don’t really need this gurney and that you could walk down to the treatment room, but it’s standard procedure for you to ride.”
Before Jennifer had time to think, she was helping to move Cheryl onto the gurney and then push her out of the room.
“All the way to the end of the hall,” directed Gale.
Outside the treatment room several orderlies took over the gurney. After the doors closed behind Cheryl, Jennifer felt relieved. Then Gale took her arm, saying, “You’ll have to enter this way.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea . . .” began Jennifer.
“Nonsense,” interrupted Gale. “I know what you’re going to say. But this part of the procedure is nothing. The most important thing is Cheryl’s outlook. It’s important for her to have the kind of support that family can bring.”
“But I’m not family,” said Jennifer, wondering if she should add “and I’m pregnant myself.”
“Family or friend,” said Gale, “your presence is crucial. Here. Put this over your clothes and this over your hair. Make sure that all your hair is tucked in.” She handed Jennifer a sterile gown and hood. “Then come on in.” Gale disappeared through a connecting door.
Damn, thought Jennifer. She was in a storeroom fllled with linens and a large stainless-steel machine that looked like a boiler. Jennifer guessed it was a sterilizer. Reluctantly, she put on a hood, tucking in her hair as she was advised. Then she put on the gown and tied it across her abdomen.
The connecting door opened and Gale returned, eyeing Jennifer as she opened the latch on the sterilizer. “You’re fine. Go right in and stand to the left. If you feel faint or anything, just come back in here.” There was a hiss as steam escaped from the machine.
Taking a deep breath, Jennifer went into the treatment room.
It looked just like she had imagined it would. The walls were white tile and the floor some sort of white vinyl. There was a white porcelain sink mounted on the wall and glass-fronted cabinets filled with medical paraphernalia along one side of the room.
Cheryl had been transferred to an examination table that stood in the center of the room. Next to it was a stand that supported a tray with a collection of stainless-steel bowls and plastic tubing. Against the far wall was an anesthesia cart with the usual cylinders of gas attached.
There were two nurses in the room. One of them was washing Cheryl’s abdomen, while the other was busy opening various packets and dropping the contents onto the instrument tray.
The door to the treatment room opened and a gowned and gloved doctor came in. He immediately went to the instrument tray and arranged the instruments to his liking. Cheryl, who had been calmly resting, pushed herself up on one elbow.
“Ms. Tedesco,” said one of the nurses, “you must lie back for the doctor.”
“That’s not Dr. Foley,” said Cheryl. “Where is Dr. Foley?”
For a moment no one moved in the room. The doctor and the nurses exchanged glances.
“I’m not going through with this unless Dr. Foley is here,” said Cheryl, her voice cracking.
“I’m Dr. Stephenson,” said the man. “Dr. Foley cannot be here, but the Julian Clinic has authorized me to take his place. The procedure is very easy.”
“I don’t care,” pouted Cheryl. “I won’t have the abortion unless he does it.”
“Dr. Stephenson is one of our best surgeons,” said a nurse. “Please lie back and let us get on with this.” She put her hand on Cheryl’s shoulder and started to push her down.
“Just a minute,” said Jennifer, surprised at her own assertiveness. “It is obvious that Cheryl wants Dr. Foley. I don’t think you should try to force her to accept someone else.”
Everyone in the room turned to Jennifer as if they’d just realized she was standing there. Dr. Stephenson came over and started to lead her out of the room.
“Just a minute,” said Jennifer. “I’m not going to leave. Cheryl says she doesn’t want the procedure unless Dr. Foley does it.”
“We understand,” said Dr. Stephenson. “If that is the way Miss Tedesco feels, then of course we will respect her wishes. At the Julian Clinic the patient always comes first. If you’ll just go back to Miss Tedesco’s room, she will be right along.”
Jennifer glanced at Cheryl, who was now sitting on the edge of the examination table. “Don’t worry,” she said to Jennifer. “I won’t let them do anything until Dr. Foley comes.”
Bewildered, Jennifer let herself be led out of the treatment room. The gurney that had brought Cheryl was being rolled back inside, which made Jennifer feel more comfortable. Removing the hood and gown, she deposited them in a hamper in the corridor.
Almost immediately Marlene Polaski appeared. “I just heard what happened,” she said to Jennifer. “I’m terribly sorry. No matter how hard you try in a large institution, sometimes things go wrong. It’s been chaotic here for twenty-four hours. We thought that you knew about poor Dr. Foley.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Jennifer.
“Dr. Foley committed suicide the night before last,” said Marlene. “He shot his wife and then himself. It was in all the papers. We thought you knew.”
Jennifer stepped into the corridor. Cheryl rolled past her. Jennifer sighed, glad she was with Dr. Vandermer after all.
• • •
As Adam got off the bus in Montclair, New Jersey, he thanked the driver who looked at him as if he were crazy. Adam was in fact in an oddly jazzed-up mood, a combination of anxiety about the upcoming job interview and guilt about his behavior the previous evening. He’d attempted to apologize to Jennifer, but the best he’d been able to do was say he was sorry that he’d broken the door. He hadn’t changed his mind about her standing up all day throughout her pregnancy selling shoes.
Adam spotted the Arolen car right where the secretary had said it would be: in front of the Montclair National Bank. Adam crossed the busy commercial street and tapped on the driver’s window. The man was reading the New York Daily News. He reached over his shoulder and unlocked the rear door.
It was a short ride from the town to the newly constructed Arolen headquarters. Adam sat with his hands pressed between his knees, taking everything in. They stopped at a security gate, and a uniformed guard with a clipboard bent down and stared at Adam through the window. The driver said, “Schonberg,” and the guard, apparently satisfied, lifted the white-and-black-striped gate.
As they went up the sloping drive, Adam was amazed by the opulence. There was a reflecting pool in the center of the well-tended grounds surrounded by trees. The main building was a huge bronzed structure whose surface acted like a mirror. The sides of the building tapered as they soared up into the sky. There were two smaller buildings on either side, connected to the main building by transparent bridges.
The driver skirted the reflecting pool and stopped directly in front of the main entrance. Adam thanked the man and walked up toward the door. As he drew closer, he checked his appearance in the mirrorlike surface. He had on his best clothes, a blue blazer, white shirt, striped tie, and gray slacks. The only problem was that there were two buttons missing from the left sleeve of the jacket.
Inside the front door he was issued a special badge and told to take the elevator to
the twelfth floor. Riding up in solitary splendor, he noticed a TV camera that slowly moved back and forth, and he wondered if he were being observed. When the doors opened, he was greeted by a man about his own age.
“Mr. McGuire?” asked Adam.
“No, I’m Tad, Mr. McGuire’s secretary. Would you follow me, please.”
He led Adam to an outer office, told him to wait, and disappeared through a door that said “District Sales Manager, Northeast.”
Adam glanced around. The furniture was reproduction Chippendale, the wall-to-wall carpet a luxurious beige. Adam couldn’t help but compare the environment to the decaying medical center he’d recently left, and recalled the dean’s warning. He didn’t have time for second thoughts before Clarence McGuire opened the door and motioned Adam inside. He walked over to a couch and sat down as McGuire gave Tad a few final orders before dismissing him.
McGuire was a youthful, stocky man an inch or so shorter than Adam. His face had a satisfied air about it, and his eyes almost closed when he smiled.
“Would you care for something to drink?” he asked.
Adam shook his head.
“Then I think we should begin,” said Mr. McGuire. “What made you interested in Arolen?”
Adam nervously cleared his throat. “I decided to leave medical school, and I thought that the pharmaceutical industry would find use for my training. Arolen gave my class their black bags and the name stuck in my mind.”
Mr. McGuire smiled. “I appreciate your candor. OK, tell me why you are interested in pharmaceuticals.”
Adam fidgeted a little. He was reluctant to give the real, humbling reasons for his interest: Jennifer’s pregnancy and his desperate need for cash. Instead, he tried out the line he had practiced on the bus. “I was influenced to a large degree by my gradual disillusionment with the practice of medicine. It seems to me that doctors no longer consider the patient their prime responsibility. Technology and research have become more rewarding intellectually and financially, and medicine has become more of a trade than a profession.” Adam wasn’t sure what he meant by that phrase, but it had a nice ring to it so he let it stand. Besides, Mr. McGuire seemed to buy it.