The Sisterhood

by Michael Palmer

  “I’m going to take a shower,” Lauren said after a few moments. She was already out of bed, pulling on a blue velour dressing gown.

  “Want company?”

  “I think it’s the right time for a little space and some hot, soapy water. Go make some breakfast. I’ll get myself squeaky clean and we’ll give this day a fresh start over a cup of coffee.”

  David sat staring out at the glittering new day until he heard the sound of water against tile. The day, possibly the most important one for him in years, was not starting out the way he had planned. By now he was to have told Lauren about the exciting turn of events at the hospital. Events that might well mark the beginning of the end to so much of the frustration and disappointment that had colored his life. By now he was to have reaffirmed his desire to have her move in with him, and she was to have at last agreed that it was time.

  “Just calm down, Shelton, and let things happen,” he said, clenching his hands, then consciously relaxing them. “Everything is finally coming together. Nothing, no one, can mess them up again except you.”

  He selected a frayed, green surgical scrub suit from the half-dozen stuffed in a bureau drawer, dressed, and walked to the window. Four stories below, a few early risers were crossing the still-shaded islands of Commonwealth Avenue. He wondered how many of them were feeling the same sense of anticipation he was—the excitement of facing a new beginning. Beginnings. The thought brought a wistful smile. How many times had he, himself, felt that way? High school, college, medical school. Ginny, Becky. So many beginnings. Beginnings as promising as this one. David sighed. Was the morning the start of a page, of a chapter, or perhaps of a whole new story? Whatever it was to be, he felt ready. For of all the bright beginnings in his life since the accident and the nightmare year that had followed the deaths of his wife and daughter, this was the first one he completely trusted.

  The apartment, though small, gave the illusion of roominess, born largely of tall windows and ten-foot ceilings—trademarks of many dwellings in the Back Bay section of the city. A long, narrow corridor connected the bedroom to a living room cluttered with near-antique furniture, a dining alcove, and a tiny kitchen that faced an alleyway at the rear of the building. The front and bathroom doors faced one another midway down the hall.

  Humming an off-key rendition of the Haydn symphony, David shuffled to the kitchen. Usually, he would exercise and run before eating, but this morning, he decided, could be an exception. He was a muscular man, with broad shoulders and powerful arms that made him appear heavier than his 175 pounds. There were slivers of gray throughout his black, bushy hair. His wide, youthful eyes ran the spectrum from bright blue to pale green, depending on the light. Fine creases, once transient and now indelible, traversed his forehead and the bridge of his nose.

  He stood in the center of the kitchen rubbing his hands together with mock professionalism. “Zo, ve crrreate ze brrreakfast.” He swung open the refrigerator door. “Ze choices, zey are many, yes?” His voice echoed back from near-empty shelves.

  Once, after hopelessly blackening two steaks, he had announced to Lauren, “I think I’ll write a culinary arts book for the single man. I’m going to call it Cooking for None.”

  Selecting breakfast fare was not difficult. “Let us zee … ve could haf tomato juice or … tomato juice. Ze English muffin, eet looks nice, non? … And zee five ecks, zey beg to be scrrrambled, yes?”

  Lauren breezed into the dining alcove as he was setting their meal on the table. “Nicely done,” she said, surveying his work. “You’ll make a wonderful wife for someone someday.” A few strands of glistening hair fell from beneath the towel she had wrapped around her head. Her smile announced that, as advertised, she was starting the morning over again.

  “So,” David said deliberately, “what are your plans for this day?” He was pleased at having fought back the impulse to blurt out his good news. He would disclose it casually, in the same matter-of-fact way Lauren so often told him about the luncheon she had been to at the White House or the assignment she had won to cover thus-or-so senator’s campaign.

  “David, do you have something you want to tell me? she said.

  “Pardon?” He stretched for one last bit of insouciance.

  Lauren smiled. “My college roommate once had a surprise party for me. Just before everyone jumped out and yelled, she had the same expression on her face as you do now.”

  “Well, I guess I do have a little good news,” he said, his nonchalance now a parody. “Dr. Wallace Huttner—the Dr. Wallace Huttner—is leaving town tomorrow for a few days.”

  “And?”

  “And … he’s asked me to make rounds with him this evening and to take over his patients until he gets back.”

  “Oh, David, that’s wonderful,” Lauren said. “Wallace Huttner! I’m impressed. The most widely acclaimed pair of hands to come out of Boston since Arthur Fiedler.”

  “Well, now we know that he’s smart enough to recognize true surgical talent when he sees it. I’m covering his practice until he gets back from a three-day conference on the Cape.”

  “And there you sit, trying to impress me with how blasé you can act about the whole thing. What a funny duck you are, David.”

  The scrambled eggs, none too appetizing to begin with, remained on her plate as Lauren fired one question after another at him.

  “Huttner was written up in Time, do you know that?”

  “So he’s operated on a few sheiks and prime ministers. He still puts his scrub suit on one leg at a time, just like the rest of us.”

  “Be serious for once, will you? Could this mean more money for you?”

  David’s eyes narrowed. He studied her face for a few seconds, looking for more than superficial interest behind her question. Although his lack of a typical surgeon’s salary came up infrequently, a battle of some sort was sure to follow whenever it did. Lauren seemed unable or unwilling to accept the fickle economic realities of a medical specialty that was dependent on referrals from other physicians, especially in a city like Boston with its surfeit of doctors.

  Even after two years at Boston Doctors Hospital he realized that many of his colleagues still had reservations about him. Word had filtered back. “Shelton? Oh, yes, I suppose I could refer this woman to him. But she’s not the easiest person to deal with and, frankly, I’m just not sure he could handle her. I mean that trouble he got into, going to pieces after his wife and kid died. I’d like to help him out, I really would. But what would I look like to my patient if I send her to a surgeon and he up and comes unglued?”

  It wasn’t easy. He had never expected it would be. Lauren’s concern over his financial situation was understandable, albeit somewhat discouraging. It would take time, he tried to explain. That’s all—just some time.

  Her expression appeared nonjudgmental. Still, David tiptoed around the issue. “Well, Huttner is chief of the department. It should mean more acceptance from the doctors who refer patients to surgeons.” Any acceptance from most of them would be an improvement, he reflected ruefully. He still appeared in the operating room so infrequently that the nurses sometimes stood around after he entered, waiting for the surgeon to arrive.

  “Is he grooming you to be his partner?”

  “Lauren, the man hardly knows me! He just saw the chance to throw a few crumbs in the direction of a doc who’s struggling some, that’s all.”

  “Well, Mr. Ice Water,” she said, smiling, “you can act any way you want to. I’ll stay excited enough for both of us. What time do you take over for him?”

  “I’m meeting him at the hospital at six. We should be done by eight or nine and … God, that reminds me. The Rosettis invited us for dinner, either tonight or tomorrow. I told them we’d—”

  “I can’t make it,” Lauren said. “I mean I have to work. ”

  “You don’t like them, do you?”

  “David, please, we’ve been over this before. I think the Rosettis are very nice people.” Her words were h
ollow. David’s unsuccessful attempts to draw her into his long-standing friendship with the tavern owner and his wife remained a source of tension.

  “Okay, I’ll phone Joey and get a raincheck,” David said, relieved that he was able to put the matter to rest without a major confrontation.

  “That would be fine. Really.” It was Lauren’s way of thanking him for his restraint. “I do have to work. In fact, I’m flying to Washington this morning. The President’s going to announce details of his latest economic program and the service wants me to cover it from the personal, human side. I’ll probably be there for a couple of days.”

  “In that case, you’ll need all the nourishment you can get.” He nodded at her untouched breakfast. “Want seconds on the eggs?”

  Lauren glanced at her watch, stood up, and stretched as high as she could reach. “Just leave them there until I get back from Washington.” She walked halfway toward the bedroom before adding, “They can only improve with age.” She giggled and dashed down the corridor as David sprang up to give chase. She waited until he had nearly reached the bedroom door before pushing it closed and flipping the lock.

  “You’ll live to regret this,” David called out through the door. “Someday I’m going to become a famous chef and marry the Countess of Lusitania. Then I’ll be lost to you forever.”

  Twenty minutes later, Lauren emerged from the bedroom, breathtaking in a burgundy suit and beige blouse. A silk scarf was draped loosely about her neck. “No caveman stuff, David,” she said, anticipating his hug and blocking it with an outstretched hand. “This outfit has to last me at least a day. Listen, I almost forgot. You might be able to help me out.”

  “Only in exchange for caveman stuff.”

  “David, this is serious.”

  “Okay.” He motioned that he was ready to listen.

  “Senator Cormier’s office announced that he’s entering your hospital in the next day or two for an operation. Gall bladder, I think.”

  “You sure? Cormier seems more the White Memorial than the Boston Doctors type.”

  Lauren nodded. “Could he be coming in as Huttner’s patient?”

  “No chance. Huttner would never go away with that kind of prestige coming in on his service.”

  “Do you think you could get in to see him? Or even better, get me in to see him? His campaign for a stiff windfall profits tax against the oil companies has made him really big stuff. An exclusive interview would be an ostrich-sized feather in my cap.”

  “I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee any—”

  “Thanks, you’re a dear.”

  Lauren wished him luck with his new responsibilities, squeezed his hands, and kissed him lightly on the mouth. Then, with a final, “Be a good boy, now,” she walked out of the apartment and down the hall to the elevator.

  For several minutes David stood silently by the door, breathing in her perfume, but feeling only a strange emptiness. “At least she could have tasted them,” he said as he began to clear the table. “In spite of what they looked like.”

  * * *

  The night watchman was fat. Fat and agonizingly slow From a recessed doorway, the nurse, a fragile-looking woman with hair the color of pale sun, watched and waited as he lumbered down the hallway. Now and again he stopped to poke at the door of a storage room or to check one of the bank of staff lockers lining the wall. B-2 West, the subbasement of the west wing of Boston Doctors Hospital, was, but for the two of them, deserted.

  The nurse looked about at the grime, illuminated by bare ceiling light bulbs, and her skin began to itch. She was a petite woman, impeccably groomed, with makeup so meticulously applied it was almost invisible. Impatiently, she rubbed her thumbs across her fingertips. The watchman was taking forever. She glanced at her watch. Forty-five, maybe fifty minutes of safe time—more than enough, provided she could get moving and avoid any other unanticipated delays. A roach crawled over the tip of her shoe and for a moment she thought she was going to be sick. She forced herself to relax and waited.

  Finally, the watchman was done. He keyed the security box, began whistling the “Colonel Bogey March,” and, after a few in-place steps, strutted off to his own accompaniment. To some the man might have looked silly, or jovial, or even cute. To the delicate woman observing him he was, quite simply, repulsive.

  She waited an extra few seconds, moved quickly down the row of lockers to number 178, then dialed the combination printed on the card Dahlia had sent her. The thin, half-filled syringe was right where she had been told it would be. She briefly held it to the light, then dropped it into the front pocket of her spotless uniform. Another check of the time and she headed for the tunnel leading to the south wing. She rode the elevator to Two South, then slipped into the rear stairwell and hurried up two more flights. Ducking into Room 438, she stopped, regaining her breath in soundless gulps. Through the gloom she could see John Chapman. The man was asleep, tucked in a fetal position, his face toward her. From beneath the sheet a catheter drained clear urine into a plastic collecting system.

  Chapman’s recovery following kidney surgery had been uneventful. The woman smiled at the thought. Uneventful … until now.

  She checked the corridor. A nurse’s aide—the first arrival of her day shift—had just stepped off the elevator. The fragile night peace was holding, but the nurse knew that within half an hour it would yield to the chaos of day. The time was now. Her pulse quickened. Anaphylactic shock! Almost fifteen years in hospital nursing and she had never even seen a full-blown case, let alone watched one from start to finish.

  She moved to the bedside. There, on the nightstand, were the flowers. A glorious spray of lilies. Taped to the vase was the card.

  “Best Wishes, Lily.” She whispered the words without actually reading them. There was no need. They were her words.

  On the table next to the vase lay Chapman’s silver necklace and medic-alert tag. She illuminated the disc with her penlight. Again she smiled. It said:

  DIABETIC

  ALLERGIC TO PENICILLIN

  ALLERGIC TO BEE STINGS

  The small syringe in her hand held the bee venom concentrate used by allergists to desensitize their high-risk patients. Although practically speaking the dose was enormous, it was still minute enough to escape detection during a conventional autopsy.

  John Chapman’s cocoa face was loose and relaxed. Even asleep he seemed to be smiling. The nurse pulled over a straight-backed chair and sat. With one hand, she slipped the needle through the rubber stopper of his I.V. tubing. With the other, she gently shook him by the shoulder.

  “Mr. Chapman, John, wake up,” she cooed. “It’s morning. ”

  Chapman’s eyes eased open. “Little Angel? Zat you?” His voice was a rich bass. A boyhood in Jamaica twenty-five years before still tinged the edges of his words. He focused on her and smiled. “My, but you are somethin’ to gaze upon,” he said. “Is it really morning or are you just one of my dreams?”

  “No dream,” she answered. “But I am a little early. My shift doesn’t start for another half hour or so.” She depressed the plunger, emptying the venom into the intravenous line. “I came in early just to see you.”

  “What?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she watched intently as a quizzical expression crossed Chapman’s face, which quickly gave way to apprehension.

  “I … I feel funny, Angel,” he said. “Real funny.” Panic crept into his voice. “I’m starting to tingle all over.… Angela, somethin’s happening to me. Some-thin’ awful. I feel like I am going to die.”

  The woman looked at him blandly. You are, she thought. You are. At that instant the full force of the anaphylactic reaction hit. The lining of John Chapman’s nose and throat swelled nearly shut. The muscles surrounding his bronchial tubes went into spasm. The nurse spun around to be certain the room door was closed. The reaction was more rapid, more spectacular than she had ever imagined it would be. In fact, she decided, it was more spectacular than anything she had ev
er witnessed.

  “An … gel … please.…” Chapman’s words were barely audible. His eyes had swollen shut.

  Instinctively, she checked for a pulse, but she knew that vascular collapse had already occurred. A second later, the last sliver of air space in Chapman’s respiratory passage closed. He rolled to his back and was still.

  The nurse with pale sun hair held her breath during the final moments, then exhaled. Her faultless fece glowed with a beatific smile, acknowledging that once again she had done her job well.

  The Seth Thomas wall clock in his living room showed seven thirty when David finished stacking the dishes in the sink and changed into a navy blue sweat suit. He made a deliberate study of his small record collection before selecting Copeland’s Rodeo and then began a series of slow-motion stretching exercises and calisthenics.

  The Copeland was a perfect choice, he thought as he dragged a set of weights out from behind the couch. For ten minutes he lifted in various positions and angles, pushing himself harder than usual until the tension of Lauren’s unemotional departure left him.

  The weights had come to be as much mental as physical therapy—a morning ritual for almost five years, begun the day David had decided to return to surgery by repeating the last two grueling years of residency. That same day he smoked his last cigarette and ran his first mile. Within a few months he had more than regained the stamina lost during three years away from the operating room.

  Glistening from the workout, he grabbed his stopwatch and keys, stuffing them into the pocket of his sweatpants as he stepped out the door.

  He bypassed the narrow, rickety elevator in favor of the stairs at the end of the hall. Trotting down four flights and across the dimly lit foyer of the building, he pushed through the front doors and out onto Commonwealth Avenue.