by Robin King
“It is the most progressive malignant brain tumor in humans,” I said, “accounting for fifty-two percent of all functional-tissue brain-tumor cases and twenty percent of all intercranial tumors.” I paused and waited for her to stop me, telling me she only wanted answers from real medical students.
When she didn’t reply, I continued to quote from memory what I had read recently. “Despite open craniotomy with surgical resection to remove as much of the tumor as possible, prognosis is poor, and median survival time is about fourteen months. Sequential chemoradiotherapy, antangiogenic therapy with bevacizuman, gamma knife radiosurgery, and the use of corticosteroids may sometimes prolong the survival time.” I tried not to stumble at the words I probably pronounced incorrectly.
Dr. Andrews wasn’t the only one staring at me now. Every eye in the room, except the poor unconscious patient, had turned in my direction. I couldn’t tell if they were astonished or annoyed at my answer, but I instantly regretted speaking. I tugged at the pant leg of my oversized scrubs and looked down. Why couldn’t I just hold my tongue?
“And what would you suggestion as a treatment plan, Ms. . . .”
“Stewart.” I kept my eyes on the patient, ignoring the stares from around the room.
“What would you tell our patient, Ms. Stewart?” The doctor chewed on her pen with her overly bleached teeth.
“The truth. That his prognosis isn’t good, but he can prolong his life by taking some of the steps I mentioned before. If he really wants to fight it, though, I would suggest getting him involved in the gene-transfer therapy that has been researched at UCLA. A company in San Diego is currently doing a clinical investigation. If he wants a chance to survive, that’s where he should go.”
“Thank you, Ms. Stewart. That is exactly what I would have suggested.” She cleared her throat. “Why don’t we all head to lunch? We will meet in the surgical wing in an hour.”
As we filed out of the hospital room, a hand grabbed my arm. I turned around to see Dr. Andrews with a scowl on her face. “So what did you do? Sneak a peek at the chart ahead of time?” She pursed her lips and glared at me.
“What?”
“How did you know the exact prognosis and the treatment plan we are pursuing?” The knuckles on her fingers turned white as she gripped the chart.
“I . . . I didn’t look at the chart. I read about glioblastomas recently and was intrigued when I heard about gene-transfer therapy so I did some research to find out more about it. That company in San Diego was the only one with a website.”
Her face relaxed. I hoped it meant she believed me. “Are you a third or fourth year?” she asked.
“I’m . . . I’m not a medical student. My friend’s father gave me permission to shadow you for a day. Dr. Mitchell? He said he had talked to you about me.”
“Oh, yes, I had completely forgotten.” She looked down at the chart. “I don’t keep track of all of the students who follow me around. I just assumed you were one I hadn’t met yet. I do apologize. You’re applying to the medical school this next year?”
“Um, no. I’m actually just doing some research for a project and wanted to get experience with how doctors perform in a hospital.”
“Oh. Well, I hope you rethink that. The caliber of students lately seems to be lacking.” Her eyes followed the young men and women walking in front of us. “We could use some students who actually study,” she said with a sneer, making me wonder if her bedside manner was as poor as her student-teacher relations. “I need to get prepped for surgery,” she declared before she swiftly strutted down the hall and out of sight.
Dr. Red had promised to meet me in the cafeteria and accompany me to the surgical wing of the hospital. I headed to the cafeteria and grabbed a turkey sandwich on wheat, a strawberry yogurt, and a chocolate-chip cookie. Dr. Red joined me with more on his tray than I could eat in two days.
“So how was your morning with Dr. Evil?” he managed to say without losing any of the food he was chewing.
“She wasn’t that bad, though she did accuse me of looking at the patient’s chart in advance.”
“You did what?” He coughed and took a drink of his soda.
“I didn’t look at any chart. I just told her what I would’ve done with her patient with the glioblastoma, and apparently I guessed her exact treatment plan.”
“How did you guess her plan?” Dr. Red cocked his eyebrow.
“I’ve just been doing a lot of reading lately in medical textbooks and journals, so I knew what she was talking about. It was just lucky.”
“Okay, well, I could use some of that fortune, lucky girl. If you get on Dr. Andrew’s good side, put a good word in for me.” He used the back of his hand to wipe the barbeque sauce dribbling from his mouth. Eeeww.
“So you and Will are getting pretty close then, huh?”
I almost choked on my sandwich. “Um, he’s a great tutor. Without him, my Spanish would be terrible.”
“Doubt that. He says you’re a natural.” Dr. Red took another swig of his soda.
“He’s just being nice. I’m sure the other students he tutors do even better.” I swirled my yogurt around with a plastic spoon.
“Nope. You’re the only one.”
“What?” I stopped stirring.
“He spends most of his time teaching or prepping for classes. When you don’t have much free time, you can’t help just anyone.” Dr. Red got a wide grin on his freckled face.
Embarrassed, I looked down. I’m the only student William tutors? We did have fun together when we met for Spanish practice and running, but I guess I thought he helped other students too. I stared down at my half-eaten lunch, trying to hide the giddy feeling in my stomach.
“You gonna eat that?” Dr. Red eyed the cookie on my tray.
“Go right ahead.”
He grabbed the cookie and took a bite. “Well, sounds like you are more than ready to see a real surgery.” He quickly stuffed the remainder of the cookie into his mouth before we left to meet the rest of the medical students.
Soon, we stood in an enclosed hallway where a glass window allowed us to observe the operating room. On the other side of the glass, Dr. Andrews pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. She wore a green surgical gown, a scrub cap, and a white mask. Another doctor and several nurses surrounded the patient. While Dr. Red and the other students and I stood watching the patient being prepped for surgery, a doctor entered the hallway and briefed us on the procedure for removing a gallbladder.
I had prepared myself to be entirely grossed out by an actual surgery. Seeing someone’s innards was not something I had dreamed of doing. Growing up I had always wanted to be a chemist or scientist, or something most of my childhood friends found equally boring compared to their dreams of being on a Wheaties box or starring on a TV show.
It seemed I had always been an adult trapped in a child’s body. Even at three years old, much to my parents’ dismay, I told my brother, who was five at the time, that there was no Santa Claus. After his torrential tears had dried up, I learned I should keep some things to myself. Fantasy gives people hope and excitement in life. It’s just hard to have an imagination when your mind records every fact.
The surgery enthralled me so much that I easily kept my mouth shut. The precision cut, the definitive movements of the surgeon’s hands, and the quick closure of the opening kept my attention. Even seeing the blood and the interior of the patient’s body fascinated me so much that I moved to the front of the room and almost pressed my head to the glass to get a closer look. Dr. Red elbowed me and grinned. “Maybe you should apply to the medical school,” he whispered.
I had never realized how complex the human body was. From reading medical textbooks and looking at diagrams, I knew the particulars on gallbladder surgery, but to actually see it was intense. Suddenly, I remembered how I felt on the way to St. Petersburg. Fear of the unknown coupled with excitement for something new had helped me choose a new path. I liked these feelings.
After observing the last surgery, I said goodbye to Dr. Red. I grabbed some fries and a shake at a fast-food joint on my way back to my dorm. I knew I should kick the habit of dinners filled with sugar and fat, but all the running and training at The Company was burning so many calories that I couldn’t help it. I figured the food would give me some extra energy for some late-night studying.
My Spanish and Russian classes were going fabulously (thanks to my tutors), but I still needed to work on my Chinese. Even my Advanced Physics class had been suffering slightly from my new load at school. I thought a Saturday night hitting the books, or in my case reviewing and understanding the books my brain had already taken photos of, would give me a head start for the next week.
Casey was gone when I got to the dorm, but she’d left a note telling me to join her at some art show off campus. She was always doing things like that—poetry readings, book signings, or film festivals. Her culture had a way of rubbing off onto the people around her. Out of guilt, I decided to hang out with her on Sunday and then resigned myself to a night of studying. I made some good progress with Chinese and physics. I didn’t need to study anatomy anymore after all the medical reading I had been doing, and thanks to William’s tutelage, Spanish was almost second nature now.
When I finished, I glanced at the clock. Only eight o-clock? I couldn’t go to sleep this early. I felt antsy from a day spent standing around. Maybe I would join Casey after all.
Under the note she had left for me was a short black dress. I threw off my clothes and squeezed into the spandex-like fabric. I peered in our full-length mirror and laughed. The dress must have been meant more for Casey’s petite frame. On me, it was skin tight and shorter than I felt comfortable wearing, exposing my pale white legs. I pulled on the hem, hoping to cover a few more inches of my thighs. At least the top of the dress more conservatively covered me, with cap sleeves and a scooped neckline. Not wanting to hurt Casey’s feelings, I slipped out the door and walked as inconspicuously as possible to my car.
The address in Casey’s note was in downtown Providence. I parked my car near the entrance of a very modern-looking building with an oddly sloped glass roof. It contrasted the old brick buildings surrounding it. I couldn’t decide what the twisted metal sculpture out front was supposed to be. I guessed even the artist had no idea.
Casey met me at the building entrance and looked me up and down. “Wow! You look hot! You should have worn that dress on your date.”
“Stop it.” I pulled at the hem again. “And it wasn’t a date.”
“Gorgeous guy cooks you dinner and it wasn’t a date. Hmm. I’m beginning to think I need to get you Dating for Dummies.”
I slugged her in the arm.
“Okay, okay. Enough about you then. This show is amazing, Alex. You have to see this awesome sculpture. I’ve been staring at it the last ten minutes. It’s incredible!”
In case it was anything like the sculpture out front, I prepared myself to act amazed, for Casey’s benefit. She grabbed my hand and pulled me quickly through the museum, not even pausing to let me see any other exhibits. I glanced over my shoulder once to make sure I knew how to get back to the entrance. The museum was full of patrons, some talking and laughing, and others intently concentrating on each work of art. The profile of a man with a cleanly shaven head caught my eye before Casey whipped me around the corner, leaving him out of my view.
The sculpture before us wasn’t really the art I was expecting. Thousands of books formed a monolith at least twenty feet high and just as wide and deep. The books’ spines faced inward, so that all that I could see were the deckled edges of unknown books. Each one was a different thickness, making the rows of books move like waves from one end to the other where they abruptly ended at a perfect ninety-degree angle. At first glance it seemed the books were placed randomly, but upon closer inspection I realized each book had been placed strategically so that several rows of books appeared to form a geological strata of sedimentary rock. I didn’t have to pretend to be impressed.
“Wow! This is amazing, Casey.”
“Isn’t it great?” She stared at the sculpture like a woman in love. If there hadn’t been a plaque that read “Do Not Touch,” I’m sure she would have run her fingers along every book she could reach. A draft of cool air blew past the sculpture, filling my nose with the musty aroma of the antique shop I once visited with my dad to find a tea set for my mom.
My love of literature and the sheer size of the sculpture had me in awe. The scene from William’s bedroom with his shelves of books flashed through my mind. I indulgently started to replay our interaction by his window, when a man came over to stand beside me. I couldn’t see where Casey was and assumed she had moved to the other side of the sculpture.
“Secrets can be intriguing,” a heavily accented voice said next to me.
“Excuse me?” I turned to face the man.
Elijah, my driver from Russia, looked just as I remembered him. He wore a tailored black suit and leather shoes. The silver cuff links on his crisp white shirt glistened in the museum’s halogen lighting.
“What are you—”
He cut me off. “The titles of the books are concealed. I’m not sure the sculpture would be as enticing to the eyes if the titles were showing.”
“Yeah, I guess it does make it more interesting.” I faced the books again. I wanted to thank him again for rescuing me, but scenes from my excursion to Russia played through my mind. My heartbeat began to pick up.
“We dance round in a ring and suppose. But the Secret sits in the middle and knows,” Elijah quoted.
“Robert Frost,” I replied almost automatically.
“You have a love of literature, I see?”
“I’m glad other people can put into words what I can’t.”
“If you love the classics, read Much Ado about Nothing, act II, scene 1. Claudio has some good insight in line 178.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve read that play,” I lied, the text already filling my head.
“If you like it, you might want to check out one of the lesser-known Shakespearean tragedies, Troilus and Cressida. I enjoy the part where Pandarus spouts his frustration in act 5, scene 10.” Elijah’s blue eyes remained fixed on the sculpture.
I flashed to when he drove me in St. Petersburg, his gaze always fixed on the road ahead, like he saw something I couldn’t. What is he trying to tell me? And why is he being so specific about Shakespeare?
“I’ll have to check them out.” I tried to sound sure of myself.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Casey reappear from her love affair with the book sculpture.
“Casey!” I called out to her, my voice low in keeping with museum etiquette. She looked up and bounced toward me, her large silver wind-chime earrings and matching necklace jangling with each step. Several heads turned to see who was making the noise. So much for museum etiquette.
“Casey, this is . . .” I turned back to where Elijah was standing, but he had vanished.
My roommate eyed me curiously with her nearly black eyes, then shrugged and pulled me over to another exhibit. I spent the next hour smiling, nodding, and quietly agreeing with her assessment of each work of art. In actuality, my mind was far from appreciating paintings and sculptures. Having read Much Ado about Nothing a few years back, I kept going over the excerpt Elijah had mentioned.
Let every eye negotiate for itself
And trust no agent; for beauty is a witch
Against whose charms faith melteth in blood.
Even though I saw the words and kept repeating them over and over, I still didn’t know why Elijah wanted me to read them. I couldn’t compare them to the words from Troilus and Cressida because I had never read it. All I needed was a copy of that play and a better understanding of the Bard’s imagery and the English language as spoken in the sixteenth century. An eidetic memory might be good for recall. It just didn’t translate Shakespeare into something I understood. But I knew someone who cou
ld help.
17
The Accident
The streetlights barely lit up the walkway leading to William’s front door. I paced the sidewalk in front of his house a few minutes before advancing to his front steps. My knuckles rapped quietly on the door. It was a Saturday night. No one would be home anyway. The deadbolt slid inside the door. It was probably just Devin or Dr. Red, not . . .
William answered the door in faded jeans and a threadbare gray T-shirt. “Alex?” He ran his fingers through his rumpled hair. “Did we have study plans?” He eyed my black dress with a raised eyebrow.
I tugged at the hem. I should’ve gone home and changed.
“No, no. I, um, I know it is kind of late . . .”
“No worries. I’m actually waiting for Devin to get back with Chinese. It was his night to cook, which means we get late-night takeout.”
William laughed, and the sound made my stomach twirl. Just get to the point, Alex. “I need to read Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida. Do you happen to have it? The library is already closed.” Not that I couldn’t find it on the internet. I go to a professor’s house after ten at night to borrow a book—a professor I already decided I can’t get closer to. What is wrong with me? I teetered on my heels, and the streetlight hit William’s eyes in just the right place to make the blue look almost translucent. My mind suddenly felt foggy. Now why can’t I get close to him again?
“Yeah, I’ve got a book with several of Shakespeare’s plays. Come in and I’ll go grab it.”
I entered his small living room and took a seat on a pale green wing-back chair while he ran upstairs. I was thankful he went alone as I imagined what it would have looked like to walk those steep stairs in a painted-on dress and high heels, not to mention the kiss that almost happened in his room last time. Tingles went up my arms as I remembered his finger on my lips.
Get a hold of yourself, Alex. He is your professor, for crying out loud! Plus, you work for The Company now. You don’t have time for new relationships or the energy to keep any more secrets. Just get the book and run.