Robin Cook - Fever

Cathryn was instantly sorry she’d said what she had even though it was true. Reaching over, she put her hand on his shoulder. She wanted to draw Charles out, not shut him up. “I’m sorry I said that, but Charles, you have to understand that Chuck doesn’t have your personality. He’s not competitive and he’s not the most handsome boy. But basically he’s a good kid. It’s just very hard growing up in your shadow.”

Charles glanced sideways at his wife.

“Whether you know it or not,” said Cathryn, “you’re a hard act to follow. You’ve been successful in everything you’ve tried.”

Charles did not share that opinion. He could have rattled off a dozen episodes in which he’d failed miserably. But that wasn’t the issue: it was Chuck.

“I think the kid’s selfish and lazy, and I’m tired of it. His response to Michelle’s illness was all too predictable.”

“He has a right to be selfish,” said Cathryn. “College is the ultimate selfish experience.”

“Well, he’s certainly making the best of it.”

They came to the stop-and-go traffic where 193 joined the southeast expressway and Storrow Drive. Neither spoke as they inched forward.

“This isn’t what we should be worrying about,” said Cathryn finally.

“You’re right,” sighed Charles. “And you’re right about not forcing Chuck. But if he doesn’t do it, he’s going to wait a long time before I pay his next college bill.”

Cathryn looked sharply at Charles. If that wasn’t coercion, she had no idea what was.

Although at that time of morning there were few visitors, the hospital itself was in full swing, and Charles and Cathryn had to dodge swarms of gurneys moving tiny bedridden patients to and from their various tests. Cathryn felt infinitely more comfortable with Charles at her side. Still her palms were wet, which was her usual method of showing anxiety.

As they passed the bustling nurses’ station on Anderson 6, the charge nurse caught sight of them and waved a greeting. Charles stepped over to the counter.

“Excuse me,” said Charles. “I’m Dr. Martel. I was wondering if my daughter started her chemotherapy.” He purposefully kept his voice natural, emotionless.

“I believe so,” said the nurse, “but let me check.”

The clerk who’d overheard the conversation handed over Michelle’s chart.

“She got her Daunorubicin yesterday afternoon,” said the nurse. “She got her first oral dose of Thioguanine this morning, and she’ll start with the Cytarabine this afternoon.”

The names jolted Charles but he forced himself to keep smiling. He knew too well the potential side effects and the information silently echoed in his head. “Please,” said Charles to himself. “Please, let her go into remission.” Charles knew that if it would happen, it would happen immediately. He thanked the nurse, turned, and walked toward Michelle’s room. The closer he got, the more nervous he became. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.

“It’s nice the way they have decorated to brighten the atmosphere,” remarked Cathryn, noticing the animal decals for the first time.

Charles stopped for a moment outside the door, trying to compose himself.

“This is it,” said Cathryn, thinking that Charles was uncertain of the room number. She pushed open the door, entered, and pulled Charles in behind her.

Michelle was propped up in a sitting position with several pillows behind her back. At the sight of Charles, her face twisted and she burst into tears. Charles was shocked at her appearance. Although he had not thought it possible, she looked even paler than she had the day before. Her eyes had visibly sunk into their sockets and were surrounded by circles so dark they looked like she had black eyes. In the air hung the rank smell of fresh vomit.

Charles wanted to run and hold her, but he couldn’t move. The agony of his inadequateness held him back, although she lifted her arms to him.

Her disease was too powerful, and he had nothing to offer her, just like with Elizabeth eight years earlier. The nightmare had returned. In an avalanche of horror, Charles recognized that Michelle was not going to get better. Suddenly he knew without the slightest doubt that all the palliative treatment in the world would not touch the inevitable progression of her illness. Under the weight of this knowledge Charles staggered, taking a step back from the bed.

Although Cathryn did not understand, she saw what was happening and she ran to fill Michelle’s outstretched arms. Looking over Cathryn’s shoulder, Michelle met her father’s eyes. Charles smiled weakly but Michelle decided that he was angry with her.

“It’s so good to see you,” said Cathryn, looking into Michelle’s face. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” managed Michelle, checking her tears. “I just want to go home. Can I go home, Daddy?”

Charles’s hands shook as he approached the foot of the bed. He steadied them on the metal frame.

“Maybe,” said Charles evasively. Maybe he should just take her out of the hospital; take her home and keep her comfortable; maybe that was best.

“Michelle, you have to stay here until you’re well,” Cathryn said hurriedly. “Dr. Wiley and Dr. Keitzman are going to see that you get better just as soon as possible. I know it’s hard for you, and we miss you terribly, but you have to be a big girl.”

“Please, Daddy,” said Michelle.

Charles felt helpless and indecisive, two unfamiliar and unnerving emotions.

“Michelle,” said Cathryn. “You have to stay in the hospital. I’m sorry.”

“Why? Daddy,” pleaded Michelle, “what’s wrong with me?”

Charles vainly looked at Cathryn for help, but she was silent. He was the physician.

“I wish we knew,” said Charles, hating himself for lying, yet incapable of telling the truth.

“Is it the same thing that my real mother had?” asked Michelle.

“No,” said Charles quickly. “Absolutely not.” Even that was a half lie; although Elizabeth had lymphoma, she died in a terminal leukemic crisis. Charles felt cornered. He had to get away to think.

“What is it then?” demanded Michelle.

“I don’t know,” said Charles as he guiltily checked his watch. “That’s why you’re here. To find out. Cathryn is going to stay with you to keep you company. I’ve got to get to the lab. I’ll be back.”

Without any warning, Michelle abruptly retched. Her slender body heaved, and she threw up a small amount of her recently consumed breakfast. Cathryn tried to get out of the way but some of the vomit got on her left sleeve.

Charles responded instantly by stepping into the corridor and yelling for a nurse. An aide only two doors down came flying in, expecting a crisis, and was pleased to discover it was a false alarm.

“Don’t you worry, princess,” said the woman casually, pulling off the soiled top sheet. “We’ll have it cleaned up in a second.”

Charles put the back of his hand against Michelle’s forehead. It was moist and hot. Her fever was still there. Charles knew what caused the vomiting; it was the medicine. He felt a wave of anxiety wash over him. The small room was making him feel claustrophobic.

Michelle grabbed his hand and held it as if she’d slipped at the edge of an abyss and Charles was her only salvation. She looked into the blue eyes that were mirrors of her own. But she thought she saw firmness instead of acquiescence; irritation instead of understanding. She let go of the hand and fell back onto the pillow.

“I’ll be over later, Michelle,” said Charles, upset that the medicine was already causing potentially dangerous side effects. To the aide Charles said: “Does she have something ordered for nausea and vomiting?”