Fever (10 page)

Morrison relaxed and smiled, his small teeth visible behind thin lips. “Thank you, Miss Sheldon. That's exactly what I wanted to hear.” Reaching into the sink, he ran water on his half-smoked cigarette and dropped it into the wastebasket. “One other thing. I was wondering if you would do me and the institute a big favor. I'd like you to report any abnormal behavior on Charles's part in relation to the Canceran project. I know this is an awkward request, but the entire board of directors will be grateful for your cooperation.”

“All right,” said Ellen quickly, not sure how she really felt about it. At the same time she thought that Charles deserved it. She'd put forth a lot of effort for the man and he'd not appreciated it. “I'll do it with the proviso that anything I say remains anonymous.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Morrison. “That goes without saying. And, of course, you will report to me directly.”

At the door, Morrison paused. “It's been nice talking with you, Miss Sheldon. I've been meaning to do it for some time. If you need anything, my office is always open.”

“Thank you,” said Ellen.

“Maybe we could even have dinner sometime.”

“Maybe,” said Ellen.

She watched the door close. He was a strange-looking man but he was decisive and powerful.

C
rossing the river by way of the Harvard Bridge, Charles struggled with a recalcitrant heater. He could not get the control arm to move to the heat position. As a consequence of his efforts, the Pinto swerved, to the dismay of neighboring motorists who responded by pressing their horns. In desperation, he hit the control with the heel of his hand only to be rewarded with the plastic arm snapping off and falling to the floor.

Resigning himself to the chill, Charles tried to concentrate on the road. As soon as he could, he turned right off Massachusetts Avenue and skirted the Back Bay Fens, a neglected and trash-littered park in the center of what once was an attractive residential neighborhood. He passed the Boston Museum of Fine Arts and then the Gardner Museum. As the traffic cleared, his mind wandered. To Charles it seemed emotionally cruel of Cathryn to leave him dangling, a victim of his own imagination. Could Michelle's nosebleed have started again? No, that seemed too simple. Maybe they needed to do some test like an IVP and Cathryn didn't want to give permission. No, there would be no reason why she wouldn't explain that over the phone. It had to be some medical problem.
Maybe appendicitis. Charles remembered the abdominal tenderness, the low-grade fever. Maybe it was a subacute appendicitis and they wanted to operate. And Charles knew how hospitals affected Cathryn. They made her crazy.

Entering Dr. Jordan Wiley's office, Charles was engulfed by a sea of anxious mothers and crying children. The crowded waiting room . . . that was a part of private practice that Charles did not miss. Like all doctors, his secretaries had an irritating propensity to book new, full workups in time slots reserved for simple return visits, resulting in a hopeless backup of patients. No matter what Charles had said, it had made no difference. He had always been behind in the office and had always been apologizing to the patients.

Charles searched for Cathryn in the press of women and children, but he didn't see her. He worked his way over to the nurse who was being besieged by a covey of mothers demanding to know exactly when they would be seen. Charles tried to interrupt but soon realized he had to wait his turn. Eventually he got the woman's attention and was impressed by her composure. If she was affected by the chaos around her, she did a superb job of not showing it.

“I'm looking for my wife,” said Charles. He had to speak loudly to make himself heard.

“What's the name?” asked the nurse, her hands folded over a pile of charts.

“Martel. Cathryn Martel.”

“Just a moment.” As she rolled back in her chair and got to her feet, her face became serious. The women grouped around the desk eyed Charles with a mixture of respect and vexation. They were clearly jealous of the rapid response he'd elicited.

The nurse returned almost immediately, followed by a woman of impressive dimensions who Charles thought would make an appropriate mate for the Michelin tire man. He noticed her name tag: Miss A. Hammersmith. She motioned to Charles, and he obediently stepped around the desk.

“Please follow me,” said the nurse. Her mouth, suspended
between two puckered cheeks, was the only part of her face that moved as she spoke.

Charles did as he was told, finding himself hurrying down a hall behind the bulk of Miss Hammersmith who effectively blocked his view. They passed a series of what Charles imagined were examining rooms. At the end of the hall she opened a paneled door and moved aside for Charles to enter.

“Excuse me,” said Charles, squeezing past her.

“I guess we both could lose a few pounds,” said Miss Hammersmith.

As Charles stepped into the room, Miss Hammersmith remained in the hall and softly closed the door behind him. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with stacks of medical periodicals and some textbooks. In the center of the room was a round, blond oak table surrounded by a half dozen captain's chairs. One of them abruptly scraped back as Cathryn stood up. She was breathing audibly; Charles could hear the air enter and exit from her nose. It wasn't a smooth sound. It trembled.

“What . . .” began Charles.

Cathryn ran to him before he could speak and threw her arms around his neck. Charles put his hands on her waist and let her hold him for a few moments to regain her equilibrium. “Cathryn,” he said at last, beginning to experience the bitter taste of fear. Cathryn's behavior was undermining his thought of appendicitis, of an operation, of something ordinary.

A horrid, unwelcome memory forced itself into Charles's mind: the day he'd learned of Elizabeth's lymphoma. “Cathryn,” he said more sharply. “Cathryn! What is going on? What's the matter with you?”

“It's my fault,” said Cathryn. As soon as she spoke she started to cry. Charles could feel her body shudder with the force of her tears. He waited, his eyes moving around the room, noticing the picture of Hippocrates on the wall opposite the bookshelves, the rich parquet floor, the Nelson's textbook of pediatrics on the table.

“Cathryn,” said Charles at length. “Please tell me what's going on. What's your fault?”

“I should have brought Michelle in sooner. I know I should have.” Cathryn's voice was broken by her sobs.

“What's wrong with Michelle?” asked Charles. He could feel panic tightening in his chest. There was a terrifying sense of déjà vu . . .

Cathryn strengthened her grip on Charles's neck as if he was her only salvation. All the control she'd marshaled before his arrival vanished.

Using most of his strength, Charles managed to break Cathryn's hold on his neck. Once he did so, she seemed to collapse. He helped her to a chair where she sank like a deflated balloon. Then he sat down beside her.

“Cathryn, you must tell me what is going on.”

His wife looked up with great effort, her teal-blue eyes awash with tears. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak the door opened. Dr. Jordan Wiley stepped into the room.

Charles, his hands still resting on Cathryn's shoulders, turned at the sound of the closing door. When he saw Dr. Wiley he stood up, searching the man's face for a clue to what was happening. He had known Dr. Wiley for almost twenty years. It had been a professional rather than a social relationship, beginning while Charles was in medical school. Wiley had been his preceptor for third-year pediatrics and had impressed Charles with his knowledge, intelligence, and empathy. Later when Charles needed a pediatrician he'd called Jordan Wiley.

“It's good to see you again, Charles,” said Dr. Wiley, grasping Charles's hand. “I'm sorry it's under such trying circumstances.”

“Perhaps you could tell me what these trying circumstances are,” said Charles, allowing annoyance to camouflage his fear.

“You haven't been told?” asked Dr. Wiley. Cathryn shook her head.

“Maybe I should step outside for a few moments,” said Dr. Wiley.

He started to turn toward the door, but Charles restrained
him with a hand on his forearm. “I think you should tell me what this is all about,” he said.

Dr. Wiley glanced at Cathryn, who nodded agreement. She was no longer sobbing but she knew she'd have difficulty speaking.

“All right,” said Dr. Wiley, facing Charles once again. “It's about Michelle.”

“I gathered that,” said Charles.

“Why don't you sit down,” said Dr. Wiley.

“Why don't you you just tell me,” said Charles.

Dr. Wiley scrutinized Charles's anxious face. He saw that Charles had aged a lot since he was a student and was sorry that he had to be the messenger of more anguish and suffering; it was one of the few responsibilities of being a doctor that he detested.

“Michelle has leukemia, Charles,” said Dr. Wiley.

Charles's mouth slowly dropped open. His blue eyes glazed as if he were in a trance. He didn't move a muscle; he didn't even breathe. It was as if Dr. Wiley's news had released a flood of banished memories. Over and over Charles heard, “I'm sorry to inform you, Dr. Martel, but your wife, Elizabeth, has an aggressive lymphoma . . . I'm awfully sorry to report that your wife is not responding to treatment . . . Dr. Martel, I'm sorry to say, but your wife has entered a terminal leukemic crisis . . . Dr. Martel, I'm terribly sorry to have to tell you that your wife died a few moments ago.”

“No! It's not true. It's impossible!” shouted Charles with such vehemence that both Dr. Wiley and Cathryn were startled.

“Charles,” began Dr. Wiley as he reached out and placed a sympathetic arm on Charles's shoulder.

With a lightning movement, Charles knocked Dr. Wiley's hand away. “Don't you dare patronize me!”

Despite her tears, Cathryn jumped up and caught Charles's arm as Dr. Wiley stepped back in surprise.

“Is this all some elaborate joke?” snapped Charles, shrugging off Cathryn's hand.

“It's not a joke,” said Dr. Wiley. He spoke gently but firmly. “Charles, I know this is difficult for you, especially because of what happened to Elizabeth. But you have to get control of yourself. Michelle needs you.”

Charles's mind was a jumble of incomplete thoughts and emotions. He wrestled with himself, trying to anchor his thoughts. “What makes you think Michelle has leukemia?” He spoke slowly, with great effort. Cathryn sat back down.

“The diagnosis in unequivocal,” said Dr. Wiley softly.

“What kind of leukemia?” asked Charles, running his hand through his hair and looking out the window at the neighboring brick wall. “Lymphocytic?”

“No,” said Dr. Wiley. “I'm sorry to say but it's acute myeloblastic.”

I'm sorry to say . . . I'm sorry to say . . . a stock medical phrase that doctors resorted to when they didn't know what else to do and it echoed unpleasantly in Charles's head. I'm sorry to say your wife died . . . It was like a knife plunging into the heart.

“Circulating leukemic cells?” asked Charles, forcing intelligence to struggle against memory.

“I'm sorry to say, but there are,” said Dr. Wiley. “Her white count is over fifty thousand.”

A deathly silence descended over the room.

Abruptly Charles began to pace. He moved with quick steps, while his hands worked at each other as if they were enemies.

“A diagnosis of leukemia isn't certain until a bone marrow is done,” he said abruptly.

“It's been done,” said Dr. Wiley.

“It couldn't have,” snapped Charles. “I didn't give permission.”

“I did,” said Cathryn, her voice hesitant, fearful she'd done something wrong.

Ignoring Cathryn, Charles continued to glower at Dr. Wiley.

“I want to see the smears myself.”

“I've already had the slides reviewed by a hematologist,” said Dr. Wiley.

“I don't care,” said Charles angrily. “I want to see them.”

“As you wish,” said Dr. Wiley. He remembered Charles as a rash but thorough student. Apparently he hadn't changed. Although Dr. Wiley knew that it was important for Charles to substantiate the diagnosis, at that moment he would have preferred to talk about Michelle's extended care.

“Follow me,” he said finally and led Charles out of the conference room and down the hall. Once the conference room door opened a cacophony of crying babies could be heard. Cathryn, initially unsure of what to do, hurried after the men.

At the opposite end of the corridor they entered a narrow room which served as a small clinical lab. There was just enough space for a counter and a row of high stools. Racks of urine samples gave the room a slightly fishy aroma. A pimply faced girl in a soiled white coat deferentially slid off the nearest stool. She'd been busy doing the routine urinalysis.

“Over here, Charles,” said Dr. Wiley, motioning to a shrouded microscope. He plucked off the plastic cover. It was a binocular Zeiss. Charles sat down, adjusted the eyepieces, and snapped on the light. Dr. Wiley opened up a nearby drawer and pulled out a cardboard slide holder. Gently he lifted one of the slides out, being careful to touch only the edges. As he extended it toward Charles, their eyes met. To Dr. Wiley, Charles looked like a cornered animal.

Using his left hand, Charles took the slide between his thumb and first finger. In the center of the slide was a cover glass over what appeared to be an innocuous smudge. On the ground glass portion of the slide was written:
MICHELLE MAR
-
TEL
#882673
BONE MARROW
. Charles's hand trembled as he placed the slide on the mechanical stage and put a drop of oil on the cover glass. Watching from the side he lowered the oil immersion lens until it just touched the slide and entered the oil.

Taking a deep breath, Charles put his eyes to the oculars and tensely began to raise the barrel of the scope. All at once
a multitude of pale blue cells leaped out of the blur, choking off his breath, and forcing the blood to pound in his temples. A shiver of fear as real as if he were looking at his own death warrant blew through his soul. Instead of the usual population of cells in all stages of maturation, Michelle's marrow had been all but replaced by large, undifferentiated cells with correspondingly large irregular nuclei, containing multiple nucleoli. He was gripped by a sense of utter panic.