Robin Cook - Godplayer

As she walked down to the first floor, Cassi could feel herself beginning to relax. Her first week on psychiatry had been a trying and difficult period, one that she would not like to relive.

Cassi took the interior pedestrian crosswalk to the Professional Building. Thomas’s office was on the third floor. She paused outside the polished oak door, gazing at the shining brass letters: THOMAS KINGSLEY, M.D., CARDIAC AND THORACIC SURGERY, and felt a thrill of pride.

The waiting room was tastefully decorated with Chippendale reproductions and a large Tabriz rug. The walls were powder blue and hung with original art. The door leading to the inner office was guarded by a mahogany desk occupied by Doris Stratford, Thomas’s nurse-receptionist. As Cassi entered, Doris looked up briefly, then went back to her typing when she recognized who it was.

Cassi approached the desk.

“How’s Thomas doing?”

“Just fine,” said Doris, her eyes on her paper.

Doris never looked Cassandra in the eye. But over the years Cassi had become accustomed to the fact that her illness made some people uncomfortable. Doris was obviously one of them.

“Would you let him know I’m here?” said Cassi.

Cassi got a fleeting glimpse of Doris’s brown eyes. There was an aura of petulance about her expression. Not enough for Cassi to complain about but enough to let her know that Doris did not appreciate the interruption. She didn’t answer Cassi but rather depressed the button on an intercom unit and announced that Dr. Cassidy had arrived. She went directly back to her typing.

Refusing to allow Doris to irritate her, Cassi settled herself on the rose-colored couch and pulled out the articles she wanted on borderline personality. She started to read but found herself looking over the top of the paper at Doris.

Cassi wondered why Thomas kept Doris. Granted she was efficient, but she seemed moody and irritable, hardly the qualities one would like in a physician’s office. She was presentable although not overly attractive. She had a broad face with large features and mousy brown hair pulled back in a bun. She did have a good figure; Cassi had to admit that.

Letting her eyes drop back to her paper, Cassi forced herself to concentrate.

Thomas looked across the polished surface of his desk at his last patient of the day, a fifty-two-year-old lawyer named Herbert Lowell. Thomas’s office was decorated like his waiting room, except the walls were a forest green. The other difference was that the furniture was authentic Chippendale. The desk alone was worth a small fortune.

Thomas had examined Mr. Lowell on several occasions and had reviewed the coronary arteriograms done by Mr. Lowell’s cardiologist, Dr. Whiting. To Thomas the situation was clear. Mr. Lowell had anginal chest pain, a history of a mild heart attack, and radiographic evidence of compromised arterial circulation. The man needed an operation, and Thomas had told Mr. Lowell as much. Now Thomas wanted to terminate the visit.

“It’s such an irreversible decision,” Mr. Lowell was saying nervously.

“But still a decision that must be made,” said Thomas, standing up and closing Mr. Lowell’s folder. “Unfortunately I’m on a tight schedule. If you have any further questions you can call.” Thomas started for the door like a clever salesman indicating the issue was beyond further negotiation.

“What about the advisability of a second opinion?” asked Mr. Lowell hesitantly.

“Mr. Lowell,” said Thomas, “you can get as many opinions as you’d like. I will be sending a full consult letter back to Dr. Whiting, and you can discuss the case with him.” Thomas opened the door leading to the waiting room. “In fact, Mr. Lowell, I would encourage you to see another surgeon because, frankly, I do not feel good about working with people with negative attitudes. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Thomas closed the door behind Mr. Lowell, confident the man would schedule the required operation. Sitting down, he gathered the material he needed for his Grand Rounds presentation the following morning, and then started signing the consultation letters Doris had left for him.

When Thomas emerged with the signed correspondence, he was not surprised to find Mr. Lowell in the waiting room. Thomas glanced at Cassi, acknowledging her with a brief nod, then turned to his patient.

“Dr. Kingsley, I’ve decided to go ahead with the operation.”

“Very well,” said Thomas. “Give Miss Stratford a call next week, and she’ll set it up.”

Mr. Lowell thanked Thomas and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Holding her reports in front of her as if she were reading, Cassi watched her husband going over some notes with Doris. She’d noticed how well he’d handled Mr. Lowell. He never seemed to hesitate. He knew what should be done and he did it. She’d always admired his composure, a quality she felt she lacked. Cassi smiled as her eyes traced the sharp lines of his profile, his sandy hair, and his athletic body. She found him extraordinarily attractive.

After the insecurities of the day, in fact the entire week, Cassi wanted to rush up and throw her arms around him. But she knew instinctively that he would not care for that kind of show of emotion, especially with Doris there. And Cassi knew he was right. The office was not the place for such behavior. Instead, she put the reprint back into the folder and the folder back into the canvas bag.

Thomas finished with Doris, but it wasn’t until the office door closed behind them that he spoke to Cassi.

“I’ve got to go to the ICU,” he said, his voice flat. “You can come or wait in the lobby. Your choice. I won’t be long.”

“I’ll come,” said Cassi, already guessing that Thomas’s day had not been smooth. She had to quicken her step to keep up with him.

“Was there trouble with your surgery today?” she asked tentatively.

“Surgery went fine.”

Cassi decided against further questioning. It was difficult to talk as they threaded their way back into the Scherington Building. Besides, she’d learned from experience that it was usually better to let Thomas volunteer information when he was upset.

In the elevator she watched while he kept his eyes glued to the floor indicator. He seemed tense and preoccupied.

“I’ll be glad to get home tonight,” said Cassi. “I need a good night’s sleep.”

“The weirdos keep you busy last night?”

“Let’s not have any of your surgeon’s opinions about psychiatry,” said Cassi.

Thomas didn’t respond, but an ironic smile appeared on his face, and he seemed to relax a little.

The elevator doors opened on seventeen, and they got out. Thomas walked swiftly ahead. No matter how many years Cassi had spent in hospitals, she always had the same reaction when she found herself on the surgical floor. If it wasn’t fear, it was close to it. The crisis aspect undermined the elaborate denial she used about the implications of her own illness. What mystified Cassi about the response was that she didn’t feel the same way on the medical floor where there invariably were patients with diabetically induced complications.

As Cassi and Thomas neared the ICU, several waiting relatives recognized Thomas. Like a movie or rock star, he was instantly surrounded. One old woman was intent on touching him as if he were some kind of god. Thomas remained composed, assuring everyone that all the surgery had gone routinely and that they would have to wait for further updates by the nursing personnel. With some difficulty he finally detached himself and entered the ICU where no one dared follow him except Cassi.

With its enormous number of machines, oscilloscope screens, and bandages, it intensified all of Cassi’s unspoken fears. And in fact, the patients themselves seemed all but forgotten, lost as they were in the tangle of equipment. The nurses and doctors seemed to tend the machines first.