Seventeen

Never having been a hospital patient before, Charles found the experience agonizing. He’d read some editorials in the past about the problems associated with the technological invasion of medicine, but he never imagined the state of insecurity and powerlessness he would feel. It had been three days since he’d been shot and then operated on, and as he looked up at the tangle of tubes and bottles, monitors and recorders, he felt like one of his own experimental animals. Thankfully, the day before he had been transferred out of the frenzied terror of the intensive care unit, and deposited like a piece of meat in a private room in the fancy section of the hospital.

Trying to adjust his position, Charles felt a frightening stab of pain that tightened around his chest like a band of fire. For a moment he held his breath, wondering if he had opened his incision, and waited for the pain to return. To his relief it didn’t, but he lay perfectly still, afraid to move. From his left side, between his ribs, protruded a rubber tube that ran down to a bottle on the floor next to the bed. His left arm was strung up in traction by a complicated net of wires and pulleys. He was immobilized and totally at the mercy of the staff for even the most basic of functions.

A soft knock caught his attention. Before he could respond, the door silently opened. Charles was afraid it was the technician who came every four hours to forcibly inflate his lungs, a procedure Charles was sure had not been equaled in pain since the Inquisition. Instead it was Dr. Keitzman.

“Could you stand a short visit?” he asked.

Charles nodded. Although he didn’t feel like talking, he was eager to hear about Michelle. Cathryn had not been able to tell him anything except that she wasn’t worse.

Dr. Keitzman came into the room self-consciously, pulling a metal and vinyl chair over next to Charles’s bed. His face contorted with the tic that usually connoted tension and he adjusted his glasses.

“How do you feel, Charles?” he asked.

“Couldn’t be better,” said Charles, unable to keep the sarcasm from surfacing. Talking, even breathing, were risky affairs and at any moment he expected the pain to return.

“Well, I have some good news. It might be a little premature, but I think you should know.”

Charles didn’t say anything. He watched the oncologist’s face, afraid to let his hopes rise.

“First,” said Dr. Keitzman. “Michelle responded to the radiotherapy extremely well. A single treatment seems to have taken care of the infiltration of her central nervous system. She’s alert and oriented.”

Charles nodded, hoping that was not all Dr. Keitzman had come to say.

There was a silence.

Then the door to the room burst open and in walked the respiratory technician, pushing the hated IPPB machine. “Time for your treatment, Dr. Martel,” said the technician brightly, as if he were bringing some wonderfully pleasurable service. Seeing Dr. Keitzman, the technician skidded to a respectful halt. “Excuse me, Doctor.”

“That’s quite all right,” said Dr. Keitzman, seemingly pleased at the interruption. “I’ve got to be going anyway.” Then looking down at Charles, he said: “The other thing I wanted to say was that Michelle’s leukemic cells have all but disappeared. I think she’s in remission.”

Charles felt a warm glow suffuse his body. “God! That’s great,” he said with enthusiasm. Then he got a sharp twinge that reminded him where he was.

“It certainly is,” agreed Dr. Keitzman. “We’re all very pleased. Tell me, Charles. What did you do to Michelle while she was in your house?”

Charles had trouble containing his joy. His hopes soared. Maybe Michelle was cured. Maybe everything worked as he had guessed. Looking up at Keitzman, Charles thought for a moment. Realizing that he didn’t want to go into a detailed explanation at that point, he said: “I just tried to stimulate her immune system.”

“You mean by using an adjuvant like BCG?” asked Dr. Keitzman.

“Something like that,” agreed Charles. He was in no shape to get into a scientific discussion.

“Well,” said Dr. Keitzman, heading for the door. “We’ll have to talk about it. Obviously whatever you did helped the chemotherapy she’d been given before you took her from the hospital. I don’t understand the time sequence, but we’ll talk about it when you feel stronger.”

“Yes,” agreed Charles. “When I’m stronger.”

“Anyway, I’m sure you know the custody proceedings have been canceled.” Dr. Keitzman adjusted his glasses, nodded to the technician, and left.

Charles’s elation over Dr. Keitzman’s news dulled the painful respiratory treatment, even better than the morphine. As the technician stood by, the positive pressure machine forcibly inflated Charles’s lungs, something a patient would not do himself because of the severity of the pain. The procedure lasted for twenty minutes and when the technician finally left, Charles was exhausted. In spite of the lingering pain, he fell into a fitful sleep.

Unsure of how much time had passed, Charles was roused by a sound from the other side of the room. He turned his head toward the door and was shocked to discover he wasn’t alone. There, next to the bed, not more than four feet away, sat Dr. Carlos Ibanez. With his bony hands folded in his lap and his silver hair disheveled, he looked old and frail.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” said Dr. Ibanez softly.

Charles felt a surge of anger, but remembering Keitzman’s news, it passed. Instead he looked with indifference.

“I’m glad you’re doing so well,” said Dr. Ibanez. “The surgeons told me you were very lucky.”

Luck! What a relative term, thought Charles with irritation. “You think getting shot in the chest is lucky?” he asked.

“That’s not what I meant,” said Dr. Ibanez with a smile. “Hitting your left arm apparently slowed the bullet so that when it entered your chest, it missed your heart. That was lucky.”

Charles felt a little stab of pain. Although he didn’t feel particularly fortunate, he wasn’t in the mood for an argument. He shook his head slightly to acknowledge Dr. Ibanez’s comment. In truth, he wondered why the old man had come.

“Charles!” said Dr. Ibanez with renewed emphasis. “I’m here to negotiate.”

Negotiate? thought Charles, his eyes puzzled. What the hell is he talking about?

“I’ve given a lot of thought to everything,” said Dr. Ibanez, “and I’m willing to admit that I made some mistakes. I’d like to make up for them if you’re willing to cooperate.”

Charles rolled his head and looked up at the bottles over his head, watching the intravenous fluid drip from the micropore filter. He controlled himself from telling Ibanez to go to hell.

The director waited for Charles to respond, but seeing that he would not, the old man cleared his throat. “Let me be very frank, Charles. I know that you could cause us a great deal of trouble now that you’ve become a celebrity of sorts. But that wouldn’t be good for anyone. I have convinced the board of directors not to press any charges against you and to give you your job back…”

“The hell with your job,” said Charles sharply. He winced with pain.

“All right,” said Ibanez consolingly. “I can understand if you don’t want to return to the Weinburger. But there are other institutions where we can help you get the kind of job you want, a position where you’ll be able to do your research unhindered.”

Charles thought about Michelle, wondering about what he’d done to her. Had he really hit on something? He didn’t know but he had to find out. To do that he needed laboratory facilities.

He turned and examined Dr. Ibanez’s face. In contrast to Morrison, Charles had never disliked Dr. Ibanez. “I have to warn you that if I negotiate, I’m going to have a lot of demands.” In actuality Charles had not given one thought to what he was going to do after he recovered. But lying there, looking at the director, his mind rapidly reviewed the alternatives.