Michael Palmer - The Society

Charles Newcomber was the radiologist who had read the mammogram, dictated his reading, and subsequently referred his patient to Susan. Emphasizing his title to the Excelsius Cancer Center operator, Will had no problem getting patched through to the man, who had a rather high-pitched voice and a fairly pronounced British accent.

“Dr. Newcomber,” Will said after introducing himself, “I’m here with a Mrs. Grace Davis, who had a set of mammograms that you correctly read as showing probable cancer.”

“Well, I’m certainly relieved at being deemed correct about such a thing.”

“Oops. I’m sorry, Doctor. I hope you know that’s not what I meant. I really do apologize.” Will expected the man to say something that would help ease his discomfiture, but there was only silence from the radiologist. “I. . um. . the problem I’m calling about is that you referred Mrs. Davis to Dr. Susan Hollister, who is one of my partners.”

“Yes?”

“Well, it turns out that Mrs. Davis and I have a history together that goes back more than ten years.”

“How sweet,” Newcomber said.

Will sensed his neck redden, but held his tongue in check. Newcomber was part of the Excelsius Health family. It was quite possible he was aware of the forum and its aftermath. Perhaps he had even been there.

“Dr. Newcomber, Mrs. Davis is here with me right now. She would like me to perform her surgery. I have spoken with Dr. Hollister, and she has no problem with the change.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible.”

“What?”

“Dr. Grand, first of all, this cancer center has an approved list of consultants from which we select a surgeon based on our patients’ hometown and any sexual preference. Dr. Hollister is on that list. You, sir, are not. Secondly, I have made it a point to personally get to know any surgeon to whom I make a referral. I don’t know you at all. If Mrs. Davis has a problem with that, I suggest she make an appointment to come in and share her concerns with me.”

Will could barely speak.

“Dr. Newcomber,” he managed, “who is your supervisor?”

“ I am the supervisor, sir,” came the acid reply.

“Well, you’re not the boss!” Will shot. “And my name’s Grant, not Grand.”

He slammed the receiver down.

A call to information gave him the number of the headquarters of Excelsius Health. He and Boyd Halliday had mixed it up yesterday, and Will was more than ready for another go.

“There’s no way they’re going to get away with this,” he muttered as much to himself as to Grace.

“Excelsius Health, the leader in cost-effective, comprehensive health care. How may I direct your call?”

“This is Dr. Grant. Mr. Halliday’s office, please.”

“One moment.”

“Boyd Halliday’s office. May I help you?”

“This is Dr. Will Grant. May I speak with Mr. Halliday, please?”

“Dr. Willard Grant? From last evening?”

“That’s right.”

“Um. . just a moment, please.”

For nearly two minutes, Will sat with the phone pressed to his ear, listening to a Spanish flamenco guitar piece and looking across at Grace. Her transformation, while certainly remarkable, was not the only one of its kind he had encountered. Over his years as a physician and as a volunteer at the Open Hearth, he had known a number of alcoholics and drug addicts who had failed at rehab again and again, only to suddenly get it and become straight and sober forces for good in their own lives and the lives of many others. His own dentist had survived a horrible stretch of drinking, during which he was hospitalized more than two dozen times in a ten-year period. Now, twenty years into recovery, the man was something of a saint, practicing his craft with wonderful skill, while helping countless men and women in and out of his profession to face their demons and prevail.

“Dr. Grant?”

“Yes.”

“Marshall Gold here. Mr. Halliday is at an all-day conference. Is there anything I can do to help you?”

The time spent on hold had done nothing to help Will calm down. Barely pausing to breathe, he recounted the situation with Grace Davis and his disturbing conversation with Charles Newcomber.

“I am on the provider panel for both Steadfast Health and Excelsius,” he railed, “and so there is absolutely no reason to prevent me from caring for this woman-”

“Dr. Grant-”

“I promise you, if Boyd Halliday doesn’t intercede in this case and set matters straight, he’d better be watching the news and reading the papers, because I won’t hesitate to bring Grace Davis to them and-”

“Dr. Grant,” Gold repeated calmly.

“What?”

“We’re sorry for the confusion. We have no problem honoring Mrs. Davis’s request to switch to you for her surgeon.”

“You don’t?”

“No, sir.”

“But Newcomber-”

“The arrangement we have with Steadfast Health has, from time to time, generated some confusion. I’m sorry that you, of all physicians, on the day after the Faneuil Hall forum, of all days, have been caught up in it. Hopefully, in the very near future, Steadfast Health and Excelsius will be merging, and such misunderstandings will be eliminated altogether.”

The freight train of Will’s anger screeched to an immediate halt.

“You can speak for Halliday on this matter?”

“As I said, you are not the first physician to be caught up in this sort of situation. So long as you are a provider on our panel, which I most certainly know you are, you have been screened in depth by our credentialing committee and have been deemed to be a quality physician.”

“I. . well. . thank you, Mr. Gold. Thank you very much. Mrs. Davis will be very pleased to hear that.”

“Is there anything else?”

“No. No, I guess not.”

“Dr. Grant, I assure you, we are not the soulless, money-grubbing monsters you have worked so hard to portray us as.”

“Maybe you’re not,” Will replied distantly. He set the receiver down softly.

“So, I guess you’re my surgeon,” Grace said.

“I guess I am. I don’t know why I’m sitting here feeling like a jerk when I didn’t even do anything but stick up for our rights. The company made the offensive call, then the company took it away. It’s as simple as that.”

“It’s as simple as that, except that you have passion for your profession and your patients and don’t want to have that stolen away from you.” She stood and set copies of the morning’s Globe and Herald on his desk. “I’ll make an appointment for you to examine me and speak to me and my husband about what’s in store for us, and also to schedule the biopsy. With any luck, you’ll get to help save my life a second time. I’m not sure I subscribe to this one, but an ancient Chinese belief is that if you save someone’s life, you are responsible for that person and what she does with the rest of her life, having presumably cheated the fates out of an intended victim. If that’s really true, I would wager you have quite a number of souls on your plate.”

Before he could respond, she reached across the desk, briefly took his hand in hers, and was gone, leaving the faintest scent of something springlike swirling in the air.

Will checked the morning’s schedule once again. He still had ten precious minutes to review lab reports and dictations and to sign the stack of payment requisitions for those companies who refused to allow a rubber stamp, proxy, or any signature other than his in black ink. Two minutes into the ten, his private, direct line-the line reserved for family, close friends, and other physicians-began ringing.

“Dr. Grant?”

The voice was tinny-mechanical and robotic-the sort of distorted, disembodied, computer-generated voice that telemarketers were using more and more to announce that you had just been chosen to receive three free days and two free nights at one of Orlando’s newest resorts, or to ask you to call for the absolute lowest mortgage rates possible, even if you have been refused credit in the past. Only this call had come in on a number that none but the most dogged, resourceful telemarketing firm could ever have obtained. Will resisted the impulse simply to hang up.