Jack called Alice Hoffman, the Family Practice Program director in Santa Rosa. Jack had spoken to her occasionally and worked with her when he was a resident at UC San Francisco.
“Alice, it’s Jack Byrnes. What have you been up to?”
“Great to hear from you, Jack. How are things at Brier and in The People’s Republic of Berkeley?”
“Be careful, Alice. Only those of us who live or work here are entitled to use that phrase. Remember, that what they labeled as crazy or commie in Berkeley’s past, is now part of our culture, you know, those insignificant things like a woman’s right to vote, public access provisions for the disabled etc.”
Jack paused for a moment. “I’m calling in reference to Harmony Lane. She’s applying to the staff at Brier. I’ve read the file on her. What’s the scoop?”
“I really like Harmony. She’s smart, dedicated and really cares about her patients. She was one of our best residents.”
“And...”
“Look Jack, we all have our little idiosyncrasies, and Harmony has hers. No big deal.”
“Tell me about the reprimand in her record and the recommendation for counseling.”
“She had a disagreement with one of our senior attending physicians over a patient care issue. She’d been treating her patient with high doses of Vitamin D in spite of the attending physician’s admonitions that she be aware of complications. When the patient’s calcium reached toxic levels, the attending physician reported Harmony to my office.”
“What about the counseling?”
“Harmony was treating a patient with chronic fatigue syndrome and with her interest in medical ecology, she insisted that the nurse’s perfume was making her patient sick. The nurse denied wearing any perfume or cologne, but the patient and Dr. Lane insisted she was. Who knows, Jack? Once a patient buys into the idea that anything she smells is making her sick, you’re dead meat. Almost everything with which we come into contact can have some residual scent. Anyway, the patient overreacted and so did Harmony.”
“Should I be concerned about accepting her on the medical staff?”
“No, Jack. She’s a good doc, and a little crazy fits right in with the Berkeley community.” She paused. “I’ll make you a bet, Jack.”
“A cup of Peet’s Coffee…go on.”
“Harmony won’t only fit it, she’s going to be a superstar for women in Berkeley.”
Jack placed Harmony Lane’s folder on the bottom of the stack.
Near the end of the hour, only Harmony’s application remained. Jack reviewed her qualifications, references, and Ken Harris’ reservations for the committee.
“Not really reservations, Jack,” Ken said. “Physicians who express interest in the fringe aspects of medical practice always draw my attention. In Harmony’s case, that includes environmental medicine and maybe even orthomolecular medicine, you know, the use of massive doses of vitamins.”
Jack picked up her folder. “Let me read from her application. ‘In answer to the question about my professional goals: I plan to operate my family practice in its traditional forms. I plan to look upon my patients as a whole, not as diseases, but as people–a holistic approach. I have been interested in alternative forms of medical treatment and plan to apply those most promising in my practice.’”
Peter Miller, a senior pediatrician shook his head. “I can’t say that I’m pleased with the prospect of taking on another fringe physician. We’ve too many to begin with, and they’ve proven troublesome to the staff and the hospital.”
“I’m not that happy either,” Ken said, “but I can’t see any basis for refusing her a place on the staff.”
Jack scanned the committee members. “Alice Hoffman, the program director in Santa Rosa, is pretty insightful, and she okayed Dr. Lane. I suggest we approve her application, but extend the probation period from six months to one year.”
Tom Palmer sat at Rachel’s bedside holding her hand.
She looks like she’s sleeping, he thought.
He searched his wife’s face awaiting her return. Nearing the end of the second hour, she grimaced, pulled against the cloth restraints on her arms and legs, and then she remained still. This sleep-awakening cycle continued for thirty minutes then Rachel opened her eyes. They drifted momentarily, then, when they fixed on Tom’s face, her special smile, that smile reserved for her husband, burst forth.
Two and a half hours later, Jack returned to the ICU. Gradually, Rachel awakened from her seizure. Now, she was fully consciousness, but remembered an aura of something happening, her lip twitching, and then nothing.
Jack explained what happened and why, and what he was proposing. “I’ll leave you two alone.”
Rachel brushed back a lock of almond brown hair as she managed a small smile for Tom. “How’s Carrie?”
“She’s great, but she really misses her mommy. I’ll bring her in the morning.”
Rachel pressed her lips together, pulled the bed sheet up to her neck, her eyes fixed on her feet, silent. After several minutes, she slowly squeezed her eyes shut, blotting out the world as tears seeped from beneath her lids, rills flowing over pale cheeks.
“Nothing is working, Tom, and now this.”
“What are you talking about, honey? Jack says there’s a good chance this time, a chance to finally get rid of all that infection and get you back home.”
Rachel reached for his face, caressing his cheek. She smiled then said softly, “You’re a lousy liar, Tom. You’ve always been a lousy liar.”
Tom held Rachel’s hands. “I love you. I’ve always loved you.” He paused for a few moments, and then grasped her hands even tighter. “You can’t quit. I won’t let you quit.”
She pulled her hands loose then held his face. Her moist eyes were wide open and she was smiling broadly. “I’m just tired, and who said anything about quitting? They’ll have to kill me before I quit—there’s too much to live for.” She looked at Tom and began sobbing, her face drowning in the flood of her own tears.
Chapter Eight
Andre Keller was a pain in the ass from birth. His progress through his youth was an exploration and a refinement of this petulant personality profile.
He had grown up in a small Upstate New York town. Nothing pleased or satisfied him. At the earliest age, any frustration, however minor, was intolerable. Before reaching his second birthday, Andre would cry pathetically when toys failed or he was unable to perform some simple task. The terrible twos were all the more terrible for the addition of the rage response. Share a toy—no way!
His parents tried to ignore these shortcomings; after all, Andre was a bright and curious child with a great future as long as everything went his way.
Bruno Keller, Andre’s father, was a high school dropout and a brutal alcoholic. He worked construction as a mason, but he kept ignoring instructions and fighting with other workers. He blamed everyone but himself for his failures. Millie, Andre’s mother, had been a free-spirited cocktail waitress. Now, she spent her days enthralled by the many soap operas she embraced, lives more real than her own. A fallen Catholic, she returned to the arms of the church for salvation and to escape the misery of her daily life. Over Bruno’s objections, she took Andre to 6:30 p.m. mass three days a week and to Sunday mass as well.
Andre was frail and thin. He stood before Millie as she adjusted his tie. “My, you look so handsome.”
Since Andre had no real relationship with his father, Millie was pleased when Father Matthews took a personal interest in him, and made him an altar boy. Andre was especially upset when two years later, overnight, and without explanation, they suddenly transferred his dear friend, Father Matthews to a diocese outside Boston.
Andre’s parents either didn’t know better or they didn’t give a damn as they tolerated and even subtly encouraged his self-centered behavior—Isn’t he cute?
Others, especially childhood friends, wouldn’t put up with it. If Andre had been big, he might have become a school bully, not becaus
e he was mean spirited, but because his psyche deified control, demanded control, and needed control.
With no real friends, Andre withdrew into the world of science fiction books and the violin. Carrying his violin case home only served to encourage further abuse from the bullies. Eventually, he recognized the paradigm for control and would face the world on his own terms.
In high school, he’d become a certified nerd, plastic pocket protector and all. His activities defined the nerd agenda including the audio-visual, chess, and science clubs. Each had elected him president.
Andre earned a full academic scholarship to Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute in Troy, New York, just north of the state capital in Albany. After two years on the Dean’s List in the Mechanical Engineering track, he abruptly switched to Molecular Biology, graduating cum laude. In three years, he was Andre Keller, Ph.d. in Biochemical and Genetic Engineering.
Andre had been barely socialized to human contact over the years. Only the few with whom he worked closely, knew the unvarnished Andre. He’d thrived on our culture’s indulgence of genius—Social Darwinism at its worst.
Andre had caught the attention of Academia, government research labs, and the headhunters for drug and biotech companies. The world was his for the taking. Finally, he accepted a position on the Genome and Biomedical Sciences Faculty at the University of California, Davis.
To Andre’s dismay, his first assignment was in Professor Archie Blake’s laboratory. Archie was on the forefront of gene therapy research using the RNA retroviruses, HIV being the one they’d studied the most. The lab explored the variety of ways genetic manipulation could affect the expression of target genes that might render HIV unable to infect or replicate.
Such an opportunity was perfect for Andre with the research material, the facilities, and the talented researchers and technicians. Yet he felt a strong distaste for HIV-AIDS and what he characterized as deviant sexual behavior. His cruel offhand comments about gays and gay lifestyles suggested to some of his colleagues that his homophobia might stem from some personal experiences or hidden predispositions. What his colleagues perceived as scrupulous technique in the handling of HIV material was simply his fear and distaste for the research overall.
Nine months into his research, Andre was thriving. He developed a keen interest in the technical details of the sophisticated research and proposed to Archie Blake several new approaches to pushing his work forward.
I’m at home here. The beginning—the start of great things to come.
Andre Keller tried his best to circumvent his teaching obligation at UC Davis. His pleas to the department chairman, Archie Blake, “I’m too busy; It’s taking valuable time away from my research; I’m not suitable to teach,” received little sympathy.
Archie smiled. “Better you than me, Andre. Think of teaching as just part of the price for doing research.”
At least Andre limited his exposure to undergraduates, and functioned as a teaching assistant in the molecular biology laboratory. Shortly after beginning this odious teaching assignment, Andre met Elizabeth Brown, twenty-three and a senior with aspirations to enter the graduate school in bioengineering. She was at Davis on a full academic scholarship in mathematics, but had recently become fascinated with the potential of a coalition of hard science and biology.
She’d raised her hand for help one morning in the lab. Andre, usually irritated by anyone bothering him, found Elizabeth intriguing. He’d seen her several times. She kept her red-copper hair up and wore gold wire-rim glasses. These could not disguise her subtle beauty. Like Andre, she’d been a serious student and winced at the wholly unoriginal comments. “Hey, Rusty” or “Hey, Red, what’s up?”
“What is it now, miss...?” Andre said as she turned to face him. He fingered her nametag. “E. Brown”.
She brushed his hand away. “I need help with experiment six. It makes no sense to me.”
When Andre met her soft hazel eyes and sweet smile, he controlled his usual annoyance. After stumbling over his words trying to assist Elizabeth, he impulsively asked her to lunch.
After they returned from lunch, one of Andre’s students smiled at him. “You two seem to be getting along. You’re not so irritable lately.”
“Mind your own goddamn business.”
Beth Byrnes pushed her half-filled shopping cart down the supermarket aisle.
How can Jack and I eat so much? she thought. It’s a good thing Jack’s not here or the cart would be overflowing—no impulse control.
She careened around the corner of the last aisle heading for the checkout stand when she crashed into another cart. “Oops, sorry,” Beth cried out, looking up sheepishly at the young woman she’d just assailed.
“It’s okay,” the woman said. She was around Beth’s age. She wore stonewashed designer jeans with a chocolate-brown velvet scoop-neck top and stared at Beth for a moment. “Beth, Beth Arnold, is it you?”
Stunned, Beth stared back, her mind surveying the stranger’s features. When she noticed the small brown mole to the left of her upper lip, it hit her. “Sandy, Sandy Blain, is it really you?”
Seconds later, amid squeals of joy, they embraced—the void, all those years of separation, gone in an instant.
Sandy Blain had grown up in Nevada City, California in the Gold Rush Country of 49er fame. She was the second of three daughters born to Emma and Karl Blain. As a young man, Karl worked as a mining engineer, but as payload died, so did his job. Disappointed, he sought other employment. He finally settled for the US Postal Service, light-years away from the ‘glamour’ and excitement of the mines. He ultimately worked his way up to an assistant postmaster. With benefits, he was well compensated and secure, but he hated his job and dreaded each and every day as he headed for work.
His imbibing began shortly after arriving at work. He hated the boring work and each day sat with his drinking buddies sipping spiked coffee. He drank throughout the day, just enough to keep the glow, but not enough to impair his work. That would come later when he returned home. Although angry and bitter at his lot in life, he managed to control the physical aspects of his rage, never lifting a hand to his wife or his daughters. At his best, Karl was absent. At his worst, he was verbally abusive, critical, and dismissive of his daughters’ relentless attempts at gaining his favor. Sometimes, Sandy thought that a beating, in contrast, would be an act of kindness.
Sandy’s sisters had given up the struggle early, and ignored their father. Sandy still tried. “Look at my report card, Daddy. I got all A’s.”
He pointed the remote at the television. “Fine, fine...very good. Show it to your mother.”
Sandy never stopped trying. She was outgoing, vivacious, and popular in school, but rarely invited friends home. She became class president in high school, class valedictorian, and achieved a full academic scholarship to UC Santa Barbara. Sticking to the academic merry-go-round in the absence of any life goals made no sense to Sandy, so she refused the scholarship and joined the Peace Corps.
After six years in the Peace Corps, Sandy had returned to complete her education. Sandy Blain and Beth Arnold had been roommates at the University of California, Santa Barbara. Good fortune had given them a room to share in the dormitory on the grassy cliff that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. Parents visiting them on campus and seeing their view, had fantasies of returning to school themselves.
Sandy sought in men the comfort and approval she’d never received from her father. This lead to disappointing, and in several instances, destructive relationships. “It’s my fault,” she told Beth, “I’m too needy. It scares them off.”
“That’s a lot of crap,” Beth said. “If anything, you try too hard to save relationships that aren’t worth your efforts. Learn to let go, and move on.”
Beth hugged her friend. “Where have you been? What are you doing? Are you married? Kids? I have a thousand questions.”
Sandy put back the few items in her cart while Beth passed through the checkout.
&nbs
p; Thirty minutes later, after Beth stored her groceries, they sat at her kitchen table sipping coffee.
“You look great, Sandy. You haven’t aged a bit. So, tell all. I know you moved to Chicago, so start there.”
“I feel awful that we didn’t keep in contact. I don’t know why. No excuses except that I was overwhelmed with my active self-involved life. We were so close. How could I let that go? I’ve never had anyone to really talk to since we separated.”
“I’m equally to blame. Let’s move on.”
“I went to work in Chicago at Page-Whitney, a commercial law firm, a great paralegal job with more responsibilities than I wanted. I met Marty, Martin Greer, there and we became friends. Friendship was all I wanted. Marty wanted much more, and Marty, I hate to say this because it doesn’t accurately reflect him, usually gets what he wants. I love him, and you’ll love him too. We’re so happy, it scares me sometimes.”
“I can’t wait to meet him. Are you here now? Do you live in the Bay Area?”
“Oh, Beth, I’m so happy that we’re back together. Marty studied his ass off and easily passed the California Bar the first time, and then he accepted a partnership position at Harris-Burton near the top of California Street. I have two girls. We named one Hestor, after my grandmother, but everyone calls her Honey. She’s eleven, a ‘tween’, and getting less sweet by the day. Karen is thirteen, going on thirty.”
After she filled Beth in on a general outline of the last fifteen years, Sandy stopped her monologue. “And you, Beth, something must be going well in your life; you’re literally glowing.”
“I met Jack Byrnes in ICU early one morning four years ago, lust at first sight for both of us. Jack was brand new at Brier and trying to make a good impression on everyone; he overdid it with me. He had a rough time at the beginning with a son-of-a-bitch, Joe Polk, a psychopath, who’d been killing his own patients. We were relieved when Polk finally went to prison for manslaughter. We’re both doing great now. Jack is well established and respected, and I’ve finally moved to a charge nurse position on the day shift; imagine, married and still sleeping alone too much of the time.
The Plague Within (Brier Hospital Series) Page 5