Arthur Hailey - The Final Diagnosis

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 “They say all surgeons are on the way to becoming extinct, that in a few years we’ll be as out-of-date as the dodo and the witch doctor.”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.”

He went out and, with a friendly nod to Lucy, O’Donnell followed him. Alone, Lucy paused a moment, then picked up the telephone again. When the operator answered, “I want a long-distance call, please,” she said, reaching for the slip of paper. “It’s person-to-person—Salem, Oregon.”

Threading the corridor traffic with the skill of long practice, Kent O’Donnell headed briskly for his own office in the hospital. He too had a full schedule ahead. In less than half an hour he was due on the operating floor; later there was a meeting of the medical executive committee, and after that he had several patients to see downtown, a program which would take him well into the evening.

As he walked he found himself thinking once more of Lucy Grainger. Seeing her, being as close as they were a few moments ago, had set him wondering again about Lucy and himself. But now the old familiar doubts—the feeling that perhaps their interests had too much in common for any permanent relationship—came crowding back.

He wondered why he had thought so much about Lucy lately—or any woman for that matter. Perhaps it was because the early forties were traditionally a restive time for men. Then he smiled inwardly, recollecting that there had seldom been a period when occasional love affairs—of one kind or another—had not come naturally to him. Nowadays they were merely spaced more widely apart. Also, of necessity, he was obliged to be considerably more discreet than in his younger years.

From Lucy his thoughts switched to Denise Quantz. Since the invitation to call her, which she had given him the night they had met at Eustace Swayne’s house, O’Donnell had confirmed his attendance at a surgeons’ congress in New York. It occurred to him that the date was next week; if he were to meet Mrs. Quantz, he had better make the arrangements soon.

As he turned into his office the clock over his desk showed twenty minutes before his first operation was scheduled. He picked up the telephone, telling himself it was always a good idea to do things when you thought of them.

He heard the operator trace the number through New York Information, then there was a ringing tone and a click. A voice said, “This’s Mrs. Quantz’s apartment.”

“I have a long-distance call for Mrs. Denise Quantz,” the Burlington operator said.

“Mrs. Quantz’s not here now.”

“Do you know where she can be reached?” The telephone company’s ritual was in motion.

“Mrs. Quantz’s in Burlington, Pennsylvania. Do you wish the number there?”

“If you please.” It was the Burlington operator again.

“The number is Hunter 6-5735.”

“Thank you, New York.” There was a click, then the operator said, “Did you get that number, caller?”

“Yes, thank you,” O’Donnell said, and hung up.

With his other hand he had already reached for the Burlington phone directory. He thumbed through it until he came to “Swayne, Eustace R.” As he had expected, the number listed was the one he had just been given.

Lifting the phone, he dialed again.

A male voice said, “Mr. Eustace Swayne’s residence.”

“I’d like to speak with Mrs. Quantz.”

“One moment, please.”

There was a pause. Then, “This is Mrs. Quantz.”

Until this moment O’Donnell had forgotten how much her voice had attracted him before. It had a soft huskiness, seeming to lend grace to the simplest words.