Side Effects (1984)

by Palmer, Michael

  Samuels moved to speak, but Kate stopped him with raised hands. “I’m not through. I want to tell you something, Win. You’ve underestimated me. Badly. I’ve made it through a childhood of total loneliness, an education of total aimlessness, and a marriage to an alcoholic madman who insisted on picking out my pantyhose for me. I’ve survived and grown in a profession where I am patronized, and discriminated against. I’ve dealt with men who couldn’t bring their eyes, let along their minds, above my breasts. I’ve dealt with them and I’ve succeeded.

  “It’s been hard. At times, it’s been downright horrible. But for the last five years, I’ve had a secret weapon. He’s right there, Win. Right over there.” She nodded toward Jared. “When I forget that I’m okay, he reminds me. When I have to face the Norton Reeses and the Arlen Paquettes and, yes, the Winfield Samuelses of this world, he gives me strength. I love him and I have faith in him. Sooner or later, he’s going to see the way you toy with the lives of those around you. Sooner or later, you’ll go to move him, and he won’t be there.”

  “Are you done?” Samuels said.

  “Yes, I’m done. And I don’t want to hear any more from you unless it’s an apology and the truth about the other night. How could you think I wouldn’t tell Jared? How could you think I wouldn’t remember where we went, what we did? Please, Jared, let’s get going. It’s late, and we have quite a drive ahead of us.”

  At that moment, there was a noise, the clearing of a throat, from the doorway. The three of them turned to the sound. Jocelyn Trent stood holding a silver tray with coffee and tea.

  “How long have you been there?” Samuels demanded. The woman did not answer. “Well?”

  She hesitated; then she set the tray on the nearest table and ran from the room.

  “Stonefield School,” Kate said. “See, I told you I could find it. Only two wrong turns.” She swung into the driveway, past the small sign, and up to the front door. “This is almost the exact hour we were here the other night. With any luck, the nurse who was on duty then will be on again. Her name was Bicknell, Sally Bicknell; something like that. I’ll recognize her. She wore about eighty gold bracelets and had rings on three or four fingers of each hand. What a character!”

  Her chatter was, she knew, somewhat nervous. Jared had said little during their drive. His pensiveness was certainly understandable, but she found herself wishing he could recapture at least some of the emotion he had shown at the airport. No matter, she consoled herself. Two minutes at Stonehill, and he would know that, in this arena, at least, she was telling the truth. How foolish of Win to think things would not develop the way they had. How unlike the man to miss predicting a person’s actions as badly as he had missed hers.

  The nurse, Bicknell, was working at her desk in a small office just off the lobby. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and she was wearing only a single gold chain on one wrist. Hardly the flamboyant eccentric Kate had depicted. It was an observation, Kate noted uneasily, that was not overlooked by her husband.

  “Are you sure it’s the same woman?” he whispered, as they crossed the lobby.

  “It’s her. Hi, Miss Bicknell. Remember me?”

  The woman took only a second. “Of course. You were with Mr. Samuels four—no, no,—three nights ago. Right?”

  “Exactly. You have an excellent memory.”

  “An elephant,” Sally Bicknell said, tapping one finger against her temple.

  “This is my husband, Jared, Miss Bicknell. Mr. Samuels’s son.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” The woman took the hand Jared offered. “We don’t get too many evening visitors here at Stonefield. In fact, we don’t get too many visitors at other times, either.” She looked around. “Sort of a forgotten land, I guess.”

  “Miss Bicknell, we came to see my husband’s sister.”

  The woman’s expression clouded. “I … I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  Kate felt an ugly apprehension set in. “Lindsey Samuels,” she said, a note of irritation—or was it panic?—in her voice, “the girl we saw Monday night right over there.” She pointed to the blue velvet curtain.

  Sally Bicknell looked at her queerly and then ushered them over and drew back the curtain. “Her?” The girl was there, lumbering about exactly as she had been before.

  “Yes, exactly,” Kate said. “That’s her, Jared. That’s Lindsey.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Samuels, but you’re mistaken. That girl’s name is Rochelle Coombs. She is sixteen years old and has a genetic disease called Hunter’s Syndrome.”

  Kate stopped herself at the last possible moment from calling the woman a liar. “Could I see her medical records, please?”

  The nurse snapped the curtain shut. “Her medical records are confidential. But I assure you, her name is Rochelle Coombs, not—what did you say?”

  “Lindsey,” Jared said, “Lindsey Samuels.” It was, Kate realized, the first time he had spoken since just after their arrival.

  “It is not Lindsey Samuels.” Sally Bicknell completed her sentence.

  In that moment, Kate realized what had bothered her so about the girl the first time she had observed her. She was too young to have been Jared’s sister. Far too young. Her thick features and other physical distortions added some years, but not twenty of them. The girl’s grotesqueness had made her too uncomfortable to look very closely. Had Win Samuels counted on that? Silently, she cursed her own stupidity. Helpless and beaten, she could only shrug and shake her head.

  “Will there be anything else?” Bicknell asked.

  Kate looked over at Jared, who shook his head. “No,” she said huskily. “We’re … we’re sorry for the intrusion.”

  “In that case,” the woman said, “I have rounds to make.” She turned and, without showing them out, walked away.

  Kate felt far more ill than angry. As they approached the car, she handed Jared the keys. “You drive, please. I’m not up to it. Your father told me it was Lindsey, Jared. I swear he did. And that woman was right there when he said it.”

  There was, she realized, no sense in discussing the matter further. Win Samuels had set up a no-lose situation for himself. Either she would be impressed by his demonstration, in which case she might have agreed to back off at the hospital and, as he wished, turn her attention to domestic issues; or she would be angered enough to do exactly what she had done. His son, already in doubt about her, would be drawn further away from their marriage and toward a political future, unencumbered by a wife whose priorities and mental state were so disordered. All that for only the price of a tankful of gas and whatever it cost to buy off Sally Bicknell. Nice going, Win, she thought. Nice goddamn going. She sank into her seat and stared sightlessly into the night.

  13

  Friday 21 December

  “She’s out, suspended, finished. I did it,” Norton Reese boasted exultantly. “Yesterday afternoon. I tried to call you then, but there was no answer.”

  Still in his bed at the Ritz, Arlen Paquette squinted at his watch, trying to get the numbers in focus. Seven-thirty? Was that right? Was goddamn Reese waking him up at seven-thirty in the morning? He fumbled for the bedside lamp, wincing at the shellburst in his temples. Somewhere in the past four hours, he had passed from being drunk to being hung over. His mouth tasted like sewage, and his muscles felt as if he had lost a gang fight.

  “Norton, just a second here while I wake up a little bit.” He worked a cigarette from a wrinkled packet and lit it on the third try. Over the past week, his smoking had gone from his usual four or five cigarettes a day to three packs. For a moment, he eyed the half-empty quart of Dewar’s on the bureau. “No, goddamn it,” he muttered, “At least not yet.” It took two hands to hold the phone steady against his ear. “Now, sir, just how did you go about accomplishing this remarkable feat of yours?”

  Paquette listened to Reese’s excited recap of the events leading to the unofficial suspension of Kate Bennett by her chief, Stan Willoughby. By the time the administrator
had finished, Paquette had made his way across to the scotch and buried half a water glass full. The story was disgusting. A woman had lost her breast unnecessarily, and another had been professionally destroyed, and he, as much as the idiot on the other end of the phone, was responsible. As he listened to Reese’s crowing, a resolve began to grow within him. He picked up a picture of Kate Bennett from the floor by his bed, wondering briefly how it had gotten there.

  “Norton,” he said cheerfully, “you’ve done one hell of a job there. Our friend’s gonna be pleased when I tell him. Real pleased. Say, listen. Are you going to be at your office for a while … Good. I’d like to stop by and get some of the details in person. Probably be nine-thirty or so … Great. See you then.”

  He hung up and studied the picture in his hand. The scotch had stilled the shakes and begun to alleviate the pounding in his head. “I think you’ve taken enough shit from us, Dr. Bennett,” he said. “It’s time someone helped you fight back.”

  A glance at his watch, and he called Darlington. His wife answered on the second ring. “Honey, have the kids left for school yet?… Good. They’re not going. I want you to pack them up and drive to your mother’s house.… Honey, I know where your mother lives. If you step on it, you can be there by dinner time. There’ve been some problems here with old Cyrus, and I just want to be sure you and the kids are safe.… Maybe a few days, maybe a week. I don’t know. Please, honey. Trust me on this one for a little while. I’ll explain everything. And listen, I love you. I’m sorry about the other night and I love you. Not a word to anyone, now. Just get out and go to your mother’s.”

  Paquette showered and then shaved, taking greater pains than usual not to nick himself. He dressed in a suit he had just bought, eschewing the vest in favor of a light brown cashmere sweater. Some Visine, another shot of scotch, some breath mints, and he was ready. On his way to the hospital, he would attend to one final item of business, stopping at an electronics store to purchase a miniature tape recorder.

  “Okay, Doctor,” he said to Kate’s picture, “let’s go get us some evidence.” He glanced at the mirror. For the first time in nearly two weeks he liked what he saw.

  Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. No one to hold. The thoughts, the futility, kept intruding on Kate’s efforts to wring another hour, even another half hour, of sleep from the morning. They had spent the night—what was left of it after their return from Stonehill—in separate beds. Or perhaps Jared hadn’t slept at all. She had offered him food, then company, and then sex, but his only request had been to be left alone. After an hour or so of staring at the darkened ceiling over their bed, she had tiptoed down the hall and peeked into the living room. He was right where she had left him, on the couch, chewing on his lower lip, and studying the creases in his palm. Her immediate impulse was to go to him, to beg him to believe her, to plead for his faith. The feeling disappeared as quickly as it had arisen. If their marriage had come down to begging, she was beaten. Aching with thoughts of what he was going through, at the choices he was trying to make, she had crept quietly back to bed, hoping that before long, she would feel him nudging his way under the covers.

  Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. No one to hold. The ringing of the phone interrupted the litany. Kate glanced at the clock. Eight-thirty. Not too bad. The last time she had looked it was only six.

  “Hello?”

  “Kate?” It was Ellen.

  “Hi. How’re you feeling?”

  “I got concerned when you didn’t stop by this morning, and I called your office.” Her voice was quite hoarse, her speech distorted. “When you didn’t answer I rang the department secretary. Kate, what’s the matter? Are you sick?”

  “Hey, wait a minute, now. Let us not forget who is the patient here, and who is the doctor, okay?”

  “Kate, be serious. She said she didn’t know what day you’d be back. I … I got frightened. They’re giving me more blood, and now I have a tube down my nose. I think the inside of my stomach has started bleeding.”

  “Shit,” Kate said softly.

  “What?”

  “I said ‘shit.’ ”

  “Oh. Well, are you all right?”

  Kate pulled a lie back at the last possible instant. “Actually, no,” she said. “Physically I’m fine, but there’s been trouble at work and here at home. I’ve been asked to take some time off while my department head sorts through some problems with a biopsy.”

  “Oh, Kate. And here I am all wrapped up in my own problems. I’m sorry. I know it sounds foolish coming from where I’m lying, but is there anything I can do?”

  “No, El, just be strong and get well, that’s all.”

  “Don’t talk to me, Katey. Talk to these little platelets or whatever they’re called. They’re the ones who are screwing up. You said trouble at home, too. Jared?”

  Stop asking about me, dammit. You’re bleeding to death! “I’m afraid Jared’s wife and his father in all their infinite wisdom have put him in a position where he’s going to have to choose between them.” At that moment, she began wondering where he was. Upstairs in the guestroom, perhaps? Maybe still on the couch. She listened for a telltale sound, but there was only heavy silence.

  “You versus Win?” Ellen said. “No contest. Thank goodness. I thought it was something serious.” Her cheer was undermined by the weakness in her voice.

  “Listen, my friend,” Kate said. “I’ll see you later today. I may be shut out of the pathology department, but I’m not shut out of the library. There are two Australian journals I’m expecting in from the NIH. Together, we’re going to beat this. I promise you.”

  “I believe you,” Ellen said. “I really do. See you later, Doc.”

  Kate set the receiver down gently, then slipped into a blue flannel nightshirt, a gift from Jared, and walked to the living room. Roscoe, who had materialized from under the bed, padded along beside her. She glanced through the doorway and then systematically checked the rest of the house. She had, as she feared, read the silence well. Jared had left.

  “Well, old shoe,” she said, scratching her dog behind one ear, “it looks like you and me. How about a run together and then some shirred eggs for breakfast. Later, maybe we’ll make love.”

  The letter, in Jared’s careful printing, was on the kitchen table. He had taken their wedding picture from the mantel, and used it as a weight to keep the single sheet in place. Kate moved the photograph enough to read his words, but left it touching the page.

  It sounds so easy, so obvious, that I’m not sure I even listened when the minister said the words. “For better or for worse.” It all sounds so easy until one day you stop and ask yourself, For whose better? For whose worse? What do I do when her better seems like my worse? Dammit, Kate, I’m forty years old and I feel like such a child. Do you know that in all the time she was alive, I never once heard my mother say no to my father? Some role model, huh? Next came Lisa—bright, beautiful, and imbued with absolutely no ambition or direction. I thought she would make a perfect wife. She cooked the soup and pinched back the coleus, and I kept her pipe filled with good dope and decided when we could afford to do what, and that was that. I still don’t know why she ran off the way she did, and if another Lisa had come along, I probably would have married her in a snap. But another Lisa didn’t. You did.

  Almost before I knew it, I had fallen in love with and married a woman who had as rich and interesting and complicated a life outside of our marriage as I did. Probably, more so. After first mother and then Lisa, it was like moving to a foreign country for me. New customs. New mores. What do you mean I was wrong to assume we’d have the same last name? What do you mean I was wrong to assume that you would be free to attend three rallies and a campaign dinner with me? What do you mean I should have asked first? What do you mean you’ve been involved in trouble at your job that might affect my career? I could go on all night listing my misguided assumptions in this marriage. It’s as though I don’t have the programming to adapt.

 
Well, I may not have the programming, but I do have the desire. It’s taken most of the night sitting here to feel sure of that. If what you’ve said is all true, I want to do whatever I can to help straighten it out. If what you’ve told me is not true, then I also want to face that issue and my commitment to you, and we’ll get whatever kind of help is necessary. If we don’t make it, it won’t be because I ran away.

  I’ve gone to speak to my father and then, who knows, perhaps a chat with Norton Reese. Bear with me, Kate. It may say five years on the calendar, but this marriage business is still new stuff for me. I love you. I really do.

  Jared

  Kate reread the letter, laughing and crying at once. Jared’s words, she knew, meant no more than a temporary reprieve, a respite from the nightmare. Still, he had given her the one thing she needed most next to answers: time. Time to work through the events that were steamrolling her life.

  “We’re going to find out, Rosc,” she said grimly. “We’re going to find out who, and we’re going to find out why.”

  A sharp bark sounded from the living room, and Kate realized that she had been talking to herself. Through the doorway, she could see Roscoe prancing uncomfortably by the door to the rear deck.

  “Oh, poor baby,” she laughed. “I’m sorry.” Focused on letting the dog out, she missed the slight movement outside the kitchen window and failed to sense the eyes watching her. She pulled open the slider, and Roscoe dashed out into a most incredible morning. The temperature, according to the thermometer by the door, was exactly freezing. Fat, lazy flakes, falling from a glaring, silver-white sky vanished into a ground fog that was as dense as any Kate could remember. Roscoe dashed across the deck, and completely disappeared into the shroud halfway down the steps to the yard.

  Kate estimated the height of the fog at three or four feet. Much of it, she guessed, was arising off the surface of nearby Green Pond, a small lake that because of warm underground feeders, was always late to freeze and early to thaw. Winter fog was not uncommon on the North Shore, especially around Essex, but this was spectacular. It was a morning just begging to be run through.