Robin Cook: Seizure

“You want to be a celebrity.”

“I suppose that’s one way to put it. And the money will be nice, too. Why not? People with half my ability have done it.”

“Have you ever read Arrowsmith by Sinclair Lewis?”

“I don’t have much chance to read novels.”

“Maybe you should take the time,” Wortheim suggested scornfully. “It might make you rethink this decision before it’s irreversible.”

“I’ve given it a lot of thought,” Daniel said. “I think it is the right thing for me.”

“Would you like my opinion?”

“I think I know what your opinion is.”

“I think it’s going to be a disaster for both of us, but mainly for you.”

“Thank you for your words of encouragement,” Daniel said. He stood up. “See you around the campus.” Then he walked out.

5:15 P.M.

Washington, D.C.

“Thank you all for coming to see me,” Senator Ashley Butler said in his usual cordial, Southern drawl. With a smile plastered onto his doughy face, he glad-handed a group of eager-faced men and women who’d leapt to their feet the moment he burst into his small senate office conference room along with his chief of staff. The visitors were grouped around the central oak library table. They were representatives of a small business organization from the senator’s state capital who were lobbying for tax relief, or maybe it was insurance relief. The senator did not remember exactly, and it wasn’t on his schedule as it should have been. He made a mental note to bring the lapse up with his office manager. “I’m sorry I’m late coming in here,” he continued, after energetically pumping the last person’s hand. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you folks, and I wanted to get in here sooner, but it’s been one of those days.” He rolled his eyes for emphasis. “Unfortunately, because of the hour and another pressing engagement, I can’t stay. I’m sorry, but Mike here is great.”

The senator gave the staffer assigned to meet with the group an acknowledging slap on the shoulder, urging the young man forward until his thighs were pressed up against the table. “Mike’s the best I’ve got, and he’ll listen to your problems and then brief me. I’m sure we can help, and we want to help.”

The senator gave Mike’s shoulder another series of pats, along with an admiring smile like a proud father’s at his son’s graduation.

In a chorus, the visitors thanked the senator for seeing them, especially in view of his demanding schedule. Zealous smiles defined each and every face. If the people were disappointed at the brevity of the meeting and the fact that they’d had to wait almost a half hour, they didn’t show it in the slightest.

“It’s my pleasure,” Ashley gushed. “We’re here to serve.”

Spinning around, Ashley turned to leave. As he reached the door, he waved. His home-state visitors responded in kind.

“That was easy,” Ashley murmured to Carol Manning, his long-term chief of staff, who’d followed from the conference room at her boss’s heels. “I was afraid they were going to hogtie me with a litany of sad stories and unreasonable demands.”

“They seemed like nice people,” Carol said vaguely.

“Do you think Mike can handle them?”

“I don’t know,” Carol said. “He’s not been here long enough for me to have much of an idea.”

Leading the way, the senator strode down the long hall toward his private office. He glanced at his watch. It was five-twenty in the afternoon. “I assume you remember where you are taking me now.”

“Of course,” Carol said. “We’re going back to Dr. Whitman’s office.”

The senator shot a reproachful look in Carol’s direction while pressing his forefinger against his lips. “That’s hardly for general consumption,” he whispered irritably.

Without the slightest acknowledgment of his office manager, Dawn Shackelton, Ashley grabbed the papers she held up as he passed her desk and entered his private office. The papers included a preliminary schedule for the following day, along with a list of the calls that had come in during the time he’d been over at the capital for a late roll call vote, plus the transcript of an impromptu interview with someone from CNN who’d waylaid him in the hall.

“I’d better get my car,” Carol said after glancing at her own watch. “We’re due at the doctor’s office at six-thirty, and there’s no telling what kind of traffic we’ll be facing.”

“Good idea,” Ashley said, going around behind his desk while glancing at the list of calls.

“Should I pick you up at the corner of C and Second?”

Ashley merely grunted an affirmative. A number of the calls were important, coming from the heads of several of his many political action committees. As far as he was concerned, fund-raising was the most important part of his job, especially since he was facing a reelection campaign for the November after next. He heard the door close behind Carol. For the first time all day, a silence descended over him. He raised his eyes. Also for the first time all day, he was alone.

Instantaneously, the anxiety he’d felt upon awakening that morning spread through him like a wildfire. He could feel it from the pit of his stomach to the tips of his fingers. He’d never liked going to the doctor. When he was a child, it had been the simple fear of a shot or some other painful or embarrassing experience. But as he’d gotten older, the fear had changed and had become more powerful and distressing. Seeing the doctor had become an unwelcome reminder of his mortality and the fact that he was no longer a spring chicken. Now it was as if the mere act of going to the doctor increased his chances of having to face some horrible diagnosis like cancer or, worse yet, ALS-also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease.

A few years earlier, one of Ashley’s brothers had been diagnosed with ALS after experiencing some vague neurological symptoms. After the diagnosis, the powerfully built and athletically inclined man who’d been much more of a picture of health than Ashley had rapidly become a cripple and within months had died. The doctors had been helpless.

Ashley absently placed the papers onto his desk and stared off into the distance. He too had begun to have some vague neurological symptoms a month earlier. At first he just dismissed them, attributing their appearance to the stress of his work or having drunk too much coffee or not having gotten a good night’s sleep. The symptoms waxed and waned but never went away. In fact, they slowly seemed to get worse. The most distressing was the intermittent shaking of his left hand. On a few occasions it had been necessary for him to hold it with his right hand to keep people from noticing. Then there was the feeling of sand in his eyes, making them water embarrassingly. And finally there was an occasional sensation of stiffness that could make standing up and starting to walk a mental and physical effort.

A week earlier, the problem had finally driven him to see the doctor despite his superstitious reluctance to do so. He didn’t go to Walter Reed or the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda. He was too afraid the media would discover that something was amiss. Ashley didn’t need that kind of publicity. After almost thirty years in the Senate he’d become a powerhouse and a force to be reckoned with, despite his reputation as an obstructionist who regularly bucked his party’s dictates. Indeed, with his advocacy and consistency on various fundamentalist and populist issues like states’ rights and prayer in school, and his anti-affirmative-action and anti-abortion stances, he’d succeeded in blurring party lines while developing a growing national constituency. Reelection to the senate would not be a problem with his well-oiled political machinery. What Ashley had his sights on was a run for the White House in 2004. He didn’t need anyone speculating or circulating rumors about his health.