Thirteen

Vivian kept very still—bewildered, uncomprehending. This thing could not be happening to her; it must be someone else Dr. Grainger was speaking about. Her thoughts raced. That was it! Somehow the charts of two patients had become mixed. It had happened before in hospitals. Dr. Grainger was busy; she could easily be confused. Perhaps some other patient was even now being told . . .

Abruptly she stopped her thoughts, made them stand still, tried to clear her mind. There was no mistake. She knew it, clearly and definitely, from the expressions of Dr. Grainger and Mike Seddons. They were watching her now, seated on either side of the hospital bed where Vivian half lay, half sat, propped up by pillows behind her.

She turned to Lucy Grainger. “When will you know . . . for sure?”

“In two days. Dr. Pearson will tell us then. One way or the other.”

“And he doesn’t know . . .”

Lucy said, “Not at this moment, Vivian. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything for sure.”

“Oh, Mike!” She reached for his hand.

He took it gently. Then she said, “I’m sorry . . . but I think . . . I’m going to cry.”

As Seddons put his arms around Vivian, Lucy rose to her feet. “I’ll come back later.” She asked Seddons, “You’ll stay for a while?”

“Yes.”

Lucy said, “Make sure that Vivian is quite clear in her mind that nothing is definite. It’s just that I want her to be prepared . . . in case.”

He nodded, the untidy red hair moving slowly. “I understand.”

As she went out into the corridor Lucy thought: Yes, I’m quite sure you do.”

Yesterday afternoon, when Joe Pearson had reported to her by telephone, Lucy had been undecided whether to tell Vivian at this stage what the possibilities were or to wait until later. If she waited, and Pathology’s report on the biopsy was “benign,” all would be well and Vivian would never know of the shadow which, for a while, had drifted darkly over her. But, on the other hand, if, two days from now, the pathology report said “malignant,” amputation would become vitally urgent. In that case, could Vivian be prepared in time, or would the psychological impact be too great? The shock, suddenly thrust upon a young girl who had not suspected that anything serious was wrong, could be tremendous. It might be days before Vivian was ready mentally to accept major surgery—days they could ill afford to lose.

There was something else Lucy had also weighed in balance. The fact that Joe Pearson was seeking outside opinion was significant in itself. If it had been a clear-cut case of benign tissue, he would have said so at once. The fact that he had not, despite his unwillingness to commit himself either way when they had talked, meant that malignancy was at least a strong possibility.

Deliberating all these things, Lucy had decided that Vivian must be told the situation now. If, later, the verdict was “benign,” it was true she would have suffered fear unneedfully. But better that than a sudden explosive impact for which she was completely unprepared.

The immediate problem had also been simplified by the appearance of Dr. Seddons. Last evening the young resident had come to Lucy and told her of his own and Vivian’s plans for marriage. He had admitted that at first his own intention had been to remain in the background, but now he had changed his mind. Lucy was glad he had. At least it meant that Vivian was no longer alone and there was someone whom she could turn to for support and comfort.

Without question, the girl would need plenty of both. Lucy had broken the news that she suspected osteogenic sarcoma—with all its tragic possibilities—as gently as she could. But no matter how one put it, there was no real way of softening the blow. Now Lucy remembered the next thing she had to do: apprise the girl’s parents of the situation as it stood. She glanced down at a slip of paper in her hand. It contained an address in Salem, Oregon, which she had copied earlier from the “next-of-kin” entry on Vivian’s admitting form. She already had the girl’s agreement that her parents could be told. Now Lucy must do the best job she could of breaking the news by long-distance telephone.

Already her mind was anticipating what might happen next. Vivian was a minor. Under state law a parent’s consent was required before any amputation could be performed. If the parents planned to fly here immediately from Oregon, the written consent could be obtained on arrival. If not, she must do her best to persuade them to telegraph the authority, giving Lucy the discretion to use it if necessary.

Lucy glanced at her watch. She had a full schedule of appointments this morning in her office downtown. Perhaps she had better make the call now, before leaving Three Counties. On the second floor she turned into the tiny hospital office she shared with Gil Bartlett. It was little more than a cubicle—so small that they rarely used it at the same time. Now it was very much occupied—by Bartlett and Kent O’Donnell.

As he saw her O’Donnell said, “Sorry, Lucy. I’ll get out. This place was never built for three.”

“There’s no need.” She squeezed past the two men and sat down at the tiny desk. “I have a couple of things to do, then I’m leaving.”

“You’d be wise to stay.” Gil Bartlett’s beard followed its usual bobbing course. His voice was bantering. “Kent and I are being extremely profound this morning. We’re discussing the entire future of surgery.”

“Some people will tell you it doesn’t have a future.” Lucy’s tone matched Bartlett’s. She had opened a desk drawer and was extracting some clinical notes she needed for one of her downtown appointments. “They say all surgeons are on the way to becoming extinct, that in a few years we’ll be as out-of-date as the dodo and the witch doctor.”

Nothing pleased Bartlett more than this kind of exchange. He said, “And who, I ask you, will do the cutting and plumbing on the bloomin’ bleeding bodies?”

“There won’t be any cutting.” Lucy had found the notes and reached for a brief case. “Everything will be diagnostic. Medicine will employ the forces of nature against nature’s own malfunctioning. Our mental health will have been proven as the root of organic disease. You’ll prevent cancer by psychiatry and gout by applied psychology.” She zippered the brief case, then added lightly, “As you may guess, I’m quoting.”

“I can hardly wait for it to happen.” Kent O’Donnell smiled. As always, nearness to Lucy gave him a feeling of pleasure. Was he being foolish, even ridiculous, in holding back from allowing their relationship to become more intimate? What was he afraid of, after all? Perhaps they should spend another evening together, then let whatever happened take its course. But here and now—with Gil Bartlett present—was obviously no time to make arrangements.

“I doubt if any of us will live that long.” As Lucy spoke the phone on the desk rang softly. She picked it up and answered, then passed the instrument to Gil Bartlett. “It’s for you.”

“Yes?” Bartlett said.

“Dr. Bartlett?” They could hear a woman’s voice at the other end of the line.

“Speaking.”

“This is Miss Rawson in Emergency. I have a message from Dr. Clifford.” Clifford was the hospital’s senior surgical resident.

“Go ahead.”

“He would like you to come down and scrub, if you can. There’s been a traffic accident on the turnpike. We’ve several seriously injured people, including a bad chest case. That’s the one Dr. Clifford would like your help with.”

“Tell him I’ll be right there.” Bartlett replaced the phone. “Sorry, Lucy. Have to finish some other time.” He moved to the doorway, then paused. “I’ll tell you one thing, though—I don’t think I’ll worry about unemployment. As long as they go on building bigger and faster motorcars there’ll always be a place for surgeons.”