Robin Cook - Fever

“How about getting the polyethylene glycol?” said Charles. “We’re going to want to set up the equipment to produce a hybridoma with Michelle’s T-lymphocytes. Also call the animal room and tell them we want a fresh batch of control mice, which we’ll inject with the mammary tumor antigen. God, I wish there were more than twenty-four hours in a day.”

“Pass the mashed potatoes,” said Jean Paul after debating with himself for several minutes whether to break the silence that had descended over the dinner table. No one had spoken since he announced that the duck he’d put in the garage was “deader than a doorknob, stiff as a board.” Ultimately his hunger had decided the issue.

“I’ll trade you for the pork chops,” said Chuck, tossing his head to remove some stringy hair from his eyes.

The boys exchanged platters. There was the clink of silver against china.

Gina Lorenzo, Cathryn’s mother, eyed her daughter’s family. Cathryn resembled her. They each had the same bony prominence on the bridge of the nose and the same large, expressive mouth. The major difference, other than the obvious twenty-plus years, was that Gina was so much heavier. She admitted she was twenty pounds overweight but in actuality it was more like sixty. Pasta was Gina’s passion and she was not one to deny herself.

Lifting the bowl of fettucini, Gina gestured as if she were about to add to Cathryn’s untouched plate. “You need some nourishment.”

Forcing a smile, Cathryn shook her head no.

“What’s the matter? You don’t like it?” asked Gina.

“It’s wonderful,” said Cathryn. “I’m just not very hungry.”

“You gotta eat,” said Gina. “You, too, Charles.”

Charles nodded.

“I brought fresh cannolis for dessert,” said Gina.

“Oh, boy!” said Jean Paul.

Dutifully Charles took a bite of the fettucini but his stomach rebelled. He let the pasta sit in his mouth before trying to swallow it. The reality of the day’s disasters had hit him with hurricane force once he’d left the frenzied environment he’d created in the lab. Work had been an emotional anesthetic and he had been sorry when it was time to pick up Chuck and drive home. And Chuck hadn’t helped. Charles had waited until they were out of the Boston rush hour traffic before telling his son that his sister had a very serious kind of leukemia. Chuck’s response had been a simple “Oh!” followed by silence. Then he had asked if there was any chance he might catch it.

At the time Charles did not say anything; he just gripped the steering wheel harder, marveling at the unabashed depths of his oldest son’s selfishness. Not once did Chuck ask how Michelle was doing. And now as Charles watched Chuck gobble his pork chops, he felt like reaching over and throwing the selfish kid out of the house.

But Charles didn’t move. Instead he began mechanically to chew his fettucini, embarrassed at his own thoughts. Chuck was immature. At least Jean Paul reacted appropriately. He’d cried and then asked when Michelle would be home and if he could go and see her. He was a good kid.

Charles looked at Cathryn, who kept her head down, pushing her food around her plate, pretending for her mother’s sake to be eating. He was thankful that he had her. He didn’t think he could handle Michelle’s illness by himself. At the same time he realized how difficult it was for Cathryn. For that reason he had not said anything about the troubles at the institute, nor did he plan to. She had enough to worry about.

“Have some more pork chops, Charles,” said Gina, reaching over and unceremoniously plopping a chop on his full plate.

He had tried to say no but the chop had already entered its ballistic arc. He looked away, trying to stay calm. Charles found Gina trying even under the best of circumstances, especially since the woman had never concealed her disapproval of her only daughter marrying a man thirteen years her senior with three kids. Charles heard another telltale plop and opened his eyes to see his mound of fettucini had grown.

“There,” said Gina. “You need some more meat on your bones.”

Charles restrained himself from grabbing a handful of fettucini and throwing it back into the bowl.

“How do they know Michelle has leukemia?” asked Jean Paul guilelessly.

Everyone turned to Charles, having been afraid to ask the question.

“They looked at her blood, then examined her bone marrow.”

“Bone marrow?” questioned Chuck with disgust. “How do they get bone marrow to look at?”

Charles eyed his son, amazed at how easily Chuck could irritate him. To anyone else, Chuck’s question might seem innocent, but Charles was sure the boy was motivated by morbid interest and not concern for his sister. “They get bone marrow by ramming a largebore needle into the breast bone or the hipbone, then sucking the marrow out,” said Charles, hoping to shock Chuck into sympathy for Michelle.

“Ugh,” said Chuck. “Does it hurt?”

“Terribly,” said Charles.

Cathryn stiffened with a flash of imaginary pain, remembering that she’d been the one to consent to the test.

“God!” said Chuck. “Nobody is ever going to do a bone marrow on me!”

“I’m not so sure,” said Charles without thinking. “Michelle’s doctor wants both of you boys to go in to be tissue-typed. There’s a chance one of you may match Michelle and can be a donor for platelets, granulocytes, or even a marrow transplant.”

“Not me!” said Chuck, putting down his fork. “Nobody is going to stick no needle into my bones. No way!”

Slowly Charles placed his elbows on the table and leaned toward Chuck. “I’m not asking if you’re interested, Charles Jr. I’m telling you that you’re going into Pediatric Hospital to be tissue-typed. Do you understand me?”

“This is hardly a discussion for the dinner table,” interrupted Cathryn.

“Will they really stick a needle into my bone?” asked Jean Paul.

“Charles, please!” shouted Cathryn. “This is no way to talk to Chuck about this kind of thing!”

“No? Well, I’m sick and tired of his selfishness,” cried Charles. “He hasn’t voiced one word of concern for Michelle.”

“Why me?” yelled Chuck. “Why do I have to be a donor? You’re the father. Why can’t you be the donor, or are big-shit doctors not allowed to donate marrow?”

Charles leaped to his feet in blind fury, pointing a quivering finger at Chuck. “Your selfishness is only rivaled by your ignorance. You’re supposed to have had biology. The father only donates half of the chromosomes to a child. There is no way I could match Michelle. If I could I’d change places with her.”

“Sure! Sure!” taunted Chuck. “Talk’s cheap.”

Charles started around the table, but Cathryn leaped up and caught him. “Charles, please,” she said bursting into tears. “Calm down!”

Chuck was frozen in his chair, gripping the sides with white knuckles. He knew that only Cathryn stood between him and disaster.

“In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost,” said Gina, crossing herself. “Charles! Beg the Lord for forgiveness. Don’t abet the devil’s work.”

“Oh, Christ!” shouted Charles. “Now we get a sermon!”

“Don’t tempt the Lord,” said Gina with conviction.

“To hell with God,” shouted Charles, breaking free of Cathryn’s grip. “What kind of God gives a defenseless twelve-year-old leukemia?”

“You cannot question the Lord’s way,” said Gina solemnly.

“Mother!” cried Cathryn. “That’s enough!”

Charles’s face flushed crimson. His mouth voiced some inaudible words before he abruptly spun on his heels, wrenched open the back door, and stormed out into the night. The door slammed with a jolting finality that shook the bric-a-brac in the living room.