By My Hands

by Alton Gansky

  “No. This is as far as I go, and it’s probably too far.”

  “How’s the family responding?”

  “They’re ecstatic, of course,” Hobbs said. “It’s taken every bit of persuasion we could muster to keep Lisa here for tests.”

  “Tests?”

  “It’s what doctors do,” Ailes said. ‘We’re a curious bunch. We don’t like surprises and we hate mysteries. They mock us.”

  “Any guesses as to what the tests will reveal?”

  “Normal. They’ll all come back normal.” Ailes took a sip of soda.

  “How do you know that?” Priscilla pressed.

  “I don’t know. You asked for a guess.”

  “Dr. Ailes, what do you think happened?”

  Ailes rubbed his eyes. He looked tired. More than that he looked shaken. His orderly world had been challenged, leaving him not only without understanding, but without even rudimentary speculation. “I truly don’t know.”

  CARL FULLER DIDN’T SIT, nor did he offer a seat to Priscilla. He stood in front of his desk with his arms crossed over his barrel chest rumpling his yellow Yves St. Laurent tie. “There’s nothing I can tell you, Ms. Simms.” His voice was deep and resonant.

  “Something unusual has happened here.” Priscilla was careful to sound confident, but not insolent. She needed a statement from someone in administration, and after talking to a receptionist and two secretaries, she found herself standing in the office of Carl Fuller, the hospital’s public relations man. Both Dr. Ailes and Nurse Hobbs had expressed concern when she told them of her intent to question administration. It took her several minutes to convince them that she would not use their names.

  “If anything newsworthy had happened here, I would be the first to know; it’s part of my job.”

  “I’m sure you’re very good at your job, but I have reason to believe that a significant event occurred here sometime yesterday.”

  “I’m not sure who has been telling you stories, but you can rest assured that nothing of consequence is going on. If it were, I would be happy to help you.”

  “So nothing happened in the burn ward?”

  “Many things happened in the burn ward, Ms. Simms. Many things happened in the coronary unit too. This is a hospital where something is going on all the time. All those things, however, are routine and not worthy of your viewers attention.”

  “What does the name Lisa Hailey mean to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “She’s a patient here.”

  “She may well be, but we have 600 beds in this hospital, most of which are occupied. We have lots of patients.”

  “She’s in your burn ward. She was healed of her injuries.”

  Fuller sighed. “Did you speak to this patient?”

  “No, but—”

  “Did you talk to family members?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Did one of our staff tell you that this healing actually occurred?”

  Priscilla was ready for the question. She didn’t want to directly lie, and she certainly didn’t want to compromise her sources. “Mr. Fuller, I don’t see what all this has to do with my questions.”

  “Simply this, Ms. Simms. A hospital is like a small village. Close friends are made here as well as enemies. Like all small towns, hospitals are subject to their fair share of rumors and gossip. What you’ve heard is the result of a practical joke or unsubstantiated rumor that has grown out of proportion. I’m sorry if you’ve been inconvenienced by all this.”

  Priscilla smiled. “Thanks for your concern, but I don’t feel inconvenienced at all. In fact, I feel confident enough to go forward with the story.”

  Fuller’s countenance darkened. “That wouldn’t be wise.”

  “Not wise? Is that a threat?”

  “Threat?” Fuller smiled. “Oh, no. I was merely concerned about your professional reputation.”

  “So you refuse to confirm the incident?”

  “There’s nothing to confirm.” He looked at his office door.

  Priscilla took the hint and left.

  Tuesday, March 3, 1992; 1:00 P.M.

  “YOU’RE NOT GOING TO BELIEVE IT.” Unlike her deliberate drive to the hospital, Priscilla was weaving through traffic, car phone pressed to her ear. “The hospital’s administrators were closemouthed, but I was able to find a nurse and one doctor willing to spill their guts. This tale is straight out of Amazing Stories.”

  “When can you have the story ready?” Irwin Baker’s voice sounded mechanical and fuzzy through the receiver.

  “I want to run it on tonight’s broadcast.”

  “That’s not much time. I don’t think—”

  “I can do it.” Priscilla was adamant. “I’ll need a camera crew as soon as possible. Oh yeah, see what you can do about getting me the home address of Lisa Hailey.”

  “Do you know how many Haileys there are in San Diego?”

  “Lots, but only one who has a daughter nearly burned to death in an auto accident. We ran a story on it. You can start by checking the files.”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the news director.” The irritation in Baker’s voice was evident.

  “Then get someone else to do it for you, but whatever you do, save three minutes for me on tonight’s program.” Priscilla set her handset back in its rack.

  Four

  Wednesday, March 4, 1992; 10:00 A.M.

  DR. EVAN MORGAN POPPED TWO antacids into his mouth, returned to the window, and gazed down at the massing crowds eight floors below. The whole scene was too surrealistic for him—the gathering crowds, the wheelchairs, people on crutches. It seemed that all the infirm of San Diego were on the doorstep of his hospital.

  “Dr. Morgan?” Mary Rivers said, stepping into the office.

  “Where have they come from, Mary?” Morgan asked without turning from the window. “Why are they here?”

  “I imagine they’re here because of last night’s news report.”

  “Of course they’re here because of the news report,” he snapped. “My question was rhetorical.”

  “I’m sorry,” she replied timidly. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

  Morgan turned from the window to face Mary. She was an attractive woman with an appealing smile. Her brown hair and brown eyes reminded him of his twenty-two-year-old daughter. Perhaps that’s why he hired her. Since his daughter’s marriage two years ago and her subsequent relocation to Houston, he had felt lonely. His wife provided all the companionship any man could ask for, but somehow his life was different without Terri.

  “Of course you didn’t,” he said apologetically. “This whole situation has me on edge. After years of study in college and medical school to save lives, I now find myself barring the doors of my hospital to those who need it most.”

  “But, sir, there is no way the hospital could admit that many people at once.” She walked to the window. “It is an amazing sight. I understand people are checking out of hospitals as far away as Los Angeles and attempting to admit themselves here. Last count from Security is 150, and more are expected.”

  Morgan didn’t reply, he simply gazed vacantly out the window.

  Mary continued. “There have been quite a few requests from the media to talk to you.”

  “Refer them to Carl Fuller in Public Relations; it’s his job anyway.”

  “I’ve tried, but they insist on speaking with the hospital administrator.”

  “Maggots.” Morgan spat the word out angrily. “They wait with their camcorders for some crime or disaster so they can crawl all over the scene and report every gory detail. Who do they think they are to make demands of me? I don’t work for them, and I won’t answer to them.”

  Mary allowed a few moments of silence to pass before speaking. “The board wants you to hold a news conference, don’t they?”

  Morgan turned and silently stared at his administrative assistant. A grin slowly spread across his face. “You know me pretty well, don’t you?”

&
nbsp; “After two years, I like to think so,” she responded, returning his grin.

  “Well, you’re right.” His grin disappeared. “I want you to schedule a news conference for 3:30 today. No, wait. Make that 6:30. I don’t want the conference to air on the evening news. It’s bad enough that it will be on the 11 o’clock.”

  “It might also keep Priscilla Simms from attending,” Mary said.

  Morgan grinned again. “You’re right. It was her snooping that started all this. Any word on the staff members who talked to her?”

  Mary shook her head.

  “I want to know as soon as personnel finds out. Also, I need someone to head up an in-house investigation. It needs to be a medical person—say, Dr. Freedman.”

  “I think he left on vacation last Thursday. He won’t be back from the Bahamas for another three weeks.”

  “Well, who’s running his department while he’s gone?” Morgan’s voice revealed his irritation.

  Mary walked to Morgan’s desk and opened a blue-tabbed file marked Department Personnel. “Here it is, Dr. Rachel Tremaine.”

  “Yes, I know her. She’s an able doctor. Tell her I want to see her this afternoon, before 3 if her schedule will allow, and tell Carl Fuller I want to see him right away. We’ve got to get this press conference pulled together.”

  Without another word Mary turned and left the office. Morgan returned his gaze to the scene below his window. As he watched, another van with a large microwave dish antenna and the call letters of a local television news station pulled into the parking lot.

  “Maggots,” he said with disgust.

  Wednesday, March 4, 1992; 10:15 A.M.

  RACHEL WAS NEARLY FINISHED with morning rounds when she heard her name paged over the hospital’s public address system. Leaving a patient’s room on third floor west, she went to the nursing station, picked up the handset on the phone, punched two-two, and then waited for the switchboard operator to answer. After receiving her message, she dialed Dr. Morgan’s number.

  “Administration.”

  “This is Dr. Tremaine.”

  “One moment please, I’ll connect you with Dr. Morgan’s administrative assistant.”

  Rachel could hear the connection being made.

  “Dr. Morgan’s office, Mary Rivers speaking.” Mary’s voice was pleasant and cheerful.

  “This is Dr. Tremaine,” Rachel said dryly.

  “Oh, good, Dr. Tremaine. Dr. Morgan would like to see you as soon as your schedule allows. For what time should I schedule you?”

  Rachel wondered what would happen if she said that her schedule didn’t allow for an unplanned meeting.

  Before Rachel could respond, Mary added, “I’ve checked with surgery and noticed that you have nothing scheduled for this afternoon.” Rachel felt a twinge of anger at having her schedule “investigated,” but she knew that antagonizing her employer wouldn’t be wise. “I have two more patients to see on my rounds. That will take about forty minutes. I could be there at 12:15.”

  “Just a moment, please.” Rachel was put on hold. She realized that it was useless to feel irritated at being made to wait. After all, waiting was a part of life—certainly the medical life; nonetheless, the irritation was there.

  “Dr. Morgan says he will not be free until 1:00,” the voice came back. “Will that be convenient?”

  “One o’clock will be fine,” Rachel said, concealing her frustration. “We’ll see you then,” Mary said, and promptly hung up. Rachel stared at the disconnected phone for a moment, feeling angry that she had been hung up on. There was nothing else to be said; yet, she somehow felt slighted. After a few moments reflection she decided that Mary Rivers wasn’t worth her concern.

  Wednesday, March 4, 1992; 12:57 P.M.

  AT THREE MINUTES TO ONE Rachel stepped from the staff elevator that opened into a large reception area. A large pair of doors directly behind the receptionist bore the name, “Dr. Evan Morgan, M.D.”

  The receptionist looked at Rachel as she stepped from the elevator. “Good afternoon. How may I help you.”

  “I’m Dr. Tremaine.”

  “Of course, you have a 1 o’clock appointment. Dr. Morgan’s office is through that door. Miss Rivers will help you from there.” Turning the handle, Rachel crossed the threshold and closed the door behind her. Although she had met Dr. Morgan on several occasions, usually at staff meetings, she had never been in his office. The plush surroundings astounded her. Seated behind a large oak desk was a woman with shoulder-length brown hair and dark, penetrating eyes. Her complexion was light and contrasted with the darkness of her hair. She wore just enough makeup to highlight her features. She was gorgeous. This appraisal was maintained when the woman rose from her chair. Her body, clad in a red knit dress with a broad, black waist belt, would have pleased any fashion photographer.

  “I’m Mary Rivers, Dr. Tremaine. Won’t you please sit down? Dr. Morgan shouldn’t be a moment.” With that Mary turned and disappeared behind another door.

  While she waited, Rachel took in the room. The walls were covered with teak paneling. The plush carpet and furnishings were all in earth tones. A computer terminal had been installed next to the desk. Classical music gently filled the room. Rachel couldn’t help but think of her Spartan office on the fourth floor. The incongruity that an administrative assistant should warrant an office of greater comfort than a highly trained physician angered Rachel.

  Mary reappeared with a smile. “Dr. Morgan will see you now.” As Rachel nodded and crossed the threshold into the hospital administrator’s office, she was immediately struck by the difference in interiors. Mary’s office was like a warm den in a large home; a place where one would drink herb teas and read the classics. Dr. Morgan’s office was a cavernous high-tech room that looked like something out of the future. The walls were painted with a high-gloss white enamel. All the furnishings, couches, chairs, and a large conference table, were stark black. The thick pile carpet was white with thin, black, intersecting lines that made Rachel feel like she was standing on graph paper.

  “Thank you for coming, Dr. Tremaine.” The cheerful voice came from a distinguished-looking man seated behind a large, glass-topped desk. As he stood to greet her, Rachel was reminded of how tall he was. Six-foot-three, she judged. He was slim, lacking the usual paunch that middle-aged men develop. His hair was absolutely white and his smile was impeccable.

  “Please, Doctor, sit down.” He motioned to the black leather chair opposite his desk. “I appreciate your coming on such short notice. I know your schedule must be terribly busy. May I offer you some coffee or tea?”

  “No, thank you.” Rachel was out of her element, and the comfort of the chair did nothing to dispel her anxiety. She felt like a child called from class to the principal’s office without knowing why.

  “Mary, if you are ready, we’ll begin.” Turning to Rachel he said, “Mary takes notes on all my meetings. I assume that you are aware of the unusual happenings of late.”

  Rachel remained silent.

  “What I mean is the sudden, shall we say, symptomatic reversals.”

  “The healings,” Rachel said matter-of-factly.

  “Exactly.” Dr. Morgan leaned forward, placing both elbows on the desk and folding his hands. “Unfortunately, word got out before we could do any meaningful investigation. The sick are arriving from all over the city, and there appears to be no letup.”

  “I’m afraid that I’m not very good at admission problems.” Morgan laughed, filling the room with sonorous tones. “You misunderstand me. I’m not asking you to help in the admitting department.” Morgan picked up a brown folder and handed it to Rachel. “That folder holds the medical records of both patients who have been involved in these incidents.”

  Taking the folder from Morgan’s hand, Rachel wondered at his consistent redefining of the healings, preferring terms like “incidents” and “unusual happenings.”

  “I want you to be this hospital’s investigating physician. You’ll
have free run of the hospital and labs—within reason, of course. You’ll also help with the press.”

  “Dr. Morgan, I’m not sure that my schedule will allow me—”

  “I’m not finished.” Morgan’s tone became authoritative. “This task is very important. Our board of directors wants some answers as does this hospital’s medical board, and I’ve chosen you to help find those answers. Your patients will be assigned to other staff for the remainder of the investigation.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Of course, you may oversee their care, but I want you to give this your utmost attention.” Morgan stood, signaling the end of the discussion. “I have every confidence in your abilities. Your record here is spotless. You will report directly to me or to Mary and—please hear this carefully—to no one else.”

  Morgan was issuing a command and not requesting help. “Dr. Morgan. Perhaps someone else would do a better—”

  “No. You are my choice.” Morgan walked to the door and Mary followed making clear the meeting had ended. She rose from the chair and turned to leave. “You begin immediately. Mary has already reassigned your patients. Thank you for coming.” Morgan closed the door behind Rachel.

  Alone inside the elevator Rachel could contain her outrage no longer—she kicked the elevator’s metal doors. “The unmitigated gall of that man! Summoning me without explanation, assigning me a task that takes me away from my work, and having my patients summarily assigned to others!” Although her outburst was useless, she could not contain her anger. She kicked the door again, this time sending stabs of pain up her leg.

  Calming herself, Rachel paused to evaluate her options. She could walk back into Morgan’s office and flatly refuse to accept the assignment, but the best that would do is get her dismissed. A poor recommendation from the hospital’s chief administrator would be a difficult blot to remove from her record. The hospital was owned and operated by a large medical group that paid her salary and consequently held sway over her. In other hospitals she might have more freedom and greater control over her actions, but not at Kingston Memorial. Here she was an employee. Her only option was to accept the task, do it quickly and efficiently, and then get back to the practice of medicine.