Michael Palmer - The Society

For nearly a minute, nothing was spoken. Will, distracted momentarily from the impending forum, was trying to remember when he had ever felt so good about a case. Jack Langley was alternating between projecting what it would be like to hold his kids again and wondering when he would be able to return to work.

Marybeth, deeply religious, was processing her overwhelming gratitude for the droll, soft-spoken, surprisingly unassuming man who had saved her husband’s life, and thanking God that there were men and women in the world who could do what he had done for their family. She knew very little of him except that he was divorced and had two children, and that her husband, in his understated Midwestern way, absolutely adored him. Silently, she prayed that life was treating him well. Earlier in the day Will had quite casually mentioned that he had arranged for himself and all of the consultants to rub their charges off the massive balance sheet she and Jack were facing. She took a wad of tissues from her purse and dabbed at the corners of her eyes.

“So,” Will said finally, “you’ll keep in touch?”

“Of course.”

“And you’ll have your doctor call me straight off if there are any problems?”

“I don’t expect there’ll be any-not any medical ones, anyway.”

Will sensed a fullness building in his throat. He had never had that much reserve about crying in public, but this just wasn’t a time he wanted to.

“I heard some interesting news last night,” Marybeth said, as if sensing Will’s predicament. “I was talking to my cousin Peggy. She lives in a suburb of Des Moines. She was telling her friend Claire about what was happening to us with the HMO refusing to pay and all. Well, it turns out Claire used to work as a claims adjuster for that same HMO. She says that she and the others who worked her job were instructed by the company to reject one out of every ten claims out of hand. Don’t even bother to come up with a reason, just reject it. It seems the company had tried this approach to saving money and found that only thirty percent of the rejected claims were ever contested by the doctors. They just didn’t have the time or resources to battle over such things.”

“Lord. I’d like to say I’m surprised and stunned, but I’m not. In many instances, the cost involved in disputing an HMO decision makes it not worth it. I’ll make sure our hospital isn’t one of the seventy percent in this case, but I hope you’re planning on fighting this, too.”

“My cousin Pam’s husband is a big-time attorney in Des Moines,” Marybeth said, “as well as being one of the most obnoxious people on the planet. I’ve already spoken to him. He says he specializes in making people wish they had never crossed paths with him.”

“That’s quite a specialty. Well, Jack,” he said, taking the man’s hand in his, “you’ve been one hell of a patient. I don’t throw around the term hero very frequently, but you are certainly one of mine.”

“And you’re certainly one of ours,” Marybeth said. Not waiting for a handshake, she threw her arms around Will’s neck. “Thank you, Doctor,” she whispered in his ear. “Thank you for saving my husband’s life.”

Dr. Jeremy Purcell hadn’t been nearly as much help as Will had expected. For one thing, some pneumonia and a urinary-tract infection from the catheter were keeping him down. For another, his notes, while impressive in volume and scope, were not that well organized or easy to read. With Tom Lemm’s help, they had put together a reasonable, albeit dry, presentation. They even had a PowerPoint production of sorts, although it would never win any prizes for flair.

Anxious to get in some final rehearsal, Will hurried back to the office, where he had left the carton full of notes, articles, and slides in preparation for the trip into Boston. He was Custer, riding off to inspect the troops, only this time he knew what Little Bighorn held in store.

Fredrickston Surgical Associates occupied most of the second floor of the Medical Arts Building. The airy central waiting area was half full. On a Thursday, they would be Susan’s and Gordo’s patients. Will felt relieved knowing that none of them was his. He still had an hour or so to review before making the thirty-five-mile drive into Boston.

“We’re all excited about tonight, Dr. Grant,” the receptionist said.

“Are you coming, Mimi?”

“Once we knew you were going to be part of it, my husband and I tried getting tickets, but there are none. It’s a sellout.”

“You might be just as well off staying home together and watching professional wrestling. The guy Halliday who will be representing managed care has been preparing for months. I’ve had a week.”

“Oh, Dr. Grant, you’ll do great.”

“I wish I had your confidence.”

“Just tell them all what goes on around here with all the paperwork and delayed payments and grumpy patients.”

“I may do that.”

“Excuse me, Dr. Grant?”

A trim, attractive Asian woman approached him from one of the seats to his right. Her ebony hair, cut in a pageboy, was very appealing.

“Yes?”

“Dr. Grant, there’s no reason you should remember me, but there’s no reason I would ever forget you.”

“I’m embarrassed I don’t re-”

“Please don’t be. My name is Grace Davis. That’s my husband, Mark, over there.”

Will glanced over at an athletic-looking man in his early forties-business or perhaps law was his guess. He also caught sight of the ornate grandfather clock that Jim Katz had lent the practice. In forty-eight minutes he had to be on the road.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m still not able to-”

“My maiden name was Peng. Grace Peng. For more than a year I was a regular at the-”

“Oh my God! Grace! I don’t believe this.”

Excitedly, Will held her by the arms and studied her face. It was most definitely Grace Peng, but it wasn’t. The Grace Peng he knew was a woeful, down-and-out alcoholic who was a regular patron of the Open Hearth a decade ago. She was a woman of intelligence and potential, whom he and everybody else around the Hearth was drawn to and wanted to help. But sooner or later, her anger and virulent drinking drove them all away. More than one of the volunteers and staff-perhaps Will included-predicted a premature and possibly violent death for the woman.

“Gosh, but you look wonderful. How long has it been?”

“More than ten years since I saw you and also since I had my last drink.”

Inadvertently, Will glanced at the clock again. Forty minutes.

“It sure looks as if you have a tale to tell,” he said.

“I’m so sorry. You’re in a rush. I didn’t mean to hold you up.”

“No! Well, I mean yes. I have a speech to give tonight in Boston. I’m a little nervous about it.”

The transformation in the woman was absolutely astounding. She was always filthy and disheveled-more so even than most of the Open Hearth patrons. To the best of Will’s memory, Grace had gone off to yet another treatment center and had never been heard from at the Hearth again. If, as she said, it had been more than ten years ago, the twins were about to arrive and he was hustling about trying to hook up with a practice. His involvement with the place he had helped found fell off for a couple of years.

“I had no idea you were working here,” she said.

“Well, who are you here to see?”

“Dr. Hollister.”

“For?”

“I was referred to her by the clinic where I had my mammogram. They’re suspicious of cancer.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Well, I certainly hope that’s not the case.”

“I’m afraid it is. My husband has my mammograms. It’s not that big, but even I can see it.”