Only Son (26 page)

“Have you been experimenting with drugs, Sam?”

An astonished laugh escaped him. “What? God, no…”

Sam endured the next fifteen minutes of Dr. Durkee's poking, prodding, and grilling. “No,” Sam told him, he'd never tried coke, or crack. No, the only pills he ever took were aspirin if he had a headache. Once the Humming M. D. was convinced that Sam wasn't a dope fiend, he flashed a penlight in his ear. “Do you remember hearing anything—or a hearing loss just before you fainted?”

Sam bit his lip. “Last couple of times, I thought I heard music, like the radio, but it was fuzzy. Plus I'd try to talk, but I couldn't get any words out. And I know you'll think this is weird, but I also got a funny taste in my mouth—like St. Joseph's Aspirin, an orangeish taste. That and the music, then I conk out. Does it mean anything?”

“It might,” Dr. Durkee said, still gazing into his ear.

“I feel perfectly okay,” Sam said. He was afraid they'd put him in the hospital or something. He couldn't really be sick.

After more poking and peeking, Dr. Durkee said: “Count Dracula time. Judy's going to take some blood. Just sit tight, put your pants on, and I'll be back in a bit.”

 

“
What?
” Carl said, not sure he'd heard him right.

Dr. Durkee was seated beside him on the sectional sofa. “That's just an educated guess. This Dr. Kinsella I'm sending you to, he's the specialist. He can tell you for sure. It's not as bad as it sounds, Carl. There are medications he can take—pills to retard the seizures.”

Carl kept shaking his head.

“Some forms of epilepsy are hereditary,” the doctor said. “Is there any history of that in your family?”

“No, not at all.”

“Well, maybe I'm wrong…”

“No one in my family—” Carl choked on his words.
His family
. But what about Paul and Amy McMurray? He suddenly felt very sick. “Um, I shouldn't say that,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead. “I'll—have to double-check. Yes, yes, I'll do that.”

“Good,” Dr. Durkee said. “The more you can dig up for us, the better chance we have of pinpointing this thing without having to stick Sam in the hospital for a night or two. It might spare him from a lot of needless tests, some of which, I assure you, are not pleasant.”

 

“So does he know what's wrong with me?” Sam asked as they pulled out of the parking lot to Dr. Durkee's office. He rolled down the car window.

“We're not sure yet, sport,” Carl said. “That's why we're seeing this Dr. Kinsella on Friday. He's going to do some tests.”

“Tests?” Sam's eyes widened with dread. “What kind of tests?”

“
…a lot of needless tests, some of which, I assure you, are not pleasant
.” Possibly a couple of nights in the hospital, too. He couldn't allow Sammy to go through that hell just to save his own skin. He'd have to contact the McMurrays—somehow. If Sam's problem was hereditary, they could tell him. He hoped to God that the McMurrays still lived in Portland, and that their phone number wasn't unlisted. What would he say to them? And how could he get Sam out of the apartment while he made the call? What was he going to do? Send him to the store for something—so that he'd have a seizure on the way?

“Dad? What kind of tests are they gonna do on me? Are they gonna stick me in some hospital for this or what?”

Carl glanced at him and tried to smile. “No one said you have to go to the hospital, Sam. It's probably going to be just another checkup—no worse than today. Don't sweat it. We'll see what they say on Friday.”

Frowning, Sam started to examine the Band-Aid on his arm, from where they'd taken blood. “Want to hear something weird?” he asked. “When Judy was checking me out, she said she had my birthday down as June tenth.”

“Well, that's crazy,” Carl said, without thinking. “It's the seventh.”

“I told her that,” Sam replied, pushing down his sleeve. “But she was sure you told her the day you first brought me in that my birthday was the tenth. She said you didn't have my medical records or anything…”

Carl tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

“She said they never got them at all,” Sam continued. “Said you lost them or something.”

Carl nodded. “Yes, a lot of things got lost when we moved up from Santa Rosa,” he replied stiffly. “I told you that, Sam.”

“Along with most of Mom's pictures, right?”

“That's right,” Carl said, staring straight ahead.

“I can't believe that,” he heard Sam say.

“What do you mean?”

“All that stuff getting lost, it's unbelievable. You should have sued the movers. That's what you should have done…
Hey, up ahead, Dad…Dad…
” He plastered his hand against the dashboard. “
DAD, THE STOP SIGN!
”

But already the blaring sound of another car's horn drowned him out.

Carl slammed on the brake. They screeched to a halt at the intersection, and the other car weaved in front of them. The other driver yelled out his window at Carl and flipped him the bird.

Carl caught his breath and looked at Sam. “Sorry.”

Sam still had one hand braced against the dashboard. He rolled his eyes, then sat back. “Geez, Dad, didn't you see it?”

“No, I didn't,” he replied. It felt as if his heart had stopped for a moment. “You—are you okay?”

Sam laughed a little. “Yeah, fine. How are you?”

Carl gently stepped on the gas. “Okay,” he sighed.

“What were we talking about?” Sam asked. “I can't remember.”

“Um, neither can I,” Carl lied. “Couldn't have been very important.”

 

Carl was making a casserole from leftover chicken when Sam asked if he had time for a shower before dinner. All afternoon, Carl had been wondering how to get Sammy out of earshot so he could telephone the McMurrays; and here was his chance. “You want to take a shower? Oh, that's a great idea,” he said.

Sam blinked at him. “Why is it such a great idea? Do I got BO or something?”

Carl laughed nervously. “No. Dinner won't be ready for a while. I was just worried that you were really hungry. Take your time.”

Sam gave him a look, then wandered toward the bathroom.

When he heard the shower start, Carl put down the Campbell's cream of chicken soup can, picked up the phone and dialed.

“I'm sorry,” the operator for Portland Directory Assistance told him a minute later. “I don't have a Paul McMurray listed at that address.”

“Well, he may have moved,” Carl whispered into the phone. He leaned over the kitchen counter, a pen in his hand. “It's very important I get in touch with him. Is there another address for a Paul McMurray? Or just a P. McMurray?”

“There's a Paul and Sheila McMurray on Southwest Fifty-ninth,” the operator said. “Nothing else.”

Grimacing, Carl imagined all the awful tests Sam would have to endure. He had a feeling he'd come to a dead end, but asked for the phone number anyway. His only hope was that McMurray had divorced Amy and married this Sheila.

He thanked the recorded voice that recited the number, pressed down the phone cradle, then dialed the couple on Southwest Fifty-ninth. He counted two ring tones.

“
WHAT?
” It was a child, a girl, and she practically screamed the poor excuse for a greeting into the phone.

“Um, hello,” Carl said, unnerved. “May I speak with Mr. McMurray, please?”

“
WHO'S THIS?
” she demanded to know. Her voice was abrasive, and Carl imagined it belonged to a six-year-old urchin with a chubby face and stringy, dark hair. He hoped someone would snatch the receiver from her fat little hand before she screamed something else at him. He heard a TV blaring in the background.

“This is Frank Baxter from the Accounting Department at—”

“WHO?”

“Frank Baxter,” Carl said.

“Whaddaya want?”

“I'd like to speak to your father,” Carl said patiently.

“
WHO ARE YOU?
” she shouted—almost angrily.

“My name is Frank Baxter. Is your father there?”

Silence from the other end of the line.

“Hello?” Carl said.

“
DADDY!!!
” She yelled it right into the phone. Then there was a loud thud, like she'd thrown down the receiver.

Carl could hear the TV still blaring.

“Yeah. Hello?”

“Mr. McMurray?” Carl asked.

“Who's this?” he grunted.

Carl knew where the little girl got her phone manners. “My name is Frank Baxter,” he said. “I'm with the Accounting Department at Portland General Hospital. We may owe you some money due to a billing error from several years back.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asked. “How much?”

Carl smiled. He knew the money ploy would keep him on the line. “Ninety-seven dollars and eighteen cents,” he said. “I'd like to verify that we have the right Paul McMurray. Are you employed by the Hallmark Company?”

“No,” he said.

Carl closed his eyes.
Shit
.

“No, that was a while ago,” he said. “I work for Del Monte now. Do I still get the money?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, sir,” Carl replied brightly. Then he glanced over at the closed bathroom door and remembered to keep his voice down. Hot damn, he had the right guy. Suddenly, he realized that the rude little brat on the phone earlier was Sam's half sister: “
There by the grace of God goes Sam
.” He recalled how formal and polite Sammy had been as a little boy whenever he answered the telephone—as if each call might have been from the Pope.

“Hey, bub, you still there?” McMurray asked.

“Yes. Um, have you ever been a patient at Portland General, Mr. McMurray?”

“Well, my first wife had a baby there. But that was nine or ten years ago…”

Try twelve
, Carl thought. “Were you ever treated at Portland General for epilepsy?” he asked.

“No. I'm epileptic, but I haven't had any bad seizures for a long time. I'm on medication—takes care of it.”

Carl grabbed a pencil. “What's the name of the medication that you're taking?”

“Depakene,” McMurray answered. “What does this have to do with the ninety-seven dollars you owe me?”

Carl was writing down “Depakene,” unsure about the spelling. “Um, what particular form of epilepsy do you suffer from? Does it have a name?”

“I don't remember offhand. It's been years since I've had to think about it. You'd have to ask my doctor.”

“Could you give me his name and telephone number, please?”

“Wait a minute,” McMurray said hotly. “I already told you, I was never treated at Portland General for epilepsy. What's going on here? Am I getting the ninety-seven bucks or what?”

Carl put down his pencil. He'd gotten as much as he could from McMurray. Still, he had to ask one more question, and the businesslike tone left his voice for a moment: “Your first wife, is she—still alive?”

“Yeah, she's still alive. And don't ask me for her address, because I don't have it. Now, about the money…”

“Oh, yes,” Carl said. “I'm giving you the opportunity to save up to ninety-seven dollars a year if you buy your medication from”—he glanced around the kitchen—“Kettle Pharmaceuticals.”

“You said you were from Portland General—”

“If you sign up today,” Carl continued, “you're eligible for our Super-Saver Discount Club. All it requires is a simple three-hundred-dollar down payment—”

“Hey,” McMurray said. “Pound sand up your ass, buddy.” Then he hung up.

Carl smiled. “Have a nice day,” he said to no one.

 

Sam got a boner in the shower. But he wasn't sure he should whack off now; after all, maybe excessive masturbation caused his fainting spells. Still, he was so horny. He hadn't done it in five whole days.

He left the shower running and stepped out of the tub. Pressing an ear to the door, Sam listened for his dad. The door had no lock. His dad never barged in there while he was taking a shower; but just his luck, he'd walk in now and catch him flogging his dolphin. Sam didn't hear footsteps. His dad was talking to somebody. It sounded like he was on the phone.

“—think you're right, Dr. Durkee…”

His head against the crack of the door, Sam blindly reached for a towel and wrapped it around his waist.

“
Turns out my father had epilepsy
,” his dad was saying. “
I phoned our old family doctor just now—in Santa Rosa—and he told me. I had no idea, because my father never mentioned it. He was on this medication. It stopped the seizures. Maybe we could get the same stuff for Sam…
”

The noise from the shower was drowning him out. Sam quickly turned off the water and tiptoed back to the door. Still wet, he started to shiver. A puddle formed around his feet.

“
Of course, I realize that
,” his father was saying. His voice had dropped to a whisper. “
But it helps, doesn't it? I mean, all those tests you referred to, Sam won't have to go through them now, will he?
”

Tests? There was that word again. Sam remembered the hospital scene early on in
The Exorcist
, when they didn't know what was wrong with Linda Blair. They'd stuck that long needle in her throat and blood spurted all over the goddamn place while she writhed in pain on the table; they'd taken X-rays of her head, and watched her on closed circuit TV as she spazzed out, strapped in her hospital bed. Sam imagined all that being done to him—and worse, the stuff they couldn't show in the movie: tubes up his pee hole, a periscope up his ass to look inside him, shots, and bedpans, and hospital gowns that were open in back.