Duby's Doctor (21 page)

He listened to unanswered ringtones until
Mitchell’s answering machine picked up the call. After the beep, he
said, “
Michel
, it’s me. Pick up, please. If you’re home,
pick up.”

Nothing happened.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m going to call your
cellphone. Call me at the hospital if you get this before I talk to
you.
Au revoir
.”

He disconnected and dialed another number.
Mitchell’s cellphone went straight to voicemail. “It’s me,” he
said. “I left you a message at home, too.”

He paused. He sighed. Then he said, more
urgently, “Are you all right? If you don’t want to talk to me, it’s
okay, but please, I need to know if you’re all right. Call the
hospital, please?”

He sighed again. “
Au revoir
.”

He hung up the phone, and when he replaced it
on the bedside table, it seemed much heavier than it had been when
he lifted onto the bed.

His door swung open, and Jean watched it
hopefully, but his hope faded when an older male doctor entered,
smiling.

“Good morning,
Jean
-who-is-not-French. I’m Doctor Goldberg.” He extended
a hand in greeting. “We met when I was here visiting with Doctor
Oberon several months ago.”

Jean shook his hand. “
Oui
, I remember.
How are you?” It was not what he wanted to ask, but it was
polite.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Goldberg said pleasantly.
“I came to see how you’re doing this morning. I actually saw you
last night when they brought you in, but I know you don’t remember
any of that.”

“Where is
Mi
—Doctor Oberon,
please?”

Goldberg looked away from Jean’s face and
busied himself with reading the chart at the foot of the bed. “I
assume she is at home, resting,” he said, too casually. “I
understand she’s taking some personal leave. Let’s take a look at
that leg, shall we?”

Jean made no sound as Goldberg unwrapped the
elastic bandages and set aside the cold packs shrouding the left
knee. Goldberg poked and prodded and manipulated the knee.

Jean flinched, sucked air, but said
nothing.

Goldberg replaced the bandages, this time
without the cold packs. “We’ll get some heat on that today. Might
make you more comfortable.”

“Mmm.”

“We took x-rays and an MRI last night,”
Goldberg said. “I just came from meeting with the specialists who
read the pictures. We all agree that if you want to retain any
range of motion in the joint, we need to schedule you for surgery
this afternoon. Tomorrow morning at the latest. The first 48 hours
is the golden window. Every day we wait beyond that means the
repairs will be less effective.”

Jean looked at the doctor as if he had
suggested blowing up the Lincoln Memorial at noon on July 4th. “You
want to operate on
Michel
’s knee?”

“Yes. That’s the short version, yes.”

“What did
Michel
say about it?”

“Well, ahm, nothing,” Goldberg answered
honestly. “She’s not here. I can try to reach her, if you like.
But, if you just want a second opinion, there are other
doctors—”

“
Merci
,” Jean interrupted, “but I do
not want other doctors’ opinions. I want the opinion of Doctor
Oberon.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Goldberg said,
nodding. “I’ll try to reach Doctor Oberon. But, I have to stress
that time is of the essence if you want the best result. What if I
can’t reach Doctor Oberon before tomorrow morning?”

“I will wait until Doctor Oberon can come,”
Jean said with absolute calm.

Goldberg sighed, smiled at Jean, then made
some notes on Jean’s chart.

“Let me do this, then,” Goldberg suggested.
“If it’s okay with you, I’m going to reserve an operating room for
tomorrow morning. If Doctor Oberon can be here by then, everything
goes forward as scheduled. If, for some reason, we don’t reach
Doctor Oberon, you can cancel the surgery if you’re sure you want
to. I, of course, reserve the right to try to talk you out of
waiting any longer, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
D’accord
?”

Jean thought a moment. “
Oui
.
Trés
bien
.”

Goldberg nodded and replaced the chart at the
end of the bed. “Okay,” he said. “I’ve left a standing order for
pain meds if you need them. Use them, please. Also, we started you
on some antibiotics last night, for the shoulder wound, and I’m
continuing those for now. Drink lots of water. Rest. I’ll see you
tomorrow morning, if not sooner.”

“
Oui
.
Merci
.”

“
Au revoir, Jean
,” said
Goldberg.

“
Au revoir
.”

Goldberg left Jean’s room and crossed the
corridor to the nurses’ station. He spoke to Nurse Erskine there.
“What’s the story on Doctor Oberon?” he asked.

“You read the papers,” answered Erskine. “You
know as much as I do.”

“I heard she got caught in the middle of some
drug deal gone bad in Coconut Grove, at the Arts Festival last
weekend.”

“Yep, innocent bystander,” Erskine said. “And
when Jean tried to stop them, they shot him. He’s lucky to be
alive.”

Goldberg thought a moment, brows crinkled.
“But that was days ago,” he murmured. “So, how did he happen to be
brought in here unconscious and bleeding last night? And, why did
they call me instead of Oberon to treat him? She’s been his doctor
since the first reconstructive surgery on that knee. And she seemed
very proud of his progress when she talked to me about it. You’d
think she’d want to be in on this.” He gave Erskine a questioning
look.

Erskine shook her head in an I-don’t-know
gesture. “Hospital gossip says Jean was with the police when they
rounded up the drug dealers and rescued Doctor Oberon last night.
Don’t ask me how. There’s absolutely nothing in the news this
morning.”

Goldberg’s face changed as he conceived a new
concern. “Was Mitchell injured?” he asked, forgetting professional
titles in his anxiety about an old friend. “Is that why she’s not
here? Did they take her to a different hospital? Mercy Hospital
would’ve been the closest to the Grove – if that’s where it all
went down.”

Erskine and Goldberg exchanged worried
looks.

“I need to find her,” he said. “I’m going to
call her home numbers. If I don’t get her, would you call the other
hospitals and see if she’s been admitted, or maybe treated and
released?”

“Yes, Doctor, of course.”

“Thanks. I’ll make the calls and let you know
in a few minutes if I can’t reach her.” Goldberg reached into his
pocket for his cellphone.

Following the evening raid on Kyle Averell’s
estate, Frank Stone had spent nearly all night at his office,
filing reports and completing paper work about the raid, Averell’s
apparent suicide, and Homeland Security’s confiscation of a
substantial number of military-grade weapons. Stone arrived home
and stumbled into bed beside his sleeping wife just as dawn painted
its muted colors across the eastern horizon.

He slept four hours. At around 10:30 a.m. he
rose, showered, dressed, and went to the kitchen table where his
wife, Mandy, had prepared breakfast for him. She sat across from
him while he ate in silence.

“Is he alive?” she said after a few
minutes.

He nodded.

“Did anybody ... Did you ... lose ...
anyone?”

“Kyle Averell,” he said.

“You?” she asked, hoping her husband had not
exacted personal vengeance by killing Averell himself.

“Suicide,” he said.

She exhaled a breath she had not realized she
held. “Poor Carinne. Is she okay?”

Frank scoffed. “Believe me, you don’t need to
worry about Carinne. She’s her father’s daughter, no question about
it. She’s planning on taking over the business, now that he’s
gone.”

“Oh, dear!” Mandy said, one hand splaying
across her sternum.

“Yeah, oh dear,” Frank imitated her. “Only,
those aren’t the words I’d use.”

Mandy sat back in her chair as if to catch
her breath. Slowly, she lowered her splayed hand to her lap.
“Well,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said.

Mandy gathered herself and sat up. “They
didn’t hurt the lady doctor, did they?”

“Not physically, no,” he said. “It wasn’t a
pleasant experience, I’m sure, but she’s strong. She’ll bounce back
fine.”

“So, Duby’s back at her house, now.”

“Uhm, not exactly,” Frank said, not meeting
Mandy’s eyes.

“You said he’s fine!” she accused.

“I said he’s alive,” Frank clarified. “He got
banged up a little. But, you know Dube; can’t keep him down.” Frank
folded his napkin, placed it beside his empty plate, and stood. “I
gotta go. Thanks for breakfast.”

He was halfway to the door when Mandy
demanded, “Which hospital?”

Goldberg left virtually the same message on
Mitchell’s cellphone voicemail as he did on her home answering
machine. “Mitchell, its Ehud Goldberg. I’m treating your patient,
Jean Deaux, and I’d really like to consult with you. He’s scheduled
for surgery tomorrow morning, and we really shouldn’t wait any
longer than that. If you get this, please call me. You have my cell
if I’m not in the hospital. As a friend, I’m concerned for you. Let
me hear from you, dear. Thanks. ‘Bye.”

Within the hour, a middle-aged, round lady,
carrying a shopping bag, knocked on the door of Jean’s hospital
room.

“Come in,” he called, and looked up from the
paperback book he had been reading.

He didn’t know the face that peeked in at the
opening door, but he thought it was the sort of face he would
expect to see on the wife of Santa Claus. It was not a beautifully
featured face, but it radiated kindness, warmth, and sincerity.

“
Bonjour
,” the round lady said, with
such joy that he wondered what happy news she had heard just before
entering.

“
Bonjour
,
madame
,” he said,
unable to suppress an answering smile, though his was only half as
wide.

She stepped through the door and allowed it
to swing shut behind her. Her steps seemed both eager and shy as
she drew nearer the bed, still smiling with utter delight. “How are
you feeling?” she said in French.

He told her, in French, that he was “a little
better, thank you.”

“May I sit with you for a little while?” she
continued in his native tongue, gesturing to a chair nearby.

“Of course,” he said, following her example
in language. “Forgive me, I cannot help you with the chair.” He
gestured to his immobilized leg.

She shook her head and waved off his concern.
She propped her purse and shopping bag on the floor against the
I.V. stand and pulled the chair close beside the bed. There she sat
and clasped her hands happily in her lap, and she beamed at
him.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” she
said.

“I am sorry,
madame
. I remember almost
nobody.”

“When you were sixteen years old, my husband
found you working on a fishing boat, and he brought you home to me.
You lived with us until you began your career and found a place of
your own. You were a friend to my husband, but you were like a son
to me. My only son.”

His smile faltered, he closed the book he was
still holding and put it aside. He studied her face closely. “You
speak of Yves Dubreau.”

She nodded.

“I wish I could remember such an important
and ... special ... relationship. On behalf of Dubreau,
madame
, I give you a thousand thanks for being so good to
him. You clearly loved him. Thank you.”

“I still love you, my son,” she said. “You’re
not dead, you know.”

“
Non
, but I am no longer that man,
madame
.” His voice held the regretful tone of a messenger
bringing news of a death in the family.

She dropped her head in a nod of
understanding, and when she looked at him again her eyes were wet
with unshed tears. Her smile scarcely dimmed at all. “Maybe not,”
she whispered.

“I am called Jean Deaux. May I know your
name, lovely lady?”

“I’m Mandy Stone. It’s a pleasure to meet
you, Jean.”

“Enchanted,
Madame
Stone.” His smile
returned to its earlier luster. Then, a thought struck him, and he
reverted to English to ask, “Are you connected to Agent Frank
Stone?”

“I’m afraid so,” she replied, changing
languages with him. “He is my husband, though he is not one of my
favorite people right now. I blame him for your injuries. You see,
from the beginning I begged him not to send you into the Averell
situation.”

She was silent as if reflecting on the past
briefly. When she spoke again, it was French. “What’s done is done.
‘The moving finger writes; and, having writ, moves on: nor all thy
piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line.’ We must
move forward, eh?”

“
Oui
,
madame
,” he said. He
leaned over and put his right hand atop the hands she clasped in
her lap. “Do not blame your husband, Mandy Stone. I made my own
decision to enter that house yesterday because my ... doctor was a
prisoner there. I feel certain that Yves Dubreau made his own
decision, too. No one could have forced me to do anything against
my will, and I know Dubreau was no lesser man than I – and was most
probably a greater one.”

She used the back of one hand’s fingers to
dry her eyes, and she sent new warmth at him with her smile.
“
Merci, Jean
. I am sure you are correct. Perhaps I shall
forgive my husband, after he suffers a bit longer.” She winked, and
he laughed.

He relaxed back onto the raised head of his
bed, and when his hand fell upon the paperback book, he moved it
from the bed to the bedside table.

“What are you reading?” Mandy asked.