Robin Cook - Fever

After running the comb through her hair a few times, Cathryn switched off the light. For a moment she stood in the darkness. She couldn’t bear to look at herself a moment longer. It was too unsettling, and rather than making her feel better, the makeup idea made her feel worse.

Fleeing to her mother’s apartment in Boston’s North End had only eliminated the fear of Charles’s violence; it had done nothing to relieve her agonizing uncertainty that perhaps she’d made the wrong decision about the guardianship. Cathryn was terrified that her action would preclude his love for her after the nightmarish affair was over.

As silently as possible, Cathryn reopened the bathroom door and glanced over at the bed. Michelle had finally drifted off into a restless sleep, and even from where Cathryn was standing, she could see the child’s face twitch and tremble. Michelle had had a terrible day from the moment Cathryn had arrived that morning. She’d become weaker and weaker by the hour to the point that raising her arms and head were an effort. The small ulcers on her lips had coalesced, creating a large raw surface that pained her whenever she moved them. Her hair was coming out in thick clumps, leaving pale bald spots. But the worst part was her high fever and the fact that her lucid periods were rapidly diminishing.

Cathryn went back to her seat by Michelle’s bed. “Why hasn’t Charles called?” she asked herself forlornly. Several times she had decided to call him at the institute, but each time, after picking up the phone, she changed her mind.

Gina had not been much help at all. Rather than being supportive and understanding, she’d taken the crisis as an opportunity to lecture Cathryn repeatedly on the evil of marrying someone thirteen years her senior with three children. She told Cathryn that she should have expected this kind of problem because even though Cathryn had graciously adopted the children, Charles obviously thought of them as his alone.

Michelle’s eyes suddenly opened and her face twisted in pain.

“What’s wrong?” asked Cathryn, anxiously leaning forward on her seat.

Michelle didn’t answer. Her head flopped to the other side and her slender body writhed in pain.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Cathryn was out the door, calling for a nurse. The woman took one look at Michelle’s squirming body and put in a call to Dr. Keitzman.

Cathryn stood by the bed, wringing her hands, wishing there was something she could do. Standing there over the suffering child was a torture. Without any clear idea why she was doing it, Cathryn rushed into the bathroom and wet the end of a towel. Returning to Michelle’s bedside, she began to blot the child’s forehead with the cool cloth. Whether it did anything for Michelle, Cathryn had no idea, but at least it gave her the satisfaction of doing something.

Dr. Keitzman must have been in the area because he arrived within minutes. Skillfully he examined the child. From the regular beep on the cardiac monitor, he knew that her heart rate had not changed. Her breathing was nonencumbered; her chest was clear. Putting the bell of the stethoscope on Michelle’s abdomen, Dr. Keitzman listened. He heard a fanfare of squeaks, squawks, and tinkles. Removing the stethoscope, he put his hand on the child’s abdomen, gently palpating. When he straightened up he whispered something to the nurse who then quickly disappeared.

“Functional intestinal cramping,” explained Dr. Keitzman to Cathryn, with relief. “Must be a lot of gas. I’ve ordered a shot that will give her instantaneous relief.”

Heavily breathing through her mouth, Cathryn nodded. She sagged back into the seat.

Dr. Keitzman could see the woman’s tormented appearance and her harried expression. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Cathryn, come outside with me for a moment.”

Looking at Michelle, who’d miraculously fallen back to sleep after Dr. Keitzman’s examination, Cathryn silently followed the oncologist out of the room. He led her back to the now familiar chart room.

“Cathryn, I’m concerned about you. You’re under a lot of stress, too.”

Cathryn nodded. She was afraid to talk, thinking her emotions might all surface and overflow.

“Has Charles called?”

Cathryn shook her head. She straightened up and took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry that this has happened the way it has, but you’ve done the right thing.”

Cathryn wondered but kept still.

“Unfortunately it’s not over. I don’t have to tell you because it’s painfully obvious that Michelle is doing very poorly. So far the medicines that we’ve given her have not touched her leukemic cells, and there is no hint of a remission. She has the most aggressive case of myeloblastic leukemia I’ve ever seen, but we will not give up. In fact, we’ll be adding another drug today that I and a few other oncologists have been cleared to use on an experimental basis. It’s had promising results. Meanwhile I want to ask you if Michelle’s two brothers can come in tomorrow for typing to see if either one matches Michelle’s. I think we’re going to be forced to irradiate Michelle and give her a marrow transplant.”

“I think so,” managed Cathryn. “I’ll try.”

“Good,” said Dr. Keitzman, examining Cathryn’s face. She felt his stare and looked away.

“That is quite a shiner you’ve got,” said Dr. Keitzman sympathetically.

“Charles didn’t mean it. It was an accident,” said Cathryn quickly.

“Charles called me last night,” said Dr. Keitzman.

“He did? From where?”

“Right here in the hospital.”

“What did he say?”

“He wanted to know if I would say that benzene caused Michelle’s leukemia, which I told him I couldn’t do, although it’s a possibility. Unfortunately there is no way it could be proven. Anyway, at the end of the conversation I suggested that he should see a psychiatrist.”

“What was his response?”

“He didn’t seem excited about the idea. I wish there were some way to talk him into it. With all the stress he’s been under I’m concerned about him. I don’t mean to frighten you, but we’ve seen similar cases in which the individual has become violent. If there’s any way you can get him to see a psychiatrist, I think you ought to try it.”

Cathryn left the chart room, eager to get back to see Michelle, but when she passed the lounge opposite the nurses’ station, her eye caught the pay phone. Overcoming all of her petty reasons for not calling Charles, she put in a call to the institute. The Weinburger operator plugged in Charles’s lab and Cathryn let it ring ten times. When the operator came back on the line she told Cathryn that she knew Ellen, Charles’s assistant, was in the library, and she asked if Cathryn would like to speak with her. Cathryn agreed and heard the connection put through.

“He’s not in the lab?” asked Ellen.

“There’s no answer,” said Cathryn.

“He might be just ignoring the phone,” explained Ellen. “He’s been acting very strangely. In fact, I’m afraid to even go in there. I suppose you know he’s been dismissed from the Weinburger.”

“I had no idea,” exclaimed Cathryn with obvious shock. “What happened?”

“It’s a long story,” said Ellen, “and I think Charles should tell you about it, not me.”

“He’s been under a lot of stress,” said Cathryn.

“I know,” said Ellen.

“If you see him, would you ask him to call me? I’m at the hospital.”

Ellen agreed but added that she had her doubts that she’d be seeing him.

Cathryn slowly hung up the receiver. She thought for a moment, then called Gina, asking if Charles had phoned. Gina said there hadn’t been any calls. Cathryn next tried to call home but, as she expected, there was no answer. Where was Charles? What was going on?