Robin Cook - Fever

Carrying his coffee mug, Charles padded down the hall to Michelle’s room. He paused outside of the door, then slowly pushed it open. He had half hoped to see his young daughter safely sleeping in her bed, but of course her bed was neatly made, her books and memorabilia compulsively arranged, her room as neat as a pin. “All right,” said Charles to himself, as if he were bargaining with an all-powerful arbiter, “she has myeloblastic leukemia. Just let her case be sensitive to current treatment. That’s all I ask.”

Breakfast was a strained affair, overshadowed by Gina’s forced ebullience and Charles’s reserve. One fed the other in a self-fulfilling prophecy until Gina was chatting nonstop and Charles perfectly silent. Cathryn interrupted with complicated plans about who was going to do what, when. Charles stayed out of the domestic decision making and concentrated on planning his day’s work at the institute. The first thing he wanted to do was check the well mice injected with the cancer antigen for signs of immunological activity. Most likely there would be no response with such a light dose and he would prepare to give them another challenge that afternoon. Then he would check the mice injected with the Canceran and reinject them. Then he would start work on a computer simulation of the way he envisioned the blocking factor worked.

“Charles, is that agreeable to you?” asked Cathryn.

“What?” questioned Charles. He’d tuned out all conversation.

“I will ride with you in the Pinto this morning, and you can drop me at the hospital. Chuck will take the station wagon, drop off Jean Paul, and drive himself to Northeastern. Gina has agreed to stay here and make dinner.”

“I’ll make your favorite,” said Gina enthusiastically, “gnocchi.”

Gnocchi! Charles didn’t even know what gnocchi was.

“If I want to leave early,” continued Cathryn to Charles, “I can go over to Northeastern and pick up the station wagon. Otherwise I’ll come back with you. What do you say?”

Charles couldn’t figure out how all these elaborate plans were making things any easier. The old method of his driving the boys and leaving the station wagon for Cathryn seemed far more simple, but he didn’t care. In fact, if he decided to work that night, maybe it would be best if Chuck had the car because then Cathryn could come home with him in the afternoon.

“Fine with me,” said Charles, finding himself watching Chuck who was in his usual breakfast posture, studying the cereal box as if it were Scripture. The boy was wearing the same clothes as yesterday and looked just as bad.

“I got a call from the business office yesterday,” said Charles.

“Yeah, I gave them the number,” said Chuck without looking up.

“I made arrangements at the bank for a loan,” said Charles. “Should be available in a day or so, then the bill will be paid.”

“Good,” said Chuck, flipping the box so he could study the nutritional values on the side panel.

“Is that all you have to say? Good?” Charles turned his head toward Cathryn with a look that said: “Can you believe this kid?”

Chuck pretended he hadn’t heard the question.

“I think we should be going,” said Cathryn, getting to her feet and collecting the milk and butter to put into the refrigerator.

“Just leave everything,” said Gina magnanimously. “I’ll take care of it.”

Charles and Cathryn were the first out of the house. A pale winter sun hung low in the southeastern sky. As cold as it was inside the Pinto, Cathryn was relieved to get out of the biting wind.

“Damn,” said Charles, blowing on his fingers. “I forgot the pond water.”

For Cathryn’s sake, Charles started the car, which was no easy task, before running back into the kitchen for the jar of pond water. He carefully wedged it behind his seat to keep it from spilling before he climbed into the car and fumbled with his seat belt.

Cathryn watched this procedure with the pond water with a certain misgiving. After her little talk to Charles the night before she’d hoped that he would concentrate on Michelle. But Charles had acted strangely from the moment she’d awakened him that morning. Cathryn had the scary feeling that her family was coming apart at the seams.

Watching Charles’s silent profile as he drove, Cathryn began multiple conversations but abandoned each for various reasons, mostly because she feared any discussion would trigger her husband’s temper.

When Route 301 merged with Interstate 93, Cathryn finally forced herself to speak: “How do you feel today, Charles?”

“Huh? Oh fine. Just fine.”

“You seem so quiet. It’s not like you.”

“Just thinking.”

“About Michelle?”

“Yes, and also my work.”

“You’re not still thinking of Recycle, Ltd., are you?”

Charles glanced at Cathryn for a moment, then turned his attention to the road ahead. “A little. I still think the place is a menace, if that’s what you mean.”

“Charles, there isn’t something you’re not telling me, is there?”

“No,” said Charles too quickly. “What makes you ask that?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Cathryn. “You seem so far away since we heard about Michelle. Your mood seems to change so quickly.” Cathryn’s eyes darted over to watch Charles’s reaction to her last comment. But Charles just drove on, and if there had been a reaction, Cathryn missed it.

“I guess I just have a lot on my mind,” said Charles.

“You’ll share it with me, won’t you, Charles? I mean that’s what I’m here for. That’s why I wanted to adopt the children. I want you to share everything with me.” Cathryn reached over and put her hand on Charles’s thigh.

Charles concentrated on the road in front of him. Cathryn was voicing a conviction he’d held until yesterday, but now he realized that he couldn’t share everything. His background as a physician had imparted experiences that Cathryn could not comprehend. If Charles told what he knew about the course of Michelle’s illness, she’d be devastated.

Taking a hand from the steering wheel, Charles placed it over Cathryn’s. “The children don’t know how lucky they are,” he said.

They rode in silence for a while. Cathryn wasn’t satisfied, but she didn’t know what else to say. In the far distance she could just make out the top of the Prudential building. The traffic began to increase, and they had to slow to forty miles per hour.

“I don’t know anything about tissue-typing and all that,” said Cathryn, breaking the silence. “But I don’t think we should force Chuck to do something he doesn’t want to do.”

Charles glared at Cathryn for a moment.

“I’m sure he will come around,” she continued when she realized that Charles wasn’t going to speak. “But he has to agree on his own.”

Charles took his hand off Cathryn’s and gripped the steering wheel. The mere mention of Chuck was like stoking a smoldering fire. Yet what Cathryn was saying was undeniably true.

“You can’t force someone to be altruistic,” said Cathryn. “Especially Chuck, because it will only strengthen the worries he has about his sense of self.”

“A sense of self is all he has,” said Charles. “He didn’t voice the slightest concern about Michelle. Not one word.”

“But he feels it,” said Cathryn. “It’s just hard for him to express those feelings.”

Charles laughed cynically. “I wish I believed it. He’s just goddamned selfish. Did you notice his overwhelming appreciation when I told him I’d applied for a loan for his tuition?”

“What did you want him to do? Cartwheels?” returned Cathryn. “The tuition was supposed to be paid months ago.”

Charles set his jaw. “Fine,” he said to himself. “You want to side with the little bastard… just fine!”