Michael Palmer - Flashback

On the way back to her easy chair, she stopped and put on one of the albums Martin had left with her-Elizabethan music and English folk pieces, with Martin featured on his guitar. Perhaps, she thought, it was worth calling Martin and telling him she was going mad. She looked about for Orange, the cat he had retrieved for her. During the last of her nightmares, she had hurt it somehow-knocked out a tooth and cut its lip. Since then, the animal had spent most of its time under the bed or behind the bookshelf Hattie sank heavily into her chair. For a brief time, Martin's playing brought her some serenity and even some sweet glimpses into her dim past. There was a set of dances that she felt sure she had once played at a recital, and a lovely rendition of a song by Thomas Stewart. Next came her favorite, a gentle and haunting flute and guitar duet of "Greensleeves."

Bit by bit, her fears began to loosen their grip. Then, as they had twice before that day, the colors in the room began to intensify. No!

Hattie's mind screamed. Please, God, not again. The mus,^. grew faint, and gradually faded into the hum of traffic passing on nearby Columbus Avenue. No. Hattie felt the unpleasant inertia begin to settle in. The glow from the lamp across the room hurt her eyes. Please, God…

Desperately, and with all her strength, she forced herself to her feet, and grabbed her cigarettes, and stumbled toward the stove "Not this time, " she said out loud. "Goddamn it, not this time." She thrust a cigarette between her lips and shakily turned the burner knob. The gas flame flashed on. "Hattie… Hattie, just relax."

The voice, deep and soothing, seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. Then, from above her, Hattie saw the blue-gray eyes smiling at her over the mask. "Just relax now. There's nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. I want you to begin counting back from one hundred."

"Please…"

"Hattie, count!"

One hundred… ninety-nine…"

Good, Hattie. Keep counting. Keep counting."

"Ninety-eight…"

"She's under."

"Ninety-seven…"

"Ready, everyone. Okay."

"Ninety-six… No, wait, please. You're wrong. I'm not asleep. I'm not asleep yet."

"Suction up."

"Wait!"

"Knife, please."

"No! Not yet! Not yet!"

Hattie Day screamed as the scalpel cut into the wall of her lower abdomen. Her screams intensified as flame leapt from the stove and ignited first her hair and then her robe. "Snap, please. Now another.. "

Hattie reeled across her apartment, knocking away pieces of fiery cloth.

The rug began to smolder. She fell to the floor as the scalpel cut down her abdomen and over her groin. Flames seared her face and scalp. She retched from the smoke and the acrid smell of her own burning flesh.

"Retractors ready, please…"

The voice bored through the pain. The knife cut deeper. "Sponge. No, over here. Right here!"

Her clothes now a mass of flame, Hattie Day lurched to her feet and plunged toward the window. "Okay. Now, retract here."

Shrieking, and now engulfed in flame, the woman they all called the Witch of West Eighty-seventh Street hurled herself through the glass and out into the summer night, ten stories above the street. TUESDAY MORNING descended on Zack in the guise of one of his sneakers, set neatly and carefully on the side of his face by Cheap dog. "Self-centered brute," he mumbled, working his eyes open one at a time. "The world has to turn upside down just because you have to take Cheap dog responded to the rebuke by licking him on the mouth. "Okay, okay, mop-face. You made your point." Zack scratched the animal behind one ear and made yet another in a long series of promises to get him a haircut. "I'm afraid I haven't been paying much attention to you lately, old boy. Thanks for being so understanding."

Feeling sluggish, and less enthused about a day at work than he had in some time, he pulled on a pair of surgical scrub pants emblazoned PROPERTY OF MUNICIPAL HOSPITAL OF BOSTON-NOT TO BE REMOVED FOR ANY REASON, let Cheap dog out into the backyard, did fifteen minutes of lackluster calisthenics, and finally started water for coffee. Suzanne's striking change of attitude toward him was, he knew, one reason for his unpleasant humor. And as wonderful as making love with her had been, he wished now that they had played things differently. But weighing perhaps even more heavily at that moment was Guy Beaulieu's legacy. For most of the prior evening, Guy's envelope had remained unopened in the camper.

In fact, at various times throughout the day Zack had actually considered returning it in that state. In the end, though, he realized that his decision to do what he could for the man had been made well before meeting with his widow and daughter, and in fact, even before the terrible events in the quiet room. As he dripped hot water through his Chemex filter and scrambled two eggs with some chopped peppers, onions, and bits of leftover bacon, Zack mulled over his initial impressions of the surgeon's strange and bitter legacy. It was after midnight when he had finally returned home from a long walk with Cheap dog and brought in the envelope. Too tired to read with much comprehension, he had spent two hours sifting through the material and sorting it into piles on the dining room table. From what he could tell, the Ultramed Hospitals Corporation, whether responsible for Guy's difficulties or not, had had a tiger by the tail. There were dozens of newspaper clippings and official documents, plus computer printouts, a number of typed and amended lists of corporate officers and boards of directors, and several smaller envelopes filled with hastily scrawled, handwritten notes.

Beaulieu and his researchers had been thoroughly preparing themselves for battle. Still, despite their diligence, it looked to Zack as if the evidence they had accumulated of Ultramed's avaricious business practices was circumstantial and vague. Zack felt certain that although the assorted documents might raise some eyebrows among the hospital trustees, they were lacking the one, essential ingredient that might turn that concern into votes, a flesh-and blood example-even one-of the dangers of such practices-what Rock Hudson had been to AIDS, or the Challenger explosion to the dangers of space exploration. Without such a rallying point, such an emotional linchpin, Zack knew that Beaulieu's efforts were ultimately as doomed as the man himself. In addition to the evidence against Ultramed, the envelope contained a diary. During the early morning hours, Zack had done no more than scan the small, spiral-bound notebook. Now, after clearing a space on the table for his breakfast, he opened it randomly. Not surprisingly, the writing, almost all of it in fountain pen, was meticulous and precise. December 11th, Several patients cancelled today, including Clarisse L'Frenniere. Spoke on phone to her. She was reluctant to say anything. Had to beg her.

Finally admitted that her son Ricky had heard at school that I had seen one of the girls in his class for a lump on her neck, and had undressed her and made her lie on my examining table, and then that I had walked around and around the table, touching her. No such patient exists in my records or memory. Made several calls to parents of any young girls I had treated. They admitted to having heard rumors, but denied any of them dealt with their daughters. They were all quite distant and embarrassed. I feel I may have done myself more harm than good by contacting them. Called Ricky and begged him to give me the girl's name.

He could or would not. Finally, Clarisse took the phone from him, told me not to call again, and hung up. I will not stop trying. Zack glanced at several other pages, some of which outlined more of Guy's efforts to dive beneath the murky sea of rumors. Others described clashes with members of the medical staff, the local newspaper, and even certain patients. Taken as a whole, it was a chronicle of the agonizing disintegration of a man's life. Allegations of malpractice, none of them substantiated or backed up with a suit… Ietters of complaint to the newspapers and the hospital, most of them anonymous… rumors of sexual misconduct… rumors of inappropriate behavior… patient defections … Blow after blow, humiliation after humiliation, yet Guy Beaulieu had refused to knuckle under. On one page he seemed heroic, on the next, pathologically obstinate. As Zack scanned the notes, the fine line separating the two conditions grew even less distinct. The chances that a man is in the right increase geometrically by the vigor with which others are trying to prove him wrong The maxim was one of Zack's favorites, and he had cited it any number of times over the years. But never had he felt it in his gut the way he did at this moment. Still, there was more than gut instinct to consider. There was the incriminating letter from Maureen Banas, along with other damning evidence Frank claimed to have. There was also Guy's explosive and irrational behavior in the emergency ward on the morning of his death.