“I appreciate your efforts,” said Cathryn, “but…”

“We know it sounds drastic,” said Dr. Keitzman, “but once the legal papers are obtained, guardianship doesn’t have to be evoked unless the situation calls for it. But then if Charles tried to take Michelle off treatment or even out of the hospital, we’d be in a position to do something about it.”

“An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure,” said Dr. Wiley.

“The idea doesn’t make me feel comfortable,” said Cathryn. “But Charles has been very strange. I can’t believe he left like he did just now.”

“I can understand it,” said Dr. Keitzman. “I can sense that Charles is a man of action, and the fact that he cannot do anything for Michelle must drive him mad. He’s under a terrible emotional burden, and that’s why I think he could benefit from professional help.”

“You don’t think he could have a nervous breakdown, do you?” asked Cathryn with increasing anxiety.

Dr. Keitzman looked at Dr. Wiley to see if he wanted to answer, then he spoke: “I don’t feel qualified to say. Certainly the strain is there. It’s a matter of how strong his defenses are.”

“I think it’s a possibility,” said Dr. Wiley. “In fact, I think he’s showing certain symptoms. He doesn’t seem to be in command of his emotions and I think his anger has been inappropriate.”

Cathryn was swept by a turmoil of emotion. The idea that she was capable of going between Charles, the man she loved, and his daughter, whom she’d learned to love, was unthinkable. And yet if the strain was too much for Charles, and he interrupted Michelle’s treatment, she would have to share the blame for not having the courage to help the child’s doctors.

“If I were to do as you ask,” said Cathryn, “what would be the procedure?”

“Hold on,” said Dr. Keitzman, reaching for the phone. “I think the hospital attorney could answer that better than I.”

Almost before Cathryn knew what was happening, the meeting with the hospital attorney was over, and Cathryn was hurrying after the man in the Boston courthouse. His name was Patrick Murphy. He had freckled skin and indeterminate light brown hair that could have been red at one time. But by far his most distinguishing characteristic was his personality. He was one of those rare people whom everyone instantly liked, and Cathryn was no exception. Even in her distraught state, she had been charmed by his gentle and forthright manner and engaging smile.

Cathryn was not sure when the conversation with the attorney had changed from discussing a hypothetical situation to discussing an actual one. Making the decision to petition for legal guardianship for Michelle behind Charles’s back was so difficult that Cathryn had welcomed its accomplishment by default. Patrick had assured Cathryn, as had Dr. Keitzman, that the legal powers would not be used except in the unlikely instance that Charles tried to stop Michelle’s treatment.

Still Cathryn felt very uneasy about the whole affair, especially since she had not had time to see Michelle in the rush to get to the court before the 4 P.M. deadline.

“This way if you will,” said Patrick, pointing to a narrow stairwell. Cathryn had never been in a courthouse before, and it was nothing like she’d imagined. She’d thought it would be grand in some symbolic way, standing as it did for the concept of justice. Yet the Boston courthouse, which was actually over one hundred years old, was dirty and depressing, especially since, for security reasons, the public was forced to enter through the basement.

After ascending the narrow steel stairs, which Cathryn could not believe served as the sole public entrance to the court, they reached the old main hall. Here there was at least a shadow of former grandness with an arched two-story ceiling; marble pilasters and marble floors. But the plaster was chipped and cracked, and the elaborate moldings gave the appearance they were about to break free and fall to the floor below.

Cathryn had to run a few steps to catch up with Patrick as he turned into the Probate Court. It was a long, narrow room with a heavy, dusty appearance, especially with the hundreds of aged ledgers sitting sideways on their low shelves to the right. On the left was a long scuffed and pitted counter where a coterie of court employees seemed suddenly roused from their diurnal slumber at the prospect of quitting time.

As Cathryn surveyed the room she did not feel the confidence and reassurance she’d hoped. Instead its shabbiness evoked images of being snared in a quagmire of red tape. Yet Patrick did not allow Cathryn to stop. He pulled her over to a smaller counter at the end of the room.

“I’d like to speak to one of the Assistant Registers of Probate,” said Patrick to one of the bored clerks. She had a cigarette in the corner of her mouth, making her cock her head to the side to keep the smoke from stinging her eyes. She pointed to a man facing away from them.

Hearing the request, the man turned; he was on the phone but put up a finger for them to wait. After finishing his conversation, he came over to Cathryn and Patrick. He was tremendously overweight, a middle-aged man with a thick, flaccid layer of fat that shook when he walked. His face was all jowls, wattles, and deep creases.

“We have an emergency,” explained Patrick. “We’d like to see one of the judges.”

“Hospital guardianship case, Mr. Murphy?” questioned the Assistant Register knowingly.

“That’s correct,” said Patrick. “All the forms are filled out.”

“Must say, you fellows are getting efficient,” said the man. He looked up at the face of the institutional clock. “My God, you’re cutting it close. It’s almost four. I’d better check to be sure Judge Pelligrino is still here.”

He waddled through a nearby doorway, his arms swinging almost perpendicularly to his body.

“Glandular problem,” whispered Patrick. He put his briefcase on the counter and snapped it open.

Cathryn looked at the attractive young lawyer. He was dressed in the typical attorney fashion with a boxy, Ivy League, pin-striped suit. The slacks were slightly rumpled, particularly behind the knees, and they were about two inches too short, exposing black-socked ankles. With great attentiveness, he arranged the forms which Cathryn had signed.

“Do you really think I should do this?” asked Cathryn abruptly.

“Absolutely,” said Patrick, giving her one of his warm, spontaneous smiles. “It’s for the child.”

Five minutes later they were in the judge’s chamber, and it was too late to turn back.

As different as the Boston courthouse was from Cathryn’s imagination, so was Judge Louis Pelligrino. Instead of an older, gowned, Socratic figure, Cathryn found herself sitting across from a disturbingly handsome man wearing a well-tailored designer’s suit. After donning stylish reading glasses, he accepted the papers from Patrick saying, “Jesus Christ, Mr. Murphy. Why is it you always show up at four o’clock?”

“Medical emergencies, your honor, adhere to a biological rather than a probate clock.”

Judge Pelligrino peered at Patrick sharply over his half-glasses, apparently trying to decide if Patrick’s retort was clever or presumptuously brazen. A slow smile appeared as he decided on the former. “Very good, Mr. Murphy. I’ll accept that. Now, why don’t you fill me in on these petitions.”

As Patrick skillfully outlined the circumstances surrounding Michelle’s illness and treatment as well as Charles’s behavior, Judge Pelligrino examined the forms, seemingly not paying attention to the young lawyer. But when Patrick made an insignificant grammatical error, the judge’s head shot up, and he corrected him.

“Where are the affidavits by Doctors Wiley and Keitzman?” asked Judge Pelligrino as Patrick finished.

The lawyer leaned forward and anxiously thumbed through the papers in the judge’s hands. He snapped open his briefcase, and with great relief found the two documents and handed them over with an apology.