Fever (26 page)

He took a step forward but Cathryn screamed again, shielding the crumpled boy. Gina stepped between Charles and the others murmuring something about the devil.

Charles looked up to see the confused face of Jean Paul in the doorway. The boy backed away when he saw Charles staring at him. Looking back at the others, Charles felt an
overwhelming sense of alienation. Impulsively he turned and stormed out of the house.

Gina closed the back door behind him, while Cathryn helped Chuck into one of the kitchen chairs. They heard the Pinto rumble down the driveway.

“I hate him! I hate him!” cried Chuck, holding his stomach with both hands.

“No, no,” soothed Cathryn. “This is all a nightmare. We'll all wake up and it will be over.”

“Your eye!” exclaimed Gina, coming up to Cathryn and tilting her head back.

“It's nothing,” said Cathryn.

“Nothing? It's becoming black and blue. I think you'd better get some ice on it.”

Cathryn got up and looked at herself in a small mirror hanging in the hallway. There was a minute cut on her right eyebrow and she was indeed getting a black eye. By the time she got back into the kitchen, Gina had the ice tray out.

Jean Paul reappeared at the doorway.

“If he ever hits you again, I'll kill him,” said Chuck.

“Charles Jr.,” snapped Cathryn. “I don't want to hear that kind of talk. Charles is not himself; he's under a lot of strain. Besides, he didn't mean to hit me. He was trying to get free from my grasp.”

“I think he's let in the devil,” said Gina.

“That's enough, all of you,” said Cathryn.

“I think he's crazy,” persisted Chuck.

Cathryn took a breath in preparation for reprimanding Chuck but she hesitated because the boy's comment made her wonder if Charles was having a nervous breakdown. The doctors suggested it as a possibility and they had been right about everything else. Cathryn wondered where she was going to find the reserve to hold the family together.

Her first concern was safety. Cathryn had never seen Charles lose control before. Thinking it best to get some professional advice, she called Dr. Keitzman's exchange.

Keitzman called back five minutes later.

She told him the entire series of events, including the fact that Charles had decided to stop Michelle's medications and added that Charles had left in his car, presumably en route to the hospital.

“Sounds like we petitioned for custody at the right time,” said Dr. Keitzman.

Cathryn was in no mood for self-congratulation. “That may be, but I'm concerned about Charles. I don't know what to expect.”

“That's precisely the problem,” said Dr. Keitzman. “He may be dangerous.”

“I can't believe that,” said Cathryn.

“That's something that cannot be ascertained unless he's seen professionally. But, believe me, it's a possibility. Maybe you should leave the house for a day or two. You've got a family to consider.”

“I suppose we could go to my mother's,” said Cathryn. It was true she had others to think about besides herself.

“I think it would be best. Just until Charles calms down.”

“What if Charles goes to the hospital tonight?”

“No need for you to worry about that. I'll alert the hospital, and I'll let the floor know you have guardianship. Don't worry, everything is going to be all right.”

Cathryn hung up, wishing she felt as optimistic as Dr. Keitzman. She still had the feeling that things were going to get worse.

A half hour later, with a good deal of misgiving, Cathryn, Gina, and the two boys trudged out into the snow with overnight bags and piled in the station wagon. They dropped Jean Paul at a school friend's house where he'd been invited to stay, and began the drive into Boston. No one spoke.

I
t was after nine when Charles reached Pediatric Hospital. In contrast to the daytime chaos, the street outside was quiet, and he found a parking spot in front of the medical center bookstore. He entered the hospital through the main entrance and rode up to Anderson 6 on an empty elevator.

He was accosted by someone when he passed the nurses' station, but he didn't even look in the direction of the voice. He got to Michelle's room and slipped through the partially open door.

It was darker than in the hall with light coming from a small night-light near the floor. Giving his eyes a chance to adjust, Charles stood for a moment taking in the scene. The cardiac monitor was visible on the other side of the bed. The auditory signal had been turned down but the visual signal traced a repetitive fluorescent blip across the tiny screen. There were two intravenous lines, one running into each of Michelle's arms. The one on the left had a piggyback connector, and Charles knew it was being used as the infusion route for the chemotherapy.

Charles silently advanced into the room, his eyes glued to
the sleeping face of his daughter. As he got closer he realized, to his surprise, that Michelle's eyes were not closed. They were watching his every move.

“Michelle?” whispered Charles.

“Daddy?” whispered Michelle in response. She'd thought it was another hospital technician sneaking up on her in the night to take more blood.

Charles tenderly lifted his daughter in his arms. She felt perceptibly lighter. She tried to return the embrace but her limbs were without strength. He pressed her cheek to his and slowly rocked her. He could feel her skin was flushed with fever.

Looking into her face, he noticed that her lips were ulcerated.

He felt such powerful emotion that it was beyond tears. Life was not fair. It was a cruel experience in which hope and happiness were transient illusions that served only to make the inevitable tragedy more poignant.

As he held his daughter Charles thought about his response to Recycle, Ltd. and felt foolish. Of course he could understand his urge for revenge, but under the circumstances, there were more important ways to spend his time. Obviously the people at Recycle did not care about a twelve-year-old girl, and they could conveniently blind themselves to any sense of responsibility. And what about the so-called cancer establishment? Did they care? Charles doubted it, seeing as he had the inner dynamics at his own institute. The irony was that the people controlling the megalithic cancer establishment were ultimately at equal risk to succumbing to the disease as the public at large.

“Daddy, why is your nose so swollen?” asked Michelle, looking into Charles's face.

Charles smiled. Ill as she was, Michelle was still concerned about him! Incredible!

He made up a quick story of slipping in the snow and comically falling on his face. Michelle laughed, but her face quickly became serious. “Daddy, am I going to get well?”

Without meaning to, Charles hesitated. The question had caught him off guard. “Of course,” he said with a laugh, trying to make up for the pause. “In fact, I don't think you'll be needing any more of this medicine.” Charles stood up, indicating the IV used for the chemotherapy. “Why don't I just take it out?”

Michelle's face clouded with worry. She detested any adjustments to the IV.

“It won't hurt,” said Charles.

Deftly he removed the plastic catheter from Michelle's arm, keeping pressure on the spot. “You'll need the other IV for a little longer in case your ticker speeds up again.” Charles tapped Michelle's chest.

The room light snapped on, throwing its raw fluorescent glare around the room.

A nurse came in followed by two uniformed security guards.

“Mr. Martel, I'm sorry but you are going to have to leave.” She noticed the dangling IV line and shook her head angrily.

Charles did not respond. He sat on the edge of Michelle's bed and again took her into his arms.

The nurse gestured for the security men to help. They came forward and gently urged Charles to leave.

“We could have you arrested if you don't cooperate,” said the nurse, “but I don't want to do that.”

Charles allowed the guards to pull his arms from around Michelle.

Michelle looked at the guards and then her father. “Why would they arrest you?”

“I don't know,” said Charles with a smile. “I guess it's not visiting hours.”

Charles stood up, bent over and kissed Michelle, and said, “Try to be good. I'll be back soon.”

The nurse turned out the overhead light. Charles waved from the doorway and Michelle waved back.

“You shouldn't have taken out that IV,” said the nurse as they walked back to the nurses' station.

Charles didn't respond.

“If you wish to visit your daughter,” continued the nurse, “it will have to be during regular hours, and you'll have to be accompanied.”

“I'd like to see her chart,” said Charles courteously, ignoring her other comments.

The nurse continued walking; obviously she didn't like the idea.

“It's my right,” said Charles simply. “Besides, I am a physician.”

The nurse reluctantly agreed and Charles went into the deserted chart room. Michelle's chart was innocently hanging in its designated spot. He pulled it out and placed it before him. There'd been a blood count that afternoon. His heart sank! Although he expected it, it still was a blow to see that her leukemic cell count had not decreased. In fact, it had gone up a little. There was no doubt that the chemotherapy was not helping her at all.

Pulling the phone over to him, Charles put in a call to Dr. Keitzman. While he waited for the call back, he glanced through the rest of the chart. The plot of Michelle's fever was the most alarming. It had been hovering around one hundred until that afternoon when it had shot up to one hundred four. Charles read the carefully typed cardiology report. The conclusion was that the ventricular tachycardia could have been caused by either the rapid infusion of the second dose of Daunorubicin or a leukemic infiltration of the heart, or perhaps, a combination of the two. At that point, the phone rang. It was Dr. Keitzman.

Both Dr. Keitzman and Charles made an effort at being cordial.

“As a physician,” said Dr. Keitzman, “I'm sure you are aware that we doctors frequently find ourselves in the dilemma of adhering to the established and best principles of medicine or giving way to the wishes of the patient or the family. Personally, I believe in the former approach and as soon as one begins to make exception, whatever the justification, it's like
opening Pandora's box. So we're having to rely on the courts more and more.”

“But clearly,” said Charles, controlling himself, “chemotherapy is not helping in Michelle's case.”

“Not yet,” admitted Dr. Keitzman. “But it's still early. There's still a chance. Besides, it's all we have.”

“I think you're treating yourself,” snapped Charles.

Dr. Keitzman didn't answer. He knew there was a grain of truth in what Charles said. The idea of doing nothing was anathema to Dr. Keitzman, especially with a child.

“One other thing,” said Charles. “Do you think benzene could have caused Michelle's leukemia?”

“It's possible,” said Dr. Keitzman. “It's the right kind of leukemia. Was she exposed?”

“Over a long period,” said Charles. “A factory has been dumping it into a river that feeds the pond on our property. Would you be willing to say that Michelle's leukemia was caused by benzene?”

“I couldn't do that,” said Dr. Keitzman. “I'm sorry, but it would be purely circumstantial. Besides, benzene has only been unequivocally implicated in causing leukemia in laboratory animals.”

“Which you and I know means it causes it in humans.”

“True, but that's not the kind of evidence acceptable by a court of law. There is an element of doubt, no matter how small.”

“So you won't help?” asked Charles.

“I'm sorry but I can't,” said Dr. Keitzman. “But there is something I can do, and I feel it's my responsibility. I'd like to encourage you to seek psychiatric consultation. You've had a terrible shock.”

Charles thought about telling the man off, but he didn't. Instead he hung up on him. When he stood up he thought about sneaking back to Michelle's room but he couldn't. The charge nurse was watching him like a hawk and one of the uniformed security men was still there, leafing through a
People
magazine. Charles went to the elevator and pushed the
button. As he waited, he began to outline what courses of action were open to him. He was on his own and would be even more on his own after the meeting tomorrow with Dr. Ibanez.

 

Ellen Sheldon arrived at the Weinburger later than usual. Even so she took her time because the walk to the door was treacherous. The Boston weather had been true to form the previous night, starting out with rain that turned to snow, then back to rain again. Then the whole mess had frozen solid. By the time Ellen reached the front entrance it was about eight-thirty.

The reason she was so late was twofold. First she didn't even know if she'd see Charles that day so there was no need to set up the lab. Second, she'd been out very late the night before. She'd violated one of her cardinal rules: never accept a date on the spur of the moment. But after she'd told Dr. Morrison that Charles was not following up on the Canceran work, he'd convinced her to take the rest of the day off. He'd also taken her home number in order to give her the results of the meeting with Charles and the Weinburgers. Although Ellen had not expected him to call, he had, and had told her of Charles's probationary status and that Charles had twenty-four hours to decide whether he was going to play ball or not. Then he'd asked to take her to dinner. Deciding it was a business date, Ellen had accepted, and she was glad she had. Dr. Peter Morrison was not a Paul Newman look-alike, but he was a fascinating man and obviously powerful in the research community.

Ellen tried to unlock the lab door and was surprised to find it had been opened. Charles was already hard at work.

“Thought maybe you weren't coming in today,” joked Charles good-naturedly.

Ellen took off her coat and struggled with a mild wave of guilt. “I didn't think you'd be here.”

“Oh?” said Charles. “Well, I've been working a good part of the night.”

Ellen walked over to his desk. Charles had a new lab book
in front of him and several pages were already filled with his precise handwriting. He looked terrible. His hair was matted down, emphasizing the thinning area on the crown of his head. His eyes looked tired and he was in need of a shave.

“What are you doing?” asked Ellen, trying to evaluate his mood.

“I've been busy,” said Charles, holding up a vial. “And I've got some good news. Our method of isolating a protein antigen from an animal cancer works just as smoothly on human cancer. The hybridoma I made with Michelle's leukemic cells has been working overtime.”

Ellen nodded. She was beginning to feel sorry for Charles Martel.

“Also,” continued Charles, “I checked all the mice we injected with the mammary cancer antigen. Two of them show a mild but definite and encouraging antibody response. What do you think of that? What I'd like you to do today is inject them with another challenge dose of the antigen, and I'd like you to start a new batch of mice using Michelle's leukemic antigen.”

“But Charles,” said Ellen sympathetically, “we're not supposed to be doing this.”

Charles carefully set down the vial he had in his hands as if it contained nitroglycerin. He turned and faced Ellen. “I'm still in charge here.” His voice was even and controlled, maybe too controlled.

Ellen nodded. In truth, she had come to be a little afraid of Charles. Without another word, she repaired to her area and began preparing to inject the mice. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Charles retreat to his desk, pick up a folder of papers, and begin reading. She looked up at the clock. Sometime after nine she'd excuse herself from the lab and contact Peter.

Earlier that morning Charles had been served with the citation concerning the
ex parte
guardianship hearing. He'd accepted the papers from a sheriff's department courier without a word, and hadn't looked at them until that moment. He had
little patience with legal gibberish, and he only glanced at the forms, noticing that his presence was required at a hearing scheduled in three days. He returned the papers to their envelope and tossed it aside. He'd have to have legal counsel.

After checking his watch, Charles picked up the phone. His first call was to John Randolph, town manager of Shaftesbury, New Hampshire. Charles had met the man since he was also the owner-operator of the local hardware-appliance store.

“I've got a complaint,” said Charles after the usual greetings, “about the Shaftesbury police force.”

“I hope you're not talking about last night over at the factory,” said John.