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.