Robin Cook - Fever

“I’m going to have to keep the press away from him,” said Bellman.

Dr. Ibanez laughed. “At least that part will be easy. Charles has never cared for publicity.”

“You sure he’s the best man to take over Canceran?” said Bellman.

“He’s the only man. No one else is available who has his professional reputation. All he has to do is finish the study.”

“But if he screws up somehow…” worried Bellman.

“Don’t even suggest it,” said Ibanez. “If he mishandles Canceran at this point, we’d have to do something drastic. Otherwise we’ll all be looking for a job.”

Disgusted with himself, Charles dragged his way back down to his lab. For the first time in almost ten years, Charles nostalgically recalled private practice. It wasn’t the one-on-one of clinical medicine that he longed for, but rather the autonomy. Charles was accustomed to being in control and until that moment he had not realized how little control he had at the Weinburger.

For the second time in the day, Charles slammed the door to his lab, rattling the glassware on the shelves and terrifying the rats and mice in the animal room. Also for the second time he startled Ellen, who deftly caught a pipette she’d knocked off the counter when she spun around. She was about to complain but when she saw Charles’s face, she remained silent.

In a fit of misdirected rage, Charles slung the heavy lab books at the counter. One hit the floor while the others crashed into a distillation apparatus sending shards of glass all over the room. Ellen’s hand flew up to protect her face as she stepped back. Still not satisfied, Charles picked up an Erlenmeyer flask and hurled it into the sink. Ellen had never seen Charles like this in all the six years they’d worked together.

“If you tell me I told you so, I’ll scream,” said Charles, flinging himself onto his metal swivel chair.

“Dr. Ibanez wouldn’t listen?” asked Ellen, guardedly.

“He listened. He just wouldn’t buy, and I caved in like a paper tiger. It was awful.”

“I don’t think you had any choice,” said Ellen. “So don’t be so hard on yourself. Anyway, what’s the schedule?”

“The schedule is that we finish the Canceran efficacy study.”

“Do we start right away?” asked Ellen.

“Right away,” returned Charles with a tired voice. “In fact, why don’t you go get the Canceran lab books. I don’t want to talk to anyone for a while.”

“All right,” said Ellen softly. She was relieved to have an errand to take her out of the lab for a few minutes. She sensed that Charles needed a little time by himself.

After Ellen left, Charles didn’t move and he tried not to think. But his solitude did not last long. The door was thrown open and Morrison stormed into the lab.

Charles swung around and looked up at Morrison, whose veins were standing out on the sides of his forehead like strands of spaghetti. The man was furious.

“I’ve had just about all I can tolerate,” he shouted through blanched lips. “I’m tired of your lack of respect. What makes you think you’re so important that you don’t have to follow normal protocol? I shouldn’t have to remind you that I am your department head. You’re supposed to go through me when you have questions about administration, not to the director.”

“Morrison, do me a favor,” said Charles, “get the hell out of my lab.”

Morrison’s small eyes became suffused with a pale crimson. Minute beads of perspiration sprung up on his forehead as he spoke: “All I can say is that if it weren’t for our current emergency, Charles, I’d see that you were thrown out of the Weinburger today. Lucky for you we can’t afford another scandal. But you’d better shine on this Canceran project if you have any intentions of staying on staff here.”

Without waiting for a response, Morrison stalked out of the lab. Charles was left with the low hum of the refrigerator compressors and the ticks of the automatic radioactivity counter. These were familiar sounds and they had a soothing effect on Charles. Maybe, he thought, the Canceran affair wouldn’t be too bad; maybe he could do the study quickly, provided the experimental protocol was decent; maybe Ellen was right and they could do both projects by working some nights.

Suddenly the phone began to ring. He debated answering, hearing it ring three times, then four. On the fifth ring he picked it up.

“Hello,” said the caller. “This is Mrs. Crane from the bursar’s office at Northeastern University.”

“Yes,” said Charles. It took him a moment to associate the school with Chuck.

“Sorry to bother you,” said Mrs. Crane. “But your son gave us the number. It seems that the $1650 semester tuition is way overdue.”

Charles toyed with a small tin of paper clips, wondering what to say. Not being able to pay bills was a new experience.

“Mr. Martel, are you there?”

“Dr. Martel,” said Charles, although as soon as he made the correction he felt foolish.

“Excuse me, Dr. Martel,” said Mrs. Crane, genuinely compunctious. “Can we expect the money in the near future?”

“Of course,” said Charles. “I’ll have a check on its way. I’m sorry for the oversight.”

Charles hung up. He knew that he’d have to get a loan immediately. He hoped to hell that Chuck was doing reasonably well and that he wouldn’t major in psychology. He picked up the phone again, but didn’t dial. He decided it would save time if he went directly to the bank; besides, he felt like he could use some fresh air and a little time away from the Morrisons and Ibanezes of the world.

Flipping the pages of an old issue of Time magazine, Cathryn wrestled with a resurgence of anxiety. At first Dr. Wiley’s waiting room had been a sanctuary from the horrors of the rest of the hospital, but as time passed uncertainty and foreboding began to reassert themselves. Glancing at her watch she saw that Michelle had been back in the examining area for over an hour. Something must be wrong!

She began to fidget, crossing and uncrossing her legs, checking her watch repeatedly. To her discomfort there was no conversation in the room and almost no movement except for the hands of a woman who was knitting and the erratic gestures of two toddlers playing with blocks. All at once Cathryn realized what was bothering her. Everything was too flat, without emotion. It was like a two-dimensional picture of a three-dimensional scene.

She stood up, unable to sit still for another moment. “Excuse me,” she said walking over to the nurse. “My little girl, Michelle Martel. Do you have any idea how much longer she’ll be?”

“The doctor hasn’t told us,” said the nurse politely. She sat with her back painfully straight so that her substantial buttocks protruded out the back of her chair.

“She’s been in there for a long time,” said Cathryn, searching for some reassurance.

“Dr. Wiley is very complete. I’m sure she’ll be out shortly.”

“Does he frequently take over an hour?” asked Cathryn. She felt superstitiously ambivalent about asking any questions at all, as if the asking would influence the ultimate outcome.

“Certainly,” said the nurse receptionist. “He takes whatever time he needs. He never rushes. He’s that kind of a doctor.”

But why does he need all that time, wondered Cathryn as she returned to her seat. The image of Tad with his plastic cell kept returning to Cathryn’s troubled mind. It was a horrifying shock to realize that children do get serious illnesses. She had believed that it was a rare occurrence that happened to someone else’s child, a child one didn’t know. But Tad was a neighbor, her daughter’s friend. Cathryn shuddered.