OMEGA

by Patrick Lynch

  “Yeah, lives. Not the way you’d planned, maybe. Not the way she’d planned, I realize that. But…”

  He finished the sentence with a shrug.

  “Bad things can happen,” said Ford.

  Allen held his gaze for a moment with an expression of deep sadness. Then he looked away.

  “That’s right,” he said.

  The three men sat quietly for a while longer. Then Ford stood up.

  “Give me a little time,” he said. “I need to think.”

  Lee was putting the bottle and his notes back into the autoclave.

  “Don’t leave it too long,” he said.

  He stood over Sunny for twenty minutes, willing her to open her eyes, but she slept on, her narrow chest rising and falling in time with the machines. It was just as well. If she’d been awake, she might have read the anguish in his face and realized how bad things must be. The idea of having to explain to her what Lee proposed to do was unbearable.

  She was losing weight. There was a pinched look to the bridge of her nose that was familiar to him somehow, but not in Sunny. Then he knew whom it reminded him of—Carolyn. He had an abrupt sense of Carolyn’s presence in the room. It was eerie enough to raise the hair on the back of his neck. So close to death, he thought, it wouldn’t be surprising. The hiss and click of the respirator grew momentarily sinister. Then he shrugged his shoulders. In all his years working at the gates of death, working long nights when there was only death, when every admission to trauma had died, working with cases where patients had actually threatened to come back and haunt him—and meant it—he had never had the slightest inkling of a world beyond the stopped heart or the cold brain.

  He bent forward and kissed Sunny’s hair.

  “It’s just you and me, sweetheart,” he said, tears starting to well again.

  Then, like an apparition, but an apparition that favored pungent handcreams, Gloria was standing next to him. She said nothing for a moment, just stood there, looking down, breathing noisily.

  “That doctor called again,” she said.

  She sounded tired, her voice coming out low and flat. Ford touched her shoulder in a silent greeting.

  “Which doctor?” he said.

  “Winget is it? Called twice this morning.”

  “Oh, Wingate—right. Did he say what he wanted?”

  “Just said he wanted to talk to you. He wanted your home number, but I said it was against hospital policy to give out the personal numbers of staff.”

  Ford nodded. He tried to recall where he had left things with Wingate, but too much had happened in the last few days. He certainly couldn’t face calling him now—couldn’t face hearing him bitch about his Beverly Hills clients—not with so much on his mind. He looked at Gloria, then back at Sunny’s blank face.

  “If he calls again, you can give him my home number.”

  “Okay. If you say so. Oh … and that lady called, Miss Wray?”

  Ford turned.

  “When?”

  “Lord,” said Gloria. “You look awful tired. But I’m glad to see you’re shaving again.”

  “Gloria, when did Miss Wray call?”

  “This morning.”

  “What did she want?”

  “She just wanted to know how Sunny was doing. I told her there was no change.”

  Ford looked back at Sunny. He couldn’t understand it. Why would she call? She hadn’t called him since their visit to Novak’s condo. Then he realized that none of that mattered anymore. He had to focus on Sunny now. Forget Wray and her scheming. He had to make a decision on his daughter’s behalf.

  “She’s doing real well,” said Gloria. “She’s a real fighter.”

  Ford nodded. If positive thinking ever cured anybody, Gloria was the person to have by your bedside. He had seen her struggle with some borderline cases for hours, some kid hit by a truck or a stabbing victim, struggle to help right up to the last breath, and then, when the life was gone, sigh and pick herself up and get on to the next case. It was something he had never quite gotten used to or been able to take for granted, this instinctive drive to care and cherish that he saw in the nursing staff.

  Ford took Gloria’s hand. They had never touched in this way before. She had given him her big momma-bear hug on different occasions, at end-of-year get togethers and so forth, but he had never touched her in this direct and simple manner. She returned the pressure of his grip, saying nothing. They stood looking down at Sunny like that as if in prayer. He had never noticed what powerful hands Gloria had. They were inspiring hands, the kind of hands that you could believe might pull you back from death itself … but, Ford realized, strong hands and a big heart could do nothing for Sunny now. She was way beyond that. She was going to have to face some of the sharper compassion that Helen Wray had once cited.

  He let go, and, in answer to Gloria’s inquisitive expression, said blankly, “They want to operate.”

  Gloria sighed and looked down at the bed.

  “All the girl wants is a fighting chance,” she said.

  Fifteen minutes later he was on the 110 heading north. He would make a decision. He would get back to Lee before the day was out. But first he had to satisfy himself that he had exhausted every line of inquiry regarding a nonsurgical solution. He owed Sunny that much.

  He got lost in downtown LA as usual, but finally got on to Figueroa going in the right direction. He stopped in a no-parking zone at the front steps of the county health services building. Climbing out of the car, he was startled to see West no more than twenty feet away. He was on the point of leaving, helping his attractive assistant get into a black limousine.

  “Marshall!”

  When West saw Ford making his way towards him, he frowned momentarily, as if he didn’t recognize him, and then produced a warm smile. He said something to the assistant and then came to meet Ford on the sidewalk.

  “You know, they’re pretty strict around here about keeping that area clear,” he said, pointing to Ford’s car.

  “I wanted to talk,” said Ford. “It won’t take more than a—”

  “You’re lucky you caught me,” said West, tucking his tie inside his vest. “I was on my way. I’ve got a meeting with some Orange County people in Santa Monica.”

  As usual West was immaculately turned out, but Ford could see signs of strain. There were dabs of shadows under his eyes and a nick on his right cheek from a hasty shave.

  “What’s the news at the Willowbrook?” asked West, the smile replaced by a look of concern.

  “I’ve just come from the hospital,” said Ford.

  “And?”

  “They’re want to operate.”

  “Jesus, you mean…? Jesus Christ.”

  West looked away for a moment at the traffic. He drew his hand across his mouth.

  “I’m real sorry to hear that, Marcus. Real sorry.”

  Then he looked back, and Ford could see that he was genuinely upset.

  “I guess you find it hard to look on the bright side right now,” said West, “but at least they’re still in there—still pitching.”

  He put his hand on Ford’s shoulder.

  “And they’re good people down there. Nobody knows that better than you.”

  For a moment Ford thought he was going to lose it. He pressed his jaws together, riding out the wave of emotion.

  “Marshall, I came up here to ask if there was any news on the Apex investigation. I know it’s kind of premature, but…”

  West checked his wristwatch.

  “Well, it is a little early, Marcus. Just getting qualified people to go through all that stuff has been a nightmare, and there are just so many strings I can pull—”

  “So how long before—”

  “And I have to say, I’m not very optimistic about getting a positive result.”

  Ford searched West’s face for meaning. It was too early to be making statements, West had said so himself, but already he seemed ready to give up.

  “What are y
ou saying?” said Ford. “Apex wasn’t looking at antisense?”

  West picked at a loose thread on the sleeve of his pinstripe suit.

  “That’s right. I think … You know I hate to admit it, but I think we struck out on this one. Not that they weren’t looking at antisense—they were, but not in connection with anti-infective agents.”

  He checked Ford’s face for a reaction and then grimaced.

  “This whole Omega thing is looking increasingly … what’s the word?”

  He clutched at the air as if miming the impossibility of holding smoke, bringing his theatrical skills to bear on the problem.

  “But I know they have it,” said Ford, taking a step back.

  West looked over his shoulder at the limo. Blue exhaust curled from the tailpipe. The assistant was sticking her pretty head out and pointing to her watch.

  “All I’m saying is, it doesn’t look good.” West gestured back to the assistant. Won’t be a minute, the gesture said. “I’m sorry, Marcus, I really am.”

  “But I…”

  He couldn’t think of how to go on. Until that moment he hadn’t realized how much he had staked on this chance, how much he had counted on it. He felt as though his last thread of hope was finally broken.

  “Look, Marcus”—West looked down at his shoes—“you’ve … We’ve all been here before. There comes a time…” He looked up and down the street. “Jesus, I know this isn’t the time or the place, but … there comes a time when you have to … when you have to accept, when you have to let go. There’s a limit to what medicine can do. We all know that. We just kind of forgot for a while, didn’t we?”

  Ford looked down at the ground. West’s voice seemed to come to him from a long way off.

  “Don’t think I haven’t moved heaven and earth over this. Just read the press this morning. Front page of the LA Times. County health administration officials leaving Apex. Jesus, the company’s spitting blood. We had a fax from their legal people more or less implying that Etienne Kempf or Stern had put us up to it. But, hey, it was worth a shot.”

  Ford looked up. He reached out and touched West’s sleeve.

  “Don’t think I don’t appreciate what you did. I know I owe you one.”

  West watched him for a moment and then took a couple of steps back.

  “Forget it. Marcus, I wish I could give you more time right now, but—”

  “Have you talked to Griffen?”

  West looked confused for a moment.

  “Who?”

  “Scott Griffen, the director of research.”

  “Don’t you listen to the radio? It’s all over the news this morning.”

  “What is?”

  “About Griffen. They found him in his pool. Drowned.”

  “What?”

  Ford felt momentarily stunned.

  “But, Marshall, don’t you see? This is all part of the same thing. The same conspiracy.”

  West stroked his tie, drawing it between the fingers of his right hand.

  “Marcus, look. I went down that road with you. And who knows, maybe with Apex we’ll strike it lucky. Like I said, we’re not very popular with them right now, but we got all their technical documentation, and that’s what counts. If they’re working on a new antibiotic, Marcus, we’ll find out. That kind of technology isn’t the sort of thing people carry about in their heads.”

  “But surely…” said Ford, coming forward, “surely Griffen’s death … I mean, he was the director of research, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Marcus, you’re forgetting that—”

  “He wanted to go ahead with … I believe he wanted to release the drug. He and Novak. Now they’re dead.”

  A tight smile flickered on West’s lips and then disappeared.

  “Marcus, this is all getting a little wild. I understand you’re upset because of Sunny, but what … I mean what are you saying? Are you saying we’re not doing a proper job? Come on. Be reasonable. My people know everything there is to know about inspecting R and D facilities.”

  “But…”

  He had taken hold of West’s arm, his fingers pushing into the lightweight wool. West looked down and gave a short laugh—not of amusement. Then, seeing Ford’s distress, his expression softened.

  “Marcus, listen. You … You have to face up to reality. What is happening to Sunny … it happens to people all the time. Every day. People get sick and sometimes they get well again. But … Christ, it’s so fundamental to medicine they should work it into the Hippocratic oath: you can’t cure all of the people all of the time. It’s that simple, Marcus. That brutal.”

  Ford let go of West’s sleeve. He was right. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. That was why Haynes had the plaque on his desk. It was something you had to keep at the front of your mind.

  “And Sunny’s getting the best care there is,” said West. “You know that.”

  6

  He reached Kirkside Road just after two o’clock. The street was empty. The residents were at work, their kids in school. He had an overwhelming feeling of unreality. The harsh, flat light, the dusty-looking trees, the distant sound of a television game show, everything seemed utterly alien.

  He went into the house and got himself a beer from the kitchen. Then he walked through to Sunny’s bedroom. He stood for a while, looking at the pink floral wallpaper peeping through the patchwork of posters—Madonna and Whitney Houston holding their own against a variety of bands—heavy metal, acid house, gangsta rap. There was a scarf pinned over the bed on which the words DIRTY BLACK SUMMER had been stenciled in thick paint. Ford took the teddy bear from the top of the dresser and sat on the narrow bed.

  There was a little bald patch between the bear’s ears where Sunny had sucked and chewed through those formative years. Ford brought the toy to his mouth. It had a smell from … he couldn’t make out what it was exactly. There was a dustiness, a faint fruitiness that seemed to recall the past—afternoon light through closed curtains, Sunny playing on the floor in the middle of her scattered toys. Ford wished he could go back to that innocent space.

  He woke at four-thirty in the afternoon on Sunny’s bed. Looking up at the ceiling, he realized he had made the decision.

  When Lee finally came to the phone, he sounded agitated, out of breath.

  “Is everything okay?” asked Ford.

  “Yes, well, no. Not really. Mary Draper has come down with something.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. I know she was one of your key people. Apparently she picked up some kind of bronchial condition. They’ve just isolated Staphylococcus pneumoniae in her sputum.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “Of course everybody is praying it’s not a resistant strain, but … Well, there you have it. Have you thought about what you want to do?”

  Ford tightened his grip on the phone.

  “I want to go through with the operation.”

  “Okay. Good. As per our discussion?”

  “Yes.”

  “The panproctocolectomy and ileostomy?”

  “If that’s what you advise.”

  “Good. Yes, I do.”

  “And Conrad will…?”

  “He’s already agreed to take that responsibility.”

  “How soon do you want to do it?”

  “I think the sooner the better. I’ll talk to Dr. Allen about the OR schedules, but I’d be aiming for tomorrow morning.”

  That soon.

  “Oh … okay,” said Ford. “Dr. Lee?”

  “Yes.”

  “I appreciate all your efforts on Sunny’s behalf.”

  There was a pause. Then, putting a little steel into his voice, Lee said, “We’ll get her through this.”

  He hung up.

  Eighteen hours, thought Ford. Then they would cut Sunny open. He sat immobile for a time, vaguely aware that he was hungry.

  It was only then that he noticed the answering machine. It lay on a separate shelf under the teleph
one. The red light was winking on and off, indicating two messages. Helen. Her name lit up inside his head like a neon sign and was followed immediately by a rush of bitter feeling. But maybe she had found something out. Maybe she had only just gotten a chance to call him. Holding his breath, he pressed the messages button.

  The first caller had left nothing on the tape. There was a rustling noise, what sounded like a sigh, and then whoever it was hung up. The second call was from Dr. Wingate.

  “I’m sorry to bother you at home, Dr. Ford. It’s just that … well, I heard something about Edward Turnbull. You remember? My patient? I thought it was something you might be interested to know.”

  He left two numbers.

  Ford went through to the kitchen and got himself another beer. He couldn’t believe the news about Mary Draper. This was how it was going to be from now on. They were all on the front line.

  He went back into the living room and picked up the phone.

  Wingate picked up almost immediately. He sounded more relaxed than the last time they had spoken. He asked about Sunny, and Ford, not wanting to get into the details, said there was no real change.

  “Apparently you’ve been calling me at the hospital.”

  “Yes, a few times. I keep getting this lady…”

  “Gloria, yes, that’s right. I told her to give you my home number. She said you had something to tell me.”

  “Well … yes. Yes, I do. I don’t know what to make of it, to tell you the truth.”

  “To do with Edward Turnbull?”

  “Yes. As you know I’d been having a little trouble with his mother, Elizabeth Turnbull. I can’t say things have improved in that department. But … well, to get to the point, I was contacted by a Dr. Lloyd a few days ago. He was after Edward’s medical records.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s treating Edward now. It’s a private hospital, the Aurora, up in Mandeville Canyon. Do you know it?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, neither do I, very well. It’s small and, you know, very exclusive. Anyway the point is, after I sent the records, I followed up with a couple of calls. You know, I all but brought Edward into the world. I’ve known him since he was a baby. I wanted to know how the operation had gone.”