Despite my fond attachment to Mr. Lavery, I grew more and more disturbed at the way Dr. Bernstein and his assistants dealt with him. They treated him more like a high school lab experiment than as a human being in need of healing. They spent a lot of time huddling in corners of the room, I thought, precisely so Mr. Lavery couldn’t overhear them. And when I came near they would stop midsentence and wait until I moved away to pick up their guarded conversations.
Something was strange, and that’s why I mentioned it to Dave Hueger, a reporter for the local newspaper.
I met Dave during the governor’s first stay in the angle room. I didn’t agree with the governor’s politics. He’s a conservative Republican. I’m an affirmative-action Democrat. But it didn’t matter. He was governor of our state. An important man. And I saw myself as his gatekeeper.
If he had been allowed, Dave would have hidden under the governor’s bed. Instead, though, he hung out about the pod, which also wasn’t allowed. I spent a lot of time scaring him away. It became sort of a game. But he was a very nice man. He always listened to me. He’d pepper me with questions about the governor’s condition and the work he was doing and what visitors he had and what time of day they came.
When he discovered my weakness for chocolates, he brought me something from See’s. I knew what he wanted, and I had no intention of telling him anything. But after a while he wore me down. He would call me by my first name and plead with me and make jokes.
“Anything,” he’d say. “I’ll take anything. What did he eat today? I don’t care. You gotta give me something. I’m starving here, can’t you see?”
He meant starving for news. So I started throwing him a bone now and then. Little things that didn’t matter. Like when the governor made a special request to have an Arby’s sandwich brought in. And presto, just like that, it magically appeared in the paper the next day. Not attributed to me or anything. Dave would write something like “Sources say that ...” and I’d always know he was referring to me. But I never told him anything that couldn’t conceivably be discovered other ways or that was important or that would make a difference either way.
The governor’s first stay in the hospital was widely reported. But when he was admitted just two months later for a second procedure it was Dave who found out first because by then we’d become friends and he’d call me now and then, bring me chocolates, stay in touch. He happened to come by the afternoon the governor was admitted and that’s when I told him and he got the scoop he was after. He was the governor, anyway. People have a right to know what’s going on with their elected officials. The next day I received a dozen chocolate roses from someone identified only as “a secret admirer” on the card but whom I knew was Dave.
I felt I had to tell somebody something about Mr. Lavery. That’s why I called Dave.
“Hi, Evelyn,” he said. “Is it the governor in again?”
“No,” I said. “Something else.”
“What? Has some celebrity been admitted with a gerbil stuck in his rear?”
“No, Dave. Nothing like that.”
“What then?”
“I don’t know really,” I said, and at that moment began having second thoughts. I thought about hanging up. “Just something weird.”
“Something weird,” he said. “Hmmm. Gonna make me guess?”
“No,” I said. “It’s just that something might be going on. Then again it might not.”
“Sounds vague to me.”
“I know,” I said. “And, well, you know, I can’t tell you much because that would be wrong. But something’s not quite right, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m not following you at all, Evelyn. Spit it out.”
“Maybe I ought to hang up. Forget this.”
“You thought to call me,” he said. “Follow your instincts. Tell me what you want. As little as you’re comfortable with. Between you and me.”
“There’s some kind of secret hospital procedure that’s going on here. Like a new medical breakthrough or something like that.”
“So far so good.”
“And that’s all I can tell you. It’s all very hush-hush. A lot of secrecy. I don’t know why.”
“Okay. What else?”
“That’s all, Dave. Really. I don’t know anything else.”
“Yes you do.”
“Nothing that I can tell you.”
“Who can I talk to then?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said slowly, “if I were to call somebody without pointing fingers and say something like, ‘What’s all the secrecy at the hospital about,’ something like that, just a little probing is all, whom might I call?”
“That sounds pretty harmless.”
“Exactly,” said Dave. “They’d say as much as they want me to know, and you wouldn’t have done anything wrong. Like you hadn’t even called me. Besides, if there’s really been a noticeable secret thing going on there and you’ve noticed it, then any number of people have probably had the same observations as you. It’s probably pretty obvious and harmless, too. I’m sure there’s a good explanation that’s not even newsworthy. Probably just a waste of my time. Someone else here on the paper might already be working on it for all you or I know.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I said, halfway convinced. “Then I guess you might talk to a Dr. Sidney Bernstein.”
“Dr. Bernstein. Okay. Let’s leave it at that.”
Nothing seemed to come of our conversation. I didn’t see anything in the paper the next day. But I felt good doing it all the same. I’m sure I did the right thing.
* * * *
I may have been too harsh in my judgments about Dr. Bernstein, because it wasn’t long after that when they reached out to me and included me like they should have done from the beginning.
“We need your help, Evelyn,” he said late one afternoon, taking me aside and talking in soft tones. “I know you feel a bit left out sometimes. I’m aware of that. You don’t have to protest. It’s okay. But that doesn’t mean you’ve been excluded. No, you are a very important part of our team. Howard’s made great progress, and you’ve been a big part of that. Now I’ve got a special job for you. A very unusual situation, and one that I can’t personally get involved in. We’ve granted a short visitation to Howard’s ex-wife. I’d like you to personally chaperone the visit, and take mental note of everything that’s said.”
“Oh,” I said, singing inside. “I see.”
“This is extremely important. It’s got to be handled just right.”
“You can rely on me, doctor,” I said.
“My mind rests easy,” said Dr. Bernstein.
I set eyes on Howard Lavery’s first wife, Janelle Orlen, early the next morning. What struck me first was the dramatic age difference between her and the current Mrs. Lavery, who was at least twenty years older than she was, maybe more. How often does a man trade up in age with his second wife, I wondered. But my most lasting image of her was her grief-stricken, ashen face that looked newly aged and sick with worry. I wagered that she must have been carrying quite a torch for him despite the divorce.
“You must be Janelle,” I said. “I’m expecting you. I’m his nurse.”
She nodded, offered her hand and looked me in the eye. “Thank you,” she said.
“Now before we go in you need to understand a few things,” I said.
“I know,” she said, giving a world-weary nod.
“Thirty minutes. I’ll be monitoring his vital signs. If I detect any irregularities that suggest your presence is upsetting or potentially dangerous to him, I’ll ask you to leave. I’d appreciate your immediate withdrawal should I so direct.”
“I understand,” she said.
“Any questions before we go in?”
“How is he?”
Her expression was one of sincerity, and I could tell that her demeanor was the opposite of Mrs. Lavery’s. Here was a woman who was clearly caught up in the patient’s con
dition. Where Mrs. Lavery exuded a cold separation, this woman was openly vulnerable.
“He’s doing fine. His vitals are consistent and steady.”
“Is he alert? Does he recognize people?”
“I think so, yes, at least their voices,” I answered, identifying with her need to know.
“Is there anything I can get for him?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” I answered.
She followed me into the angle room.
Now the angle room is, I imagine, rather imposing to newcomers. And Mr. Lavery’s many and varied special instrument modules are certainly alarming at first. Upon stepping into the room, Mrs. Orlen emitted an audible gasp and put her hand to her mouth. As if walking on crushed glass, she took slow, small steps toward Mr. Lavery.
I walked ahead of her.
“Good morning, Howard,” I said to him. “You have a visitor.” Then I said to Mrs. Orlen, “He’s expecting you.”
“Hello,” he said.
I pulled a chair close to Howard. “You can sit here,” I told her.
But she didn’t seem to hear me. She was still walking toward the bed, slowly, her pace unchanged, her eyes focused on Howard. When she finally came close to the bed she sat down heavily in the chair and began to cry. Not a dainty, polite kind of cry, but a heaving one with torrential tears and her face buried in a tissue.
Instinctively I went to her and put my arm around her.
“It’s okay,” I told her. “Let it out.” I held her there for a long time. “You’ll be fine.”
“What’s wrong?” Howard asked. “Is everything okay?”
When her sobbing subsided she pulled the chair nearer to him. “May I touch him?” she asked.
“Ask him,” I said.
Howard, not waiting, said, “Yes. Please.”
Needing no more urging, she reached out and took hold of his hand, folding it inside her palms.
“And he can hear me?”
“Most everything. Just sometimes you have to speak up a bit,” I answered. “Go ahead.”
She leaned a bit toward his ear and said, “Hi. I’m Janelle Orlen.”
“Oh, sweetheart, he knows who you are, go on now,” I said.
Howard didn’t seem to mind the formality. “Hello,” he said. “How are you?”
“I’m doing okay,” she said, smiling a little. “Thanks for letting me come.”
“You’re welcome,” he said.
“Is it all right if I just sit here for a while?”
Howard said, “Yes.”
“That’s fine with the both of us,” I said.
Then she didn’t say anything for a long time, just simply sat there and held his hand. I turned to the instrument panels, not so much to check on Howard’s vital signs as to give her a sense of privacy. I pretended to turn a few knobs and reset some buttons, then I snuck a peek and saw her just sitting there, staring off into space, her mind clearly somewhere else. Howard seemed to respect her privacy and her wish to sit with him silently. Every few minutes he said something in a way that I think was meant to be comforting.
“I’m okay,” Howard said. Then he said, “Thank you for frank,” though I’m sure he meant to say “Thank you for being frank.” Still, that was odd because she wasn’t saying anything. And it was doubly strange because he said it wrong the same way a second time: “Thank you for frank.”
Some people might have found her behavior odd. I guess she might have been more animated, asking him questions, engaging in some small talk about this and that, but I understood her silence. She was his ex-wife, after all. And divorces can be messy. Maybe she didn’t really like him much still. I can see why such a visit would be strained. But what bothered me was when she said, “I’m Janelle Orlen,” to him, almost as if it was an introduction. That’s just the way it sounded, like she was meeting him for the first time. That nagged at me and I couldn’t get it out of my head. Maybe it was a personal thing between them. Maybe an old joke or some sort of signal. Probably it was her nervousness. Anyway, I didn’t know how long it had been since she’d seen him. Still, it was so strange, the way her voice just said it out so straight and plain.
Anyway, she sat there for a while, maybe fifteen minutes, then said, “Thanks,” and stood up. “I’m ready now,” she said to me.
“You have more time,” I said.
“That’s all right. I’m ready.”
I led her out of the room and noticed that she seemed much more at ease. I admired her, somehow. I wondered how her life was.
She didn’t say anything as we walked past the pod and toward the elevator. She pushed the down button, her head lowered. Then she looked up at me and said, “Thank you so much.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said.
“I really felt your support back there. You seem to understand a lot.”
“That’s part of my job.”
“I bet you take good care of him.”
“That’s also part of my job.”
The elevator tone sounded. She looked surprised and alarmed, as if it came for her too soon. “Can I come again, do you think?”
“Whoever gave you permission today can give it again, I suppose,” I said and hoped I wasn’t saying too much.
The doors opened, and she stepped inside. She smiled at me and waved as the door closed and she was gone. It was a smile of relief, I’d say.
* * * *
It wasn’t but twenty minutes later that Dr. Bernstein wanted a complete rundown. I told him all I could remember, including her “I’m Janelle Orlen” comment. I felt he was probing to see if I knew anything, as if he had been worried that Mrs. Orlen would have told me something or revealed a secret. He was clearly concerned about some kind of information breach.
“I don’t know what else I can tell you, doctor,” I said, trying to sound final.
“Then thank you,” he said. “Please let me know if there’s anything else you can remember.”
“Of course I will,” I said.
I did not tell the doctor everything. I chose not to tell him about Howard’s strange words that I hadn’t had time to digest, his “Thank you for frank” remark and the fact that he’d repeated it a second time without the word being. And if he was thanking her for being frank had I missed something that she said? Did she whisper something in his ear when I wasn’t paying attention? Or maybe he meant Frank as in a person’s name, but that didn’t make any sense.
The more I thought about it the more questions I had.
9: Sidney Bernstein, M.D.
Today, with everything going right and everything going wrong, I slipped out of my office and into the steamroom at the basement health club a block away.
It was a convenient sanctuary. With just a towel over my shoulder and billowing eucalyptus clouds engulfing me, I made my way slowly down the redwood floor to the back of the steam chamber.
My eyes stung and resisted the moist, harsh heat. Were others inside the room? The steam parted a little and I saw two other figures. I moved away from them and into my own corner on the second tier, laid my towel on the bench, and slowly lowered my fatigued body.
The steam surrounded me and swirled around my legs so I could barely see my feet. It was a dense, thick steam that hung in the air and refused to dissipate. There was no way to breathe without inhaling it. I leaned back and allowed the steam to seal me off from the other men and the rest of the world.
How long could I stay here, I wondered. Certainly longer than the maximum twelve minutes posted on the sauna door. That was much too short. It took five minutes just to settle in. Besides, this cocoon was too comforting, so wonderfully isolating that I could stay a few hours. I’d pass out and probably die, but it would be a good way to go. Because here, lodged in an impenetrable world, I was unreachable. Nothing would go wrong down here. Nothing would change. No phones would ring. No decisions to be made.
That was calming, because my world was crumbling at the edges and I doubted that I would be able t
o pick up the pieces.
That’s not to take away from the magnitude of my feat. With Howard now experiencing genuine feeling, even of an isolated, regional sort, I had found success of astounding breadth. My accomplishment was irrefutable. Enormous was a better word. This was the medical breakthrough of the century. Though fame was not my goal, and though it was something actually quite repulsive to me, it would be mine. I would be the most famous physician of my generation, perhaps of the century. And also the most infamous. I am not naive about repercussions that might follow me. I could be hated and demonized by more people than would admire me. My name would be vilified in sermons from countless pulpits. I’d be investigated by the state medical board and would face being stripped of my license. Not because what I did was wrong but because it would be something they’d have to do to protect those who would come after me, and because I’d done this in a relative vacuum. They’d call me a renegade surgeon, label me an outcast to be censured. There would be a backlash against all medicine, though that would fade quickly. But no matter, what was done was done.
It could just as easily go the other way, I knew. There could be an equally positive reaction. Funds would magically appear from both private and public sources to proceed with additional experiments. I’d have my own floor in some prestigious research hospital somewhere. The Bernstein Neurological Institute wouldn’t be far behind. The Nobel Prize. Honored guest at the White House. A respected expert beyond reproach. I’d grow old in a distinguished sort of way, looked up to, made larger than life. I’d write books and give SRO lectures in concert halls. My face would grace a stamp.
I’d have the authority to finally speak about the myth of modern medicine. As I see it, a good chunk of the time physicians don’t know what ails a specific patient. They do much guessing. Lots of hit and misses. They excuse themselves from a patient in an examining room and run to their private offices to consult medical encyclopedias and textbooks. They are good at ruling things out and so often stumble onto a diagnosis. They won’t admit this. Most physicians I know, especially older ones, are sick with this irony. They can never cure people. Cutting out disease only temporarily halts the inevitable death of every living creature. My contemporaries are little more than witch doctors throwing sulfur on a fire. Doctors are definitely the most fallible of our society’s workers. They’re good at memorization and little else, really.
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