Some Nerve

by Jane Heller

  Bree, who was moving up the list for a liver but hadn’t yet received one, was her usual precocious self, wanting to know everything about Hollywood.

  “My mom said she’d find a way to take me,” she declared while she leafed through one of the issues of Famous I’d given her. “The minute I’m better, I’m there.”

  “And you’ll have an awesome time,” I said, and launched into what I thought would be the perfect itinerary for her.

  “I have no interest in Disneyland,” she said with the discriminating tone of a grown woman. “I’ll be going to the Walk of Fame, where the stars put their handprints.”

  “Of course you will,” I said, hoping she’d live long enough to walk out of the hospital.

  I PUT OFF calling Isabelle and instead continued to wheel my cart to the other floors. As I waved to the nurses and the other hospital personnel, who were now as familiar to me as any of the entertainment reporters I used to run into, I realized that I’d become an actual member of this community. I may have joined it for the wrong reasons, but I found myself wishing I could volunteer 24/7 and never have to deal with whether or not to send Harvey the story.

  I visited a woman that day whose violent hand tremors prevented her from brushing her hair and applying her lipstick. I did the honors for her and by the lavish words of praise she heaped on me you would have thought I’d cured her illness.

  I visited a man with a bad case of macular degeneration along with his diverticulitis. He couldn’t read his dinner menu, so I read it for him and circled the items he wanted. He kissed my hand and told me I was an angel.

  And I visited a teenage boy with a broken back who told me he’d lost his iPod. I asked him which song he missed the most and he said “Falling,” by Alicia Keys. Luckily, I happened to know that one and sang it to him. I am a white Jewess with no blues, soul, or Motown in my blood whatsoever, never mind a decent voice, but I’d managed to distract him from his pain and he asked me for an encore. Yes, I wanted to be back in L.A., but it hit me with shimmering clarity that day: Ministering to the patients was more fulfilling than anything I’d ever accomplished in the magazine world.

  How was that possible? All I’d ever wanted to do was write about celebrities, and yet suddenly I wanted to do more, make a bigger contribution, direct my energies toward giving rather than getting. I’d experienced a shift. I didn’t know how it would change the course of my life. I only knew that it would.

  Feeling reenergized, I knocked assertively on Malcolm’s door. Rolanda had let it slip that his fever was gone and his condition much improved, so I was happy about that too.

  “It’s Ann,” I said. “May I come in?”

  “Not if you’re allergic to flowers,” he said.

  I entered the room to find a spectacular arrangement of tulips and roses and every other spring flower I could think of, along with greens and some baby’s breath. It was gorgeous—spectacularly colorful—and I tried not to let my jealousy rear up when I realized that Rebecca must have ordered it for him from the florist before she left.

  “Looks like you have an admirer,” I said, proceeding right to the table where the flowers rested regally in their glass vase. I leaned over to smell them. “I take it the visit went well yesterday?”

  When he didn’t answer, I glanced at him and noticed how much healthier he looked. His eyes were clear, his complexion less flushed, and he was sitting up in bed instead of reclining against the pillow. “Malcolm?” I said. “Don’t you like the flowers?”

  He curled his index finger at me, summoning me over to the bed. When I was standing beside him, he said with a shy grin, “You’re the one with the admirer, Ann. They’re for you. I was hoping you’d show up before they wilted.”

  “For me?” I shrugged, mystified, and then I got it, got that this was a gesture of gratitude. He and Rebecca wanted to express their thanks for yesterday, for my part in successfully sneaking her into the hospital without the media catching on. “You two didn’t have to do this. I was glad to help.”

  “Sit down, please,” he said, nodding at the nearby chair.

  I sat. “I love the flowers,” I said, in case he thought I didn’t.

  “Great, but they’re from me. Just me.”

  So it was Malcolm himself who wanted to show his appreciation for my bringing his beloved to him. Very gallant. “Well, either way they’re beautiful and it was fun pulling a fast one on everybody.” Not really, since Shelley would have dismissed me if she’d found out.

  “What if I told you they had nothing to do with Rebecca’s visit yesterday?” he said. “What if I told you I just wanted to buy you flowers?”

  I thought of what Rebecca had said in the car: Malcolm was waiting to propose until he could buy her a ring. I guessed he liked buying women things. “Actually, volunteers aren’t supposed to accept gifts from patients. No gifts. No tips. Nothing. They told us that in the orientation.”

  He looked wounded. “So you won’t take them home?”

  I shook my head. “We’ll keep them here. That way everybody can enjoy them.”

  “Right.” He cleared his throat, scratched his chin. He was awfully fidgety, but it was probably because he was dying to leave the hospital now that he was feeling better. Still, he kept looking at me funny and then turning away. He just couldn’t seem to maintain eye contact.

  “Did you and Rebecca have a good time together?” I asked, trying to break what had become an awkward silence.

  He stared at his lap, then over at me. “I was thinking. I’ve never seen you in regular clothes. Only in the uniform.”

  Talk about a nonresponse to a question.

  I reached down to touch the collar of my smock, self-conscious suddenly. “I asked you about Rebecca,” I said, wondering if maybe his fever wasn’t gone after all.

  “She’s not you.”

  Yeah, the fever was back. “Malcolm, you’re not making sense. Should I get a nurse?”

  He shook his head, all business. “I was looking forward to spending time with her, but after about fifteen minutes, I knew.”

  “Knew what? That you wanted to marry her when you got home?”

  Another shake of the head. “That she was self-involved and not very bright and one of those yes people you mentioned.”

  I didn’t understand. Yes, Rebecca was everything he’d just described, but I didn’t think he’d noticed. “So you don’t want to marry her?”

  “No, and I tried to tell her that.” He looked at me again, his eyes soulful, tender. “She isn’t you.”

  Isn’t you? What was he talking about?

  “She’s fine as a friend, someone to take to a party, but she’s not especially smart and she’s certainly not genuine or down to earth,” he said, his emotion swelling with each word. “Instead of being a straight shooter, she tells me whatever she thinks I want to hear. She’s not you, Ann. And what I realized after being with her yesterday is that I won’t be happy with someone who’s not you.”

  I tried not to let my jaw drop open, but I’m sure it did anyway. How could it not? I was blindsided by Malcolm’s declaration. Yes, I’d fantasized about it, allowed myself to imagine it, but never dreamed he would actually say it. And now that he had said it, what was I supposed to do about it? Confess my feelings for him? And if I did, would I also be required to tell him I wasn’t so genuine after all? “I’m not sure what you mean,” was all I could manage.

  “I’ve been profoundly changed by this experience,” he said, echoing my own thoughts about my work at the hospital. “It stands to reason that what I’m looking for in a woman has changed too.” He smiled, the dashing leading man now. “You know how patients think they’re in love with their doctor? Well, I think I’m in love with my volunteer.”

  “But you hardly know me,” I said, my heart beating so fast I nearly called a code blue on myself.

  “Then let me get to know you,” he said.

  “How?” I croaked. My throat had gone dry.

  “
They’re taking me off the intravenous stuff tomorrow and I’ll be on oral antibiotics for a couple more days after that—just until they say it’s okay to travel.”

  “And?”

  “And I thought maybe we could have a date tomorrow night. A good old-fashioned Saturday-night date. If you’re not busy, that is.”

  “A date?” I know. I wasn’t bringing anything to the dialogue except monosyllabic answers, but I was freaking out inside. Everything was happening so fast and I wasn’t prepared. Sure, I had pictured just such a scene, as I’ve indicated—the words he would say, the way he would say them—but in a ridiculous oversight I’d forgotten to rehearse my own lines.

  “Nothing fancy, obviously,” he said, gesturing at his hospital room. “But I could clean myself up and you could leave the uniform at home and we could have dinner together at the table over where the flowers are. They’ll make a nice centerpiece.”

  “So you want me to share your tray of scrod and Jell-O?” I said, starting to recover and actually deal with this new reality.

  “Leave the dinner to me, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Since I’ll be disconnected from all the needles, we’ll be able to take a stroll.” He shrugged. “Well, maybe a short one. We wouldn’t want me to faint again.”

  “You really should clear all this with your doctor,” I said, thinking I should clear it with Tuscany. On the other hand, she would squeal and tell me to forget about my duplicity and encourage me not to overthink the situation.

  “Not to worry,” he said. “Just tell me you’ll be my date tomorrow night and I’ll do the rest.” He leaned over the side of his bed and took my hand in his. It felt as hot as the last time, even without the fever.

  “I do worry a little,” I said. “There’s something I should tell—”

  “Look, I know you care for me too. I can see it in your eyes. Don’t we deserve a chance? Shouldn’t we pursue this? Can we really go on about our lives without pursuing this?”

  Oh, I did care all right. As Tuscany had pointed out, I would have sent Harvey the story already if I didn’t. No, Malcolm would never have to find out I’d written it, but I’d have to tell him we’d met before—and how we’d met before. I’d have to come clean, and I would. Once we were on solid ground as a couple.

  I took a deep breath. “I’d be honored to be your date tomorrow night,” I announced, deciding to put aside all the misgivings and let myself celebrate my good fortune. For one night anyway.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  I floated through the rest of my shift, handing out magazines to anybody with a pulse. I was so excited, so jazzed, so overstimulated that when I saw Nadine without her harp, I grabbed her and hugged her.

  “You look like you’ve just witnessed a miracle,” she remarked.

  “I have,” I said. After thinking Malcolm was a lost cause, thinking I’d never experience the all-consuming joy of being enthralled with a man at the same time that he was equally enthralled with me, a miracle was exactly what I’d witnessed.

  I was in such a good mood that I decided to call Isabelle before I left the hospital. I wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of hearing more of her complaints, but I didn’t want to leave her hanging. “It’s the difficult ones who need us most.” That’s what Nadine had said.

  “You’re so nice to return my call,” said Isabelle after answering the phone.

  “My pleasure,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Determined,” she said. “You told me to get my pathology report and I did. Now I’m suing the hospital.”

  “What?” I said, wondering if I’d heard her correctly.

  “They removed my reproductive organs because they said I had a tubal infection. But the pathology report said there was no infection. The doctor I went to for a second opinion confirmed that.”

  “Wait, Isabelle,” I said, still reeling from the word “sue.” “Let’s go back to the beginning. When we met, you were in a lot of pain. And the pain continued even after you went home. You must have had something wrong with you.”

  “Absolutely,” she said. “I have endometriosis, not an infection, and it can be treated with drugs. The new doctor said my surgery was a complete mistake. And not an innocent one, according to my lawyer. He says the hospital makes the same ‘mistake’ with other unsuspecting women, just for the money.”

  “The same mistake?” I repeated, hoping she was wrong and had simply been given misleading information.

  Yes, I was only a volunteer, but I had come to feel an allegiance to the hospital, the way you feel an allegiance to an employer who’s been good to you. Heartland General saved lives. It had certainly brought purpose and meaning to my life in a very short time. And, of course, it had brought Malcolm back into my life. It wasn’t easy to listen to Isabelle’s claims. I was bewildered and frightened by them.

  “Apparently, they perform hysterectomies on women who don’t need them,” she explained. “More surgeries mean more income for that place.”

  I held the phone away from my ear and stared at it, completely stunned now. Was she crazy? One of those litigious types?

  “My lawyer put me in a class-action suit with other women who are suing the hospital,” she went on. “He said Heartland General churns patients like stockbrokers churn their clients’ investments to earn more commissions.”

  “I can’t believe it,” I said even as I asked myself if it was possible that something as mercenary, as sinister, was happening right under my nose. I knew Richard was concerned about the hospital’s bottom line, but would he really look the other way if his OB/GYN surgeons yanked out a few healthy uteruses here and there in the interest of fattening the coffers?

  Of course not. Doctors and hospitals were always getting sued, I reminded myself, and many of the suits were frivolous, only serving to drive up health care costs. But was this one frivolous? How could it be if an entire group of women was making the same claim?

  As I was letting Isabelle’s bombshell sink in, I flashed back to my own observation that there were a lot of hysterectomies being performed at the hospital. I’d had the suspicion that something might be amiss. I’d even raised the matter with Richard. Hadn’t he mentioned that another woman was suing the hospital after her surgery? Wasn’t that the call he’d taken from risk management when we were at the lake?

  “I just wanted to thank you, Ann,” said Isabelle. “Without your advice, I would never have found out the truth.”

  The truth. What was it? At the very minimum, her doctor at Heartland General had misdiagnosed her medical condition. At the very worst, she’d lost the ability to bear children because tubal infections were more profitable than endometriosis.

  “You’re welcome,” I said, sort of dazed. Part of me wished I’d never offered my help; the other part felt proud—a Jewish Erin Brockovich, my grandmother would have called me.

  After we hung up, I thought about marching straight down to Richard’s office for answers and, hopefully, reassurance. But the last time I’d hinted at improprieties, he’d dismissed them out of hand. No, I needed more evidence before I confronted him. More information, at least.

  That night, my laptop and I commandeered a table at the Caffeine Scene. I answered a few e-mails and then got down to work, doing a search for any class-action lawsuits against Heartland General. It didn’t take long before I was poring over my screen, reading the very words I had been dreading. Isabelle wasn’t wrong: There was a suit against the hospital, involving gynecological surgeries. Nine women were involved, and the likelihood was that all nine of them weren’t crazy or litigious.

  I needed to talk to Richard right away, and as fate would have it, I didn’t have to wait.

  “I had a hunch I’d find you here,” he said with a chuckle, and, as per his usual cluelessness, he sat down at my table uninvited. It occurred to me then that he might very well be stalking me. He always seemed to turn up at the Caffeine Scene when I was there and he’d turned up at the lake when
I was there too. For the first time, I understood what it must feel like to be a celebrity, followed around by someone—lots of someones, in that case—whose presence wasn’t wanted. “Working on another interview for the Crier?”

  “No.” I decided not to beat around the bush or waste time making pleasantries. I launched into an account of my conversation with Isabelle.

  Richard fiddled with his bow tie and did some more chuckling, and yet there was a toughness in his expression as I spoke, a narrowing of his eyes.

  “Jeepers, Ann. I sure do admire your compassion for this woman,” he said. “But what made you tell her to ask for her pathology report?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” I said. “If her doctor wouldn’t give her the facts, she had to get them herself. I thought asking for the report would reassure her, not open a can of worms.”

  “Can of worms?” Another chuckle. “You must be confusing all this with a Hollywood movie. But there’s no plot. No intrigue. No soundtrack. We’re just trying to practice medicine here in good old Middletown. Your friend is obviously another patient with buyer’s remorse.”

  Buyer’s remorse? Suddenly, I looked at Richard in a whole new light. There was more to him than the harmless nerd, I realized—more to him than the smart, ambitious striver too. There was a mocking tone I hadn’t heard before, a sharper edge. “What could you possibly mean by that?” I asked.

  “I meant that they want the hysterectomies and then they’re sorry afterward. It happens all the time.”

  “Isabelle didn’t want the surgery, Richard. She was given the wrong diagnosis by her surgeon and was forced into having it. A surgeon who reports to you, now that you’re in a position of authority.”

  “I’m not responsible for this woman’s ravings, Ann, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” He said it with a shrug, as if he was being dragged into a hopelessly ridiculous discussion.

  “What if they’re not ravings?” I persisted, asking the questions that had to be answered, just as I always did. “She underwent a procedure she didn’t need.”