Coma (21 page)

The memory of that event slowed Susan’s steps but it did not halt them. She was determined. But she had seemingly been walking for a hundred yards as the corridor twisted first in one direction then in another. She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder, wondering if she could have missed the door to the lab. With increased misgivings she continued. At several places, the lightbulbs were not functioning and Susan’s shadow would appear in front of her and lengthen. Then as she moved into the sphere of influence of the next functioning light her shadow would pale and disappear.

Finally she faced two swinging doors. The upper portion of each contained opaque windows.

“Unauthorized Entry Forbidden” was lettered boldly across the cracked, frosted glass on each door. Stenciled in peeling gold paint below the window on the right door was “Pathology Laboratory.” Susan hesitated at the door, building up her confidence, wondering what sort of scene to prepare herself for. Cracking the door, she got a glimpse of the interior. A long black stone table dominated the room, running most of its length. Cluttered about on the table were microscopes, slides, slide boxes, chemicals, books, and an array of other equipment. Susan pushed open the door and stepped into the lab. The acrid smell of formaldehyde hung over the room.

The entire wall on the right had shelving from floor to ceiling. With hardly a square inch remaining, the shelves were full of varying sized bottles and jars. Looking more closely, Susan realized that the amorphous colorless mass in the large jar closest to her was an entire human head cut neatly in half, sagitally. Just behind the halved tongue in the wall of the throat was a granular mass. The label on the glass simply said, “Pharyngeal carcinoma, #304-A6 1932.” Susan shuddered and tried to keep herself from glancing at other equally gruesome specimens.

At the far end of the room was another set of swinging doors identical to those from the corridor. From the room beyond, Susan could hear a mixture of voices and metallic sounds. She walked toward the doors as silently as possible, feeling herself an intruder in an alien and potentially hostile environment.

Susan tried to peer through the crack between the doors. Although her visual field was limited she knew immediately that she was looking into the autopsy room. Slowly she began to open the left door.

A loud ringing noise echoed around the room causing Susan to spin around, letting the autopsy room door snap shut behind her. At first she thought that she had tripped some alarm system and she felt the urge to bolt for the door into the corridor. But before she could move, a pathology resident appeared out of another side door.

“Well, hello there,” said the resident to Susan as he walked over to the sink and picked up a distilled water irrigator. He smiled at Susan as he squirted water over a tray of slides he was staining. The color went from deep violet to clear. “Welcome to the path lab. You a med student?”

“Yes.” Susan forced a smile.

“We don’t see many med students this time of day . . . or night. Is there anything special we can do for you?”

“No, not really. I’m just looking around. I’m quite new here,” said Susan putting her hands in the pockets of her white coat, her pulse racing.

“Make yourself at home. There’s coffee in the office here if you’re interested.”

“No thanks,” said Susan walking back along the desk, aimlessly touching some of the slide boxes.

The resident added another amber stain to the tray of slides and reset the timer.

“Actually, maybe you could help me,” said Susan fingering a few slides on the table. “Several patients from Beard 6 expired today. I wondered if they’ve been . . . um . . .” Susan tried to think of the right word.

“What were the names?” asked the resident wiping his hands. “There’s a post going on right now.”

“Ferrer and Crawford.”

The resident walked over to a clipboard hanging from a nail on the wall.

“Hmmm . . . Crawford. That rings a bell. I think that was a medical examiner’s case. Here’s Ferrer . . . that’s a medical examiner’s case. And I was right, Crawford is too. They’re both medical examiner’s cases, but hold on.”

The resident walked quietly over to the doors into the autopsy room and banged one open with the palm
of his hand. With his right hand holding the edge of the remaining closed door he leaned into the room beyond, his head just out of Susan’s view.

“Hey, Hamburger, what’s the name of the case you’re doing?”

There was a pause and a voice but Susan could not hear it.

“Crawford! I thought that was an examiner’s case.” There was another pause.

The resident came back into the room as the timer went off again. The ringing noise made Susan jump once more. The resident squirted more distilled water onto the slides.

“The medical examiner released both cases to the department, as usual. Lazy son of a bitch. Anyway they’re doing Crawford right now.”

“Thanks,” said Susan. “All right if I go in and take a look?”

“By all means, our pleasure,” said the resident, shrugging his shoulders.

Susan paused momentarily at the doors, but she knew the resident was watching her, so she pushed open one of the doors and entered the room.

The room was probably forty feet square, old and dingy. Its walls were surfaced in white tile, which was ancient, cracked, and missing in places. The floor was a type of gray terrazzo. In the center of the room there were marble tables built with slanted tops. A stream of water constantly ran down each table toward a drain at the foot, which emitted a constant sucking noise. Over each table hung a hooded light, a scale, and a microphone. Susan found herself standing on a level three to four steps above the level of the main floor. Immediately to her right were several wooden benches on progressively lower tiers. These benches were a remnant from older days when groups would assemble to observe autopsies.

Only one of the hooded lights was on, that over the table nearest to Susan. It cast its relatively narrow beam down onto the naked corpse on the table immediately below. On each side of the table stood a pathology resident wearing an oilcloth apron and rubber gloves. The focal point of light caused the rest of the room to slide into graded burnt umber shadow like a sinister Rembrandt painting. The table in the center of the room was in shadow but it was possible for Susan to see that it also held a naked corpse, a manila tag tied around its right big toe. A large Y-shaped sutured incision crossed the thorax and abdomen. The third
table was barely visible in the darkness, but it appeared to be empty.

Susan’s entrance stopped all progress in the room. Both residents were staring at her with their heads tilted down to avoid the glare of the overhead light. One of the residents with a large moustache and sideburns, was in the process of suturing the Y-shaped incision on the male corpse under the light. The other resident, taller by almost a foot, was standing before a basin containing the disemboweled organs.

Having sized up Susan, the taller resident went back to work. He reached into the tangle of organs with his left hand, grasping the liver. His right hand gripped a large, razor-sharp butcher knife. A few strokes freed the liver from the other organs. The liver made a sloshing sound as it oozed into the scale. The resident stepped on a foot pedal on the floor, speaking into the microphone. “The liver appears reddish brown with a lightly mottled surface, period. The gross weight is . . . a . . . two point four kilograms, period.” He then reached into the pan and lifted the liver out, dropping it back into the basin.

Susan descended several steps toward the group. The smell was slightly fishy; the air seemed greasy and heavy, like an uncleaned bus depot restroom.

“The liver consistency is more firm than usual but definitely pliant, period.” The knife flashed in the light and the liver surface separated. “The cut surface demonstrates an enhanced lobar pattern, period.” The knife sliced across the liver in four or five more places, then finally cut a piece out of the center. “The cut specimen demonstrates the usual friable character, period.”

Susan moved up to the foot of the table. The sucking drain was directly in front of her. The taller resident on the left reached into the basin for another organ but he stopped when the moustached resident spoke.

“Well, hello . . .”

“Greetings,” said Susan, “sorry to bother you.”

“No bother. Join the party, except we’ve almost finished.”

“Thanks, but I’m happy to just watch. Is this Crawford or Ferrer?”

“This is Ferrer,” said the resident. Then he pointed at the other body. “That’s Crawford.”

“I was wondering if you’ve determined a cause of death.”

“No,” said the taller resident. “But we haven’t opened the lungs on this case yet. Crawford was clean grossly. Maybe the microscopic sections will shed some light.”

“Do you expect something in the lungs?” asked Susan.

“Well, from the history of apparent respiratory arrest, we were considering pulmonary embolism. But I don’t think we’re going to find anything, though. Maybe there’ll be something in the brain sections.”

“Why don’t you think you’ll find anything?”

“Well, because I’ve posted a few cases like this before, and I’ve never found anything. And the history is exactly the same. Relatively young, somebody comes by and they’re not breathing. There’s a resuscitation attempt but without luck. Then we get them, or at least after the medical examiner turns them over to us.”

“About how many such cases would you estimate?”

“Over what time span?”

“Whatever . . . a year, two years.”

“Maybe six or seven over the last two years. I’m guessing.”

“And you don’t have any ideas about the cause of death?”

“Nope.”

“None?” asked Susan, a bit surprised.

“Well, I think it’s something with the brain. Something turns off their breathing. Maybe a stroke, but I did brain sections like you wouldn’t believe on two similar cases.”

“And?”

“Nothing. Clean as a whistle.”

Susan began to feel a bit queasy. The atmosphere, the smell, the images, the noises all joined forces to make her feel light-headed and she shuddered with a mild wave of nausea. She swallowed.

“Are the hospital charts for Ferrer and Crawford down here?”

“Sure, they’re in the coffee room through the lab.”

“I’d like to look at them for a few minutes. If you find anything significant, would you give me a yell? I’d be interested in seeing it.”

The taller resident lifted the heart and placed it on the scale. “These your patients?”

“Not exactly,” said Susan, starting toward the exit, “but they might be.”

The taller resident looked quizzically over at the other as Susan left. His companion was watching Susan exit, trying to figure out a smooth way of getting her name and number.

The coffee room could have been anywhere in the hospital. The coffee machine was an ancient device, the paint on one side burned and the wire frayed to the point of being a real hazard. The countertop desk along both side walls was spread with charts, paper, books, coffee cups, and a welter of ballpoint pens.

“That was quick,” said the resident who had been staining the slides. He was sitting at one of the desks, with a half-filled cup of coffee and a half-eaten doughnut. He was busy signing a large stack of typed pathology reports.

“Autopsies are apparently too much for me,” admitted Susan.

“You get used to it, like everything else,” said the resident, stuffing more doughnut into his mouth.

“Possibly. Where would I look for the charts of the patients they are posting?”

The resident washed down the doughnut with coffee, swallowing with some effort.

“In that shelf marked ‘Post.’ When you finish with them, put them over there in the shelf marked ‘Medical Records’ because we’re finished with them.”

Turning to the rear wall, Susan faced a series of cubic shelves. One of the shelves was marked “Post.” On it she found Ferrer’s and Crawford’s charts. Clearing one of the desks of debris, Susan sat down and took out her notebook. At the top of an empty page she wrote, “Crawford,” on the top of another page she wrote, “Ferrer.” Methodically she began to extract the charts as she had done with Nancy Greenly’s.

February 24

8:05 A.M.

Susan had found it unbelievably difficult to emerge from the warmth and comfort of her bed when the radio alarm went off the following morning. The fact that it was a Linda Ronstadt selection was a big help in that it caused some degree of pleasant association in Susan’s mind and instead of turning the radio off, she lay there and let the sounds and rhythm course through her. By the time the song was over Susan was fully awake, her mind beginning to race over the events of the previous day. The night before, at least until three
A.M.
, had been passed in deep concentration with the large pile of journal articles, the books on anesthesiology, her own internal medicine book, and her clinical neurology text. She had amassed an enormous amount of notes, and her bibliography had increased to some one hundred articles that she planned to drag from the library stacks. The project had become more complex, more demanding, yet at the same time more fascinating, more absorbing. As a consequence Susan had become even more determined, and she realized that she was going to have to accomplish a great deal that day.

Shower, dressing, and breakfast were dispatched with commendable speed. During breakfast, she reread some of her notes, realizing that she would have to reread the last few articles she had read the night before.

The walk to the MBTA stop on Huntington Avenue proved to Susan that the weather had not changed and she cursed the fact that Boston had to be situated so far north. With luck she found a seat on the aging streetcar and was able to unfold a portion of her IBM printout. She wanted to check once more the number of cases which it suggested.

“Good to see you, Susan. Don’t tell me you’re going to go to lecture today?”

Susan looked up into the grinning face of George Niles, who was holding on to the bar above her head.