Robin Cook - Godplayer

“You can’t mean that,” said Cassi. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have such an extraordinary son.”

“Ha!” said Patricia with explosive suddenness. Her laugh echoed in the room, making the Waterford candelabra vibrate. “The only thing truly extraordinary about Thomas is how closely he resembles his father, even to having been born with a clubfoot.”

Cassi dropped her fork. Thomas had never mentioned this. The image of him as a tiny baby with a twisted foot triggered a wave of sympathy in Cassi, but it was clear from his expression that Thomas was furious with his mother’s revelation.

“He was a wonderful baby,” continued Patricia, oblivious to her son’s barely suppressed rage. “And a handsome, wonderful child. At least until puberty.”

“Mother,” said Thomas in a slow, even voice. “I think you’ve said enough.”

“Fiddlesticks, as they used to say,” returned Patricia. “It’s your turn to be quiet. I’ve been alone here, except for Harriet, for two days, and I should be able to talk.”

With a final glance of exasperation, Thomas bent over his food.

“Thomas,” called Patricia after a short silence. “Please remove your elbows from the table.”

Thomas pushed back his chair and stood up, his face flushed. Without a word, he threw down his napkin and left the room. Cassi heard him stomping upstairs. Then the door to his study slammed. The Waterford candelabra again tinkled gently.

Caught in the middle, as usual, Cassi hesitated, not knowing what was the best thing for her to do. After a moment of indecision she too stood up, planning on following Thomas.

“Cassandra,” said Patricia sharply. Then in a more plaintive voice she said, “Please sit down. Let the child be. Eat. I know people with diabetes have to eat.”

Flustered, Cassi sat down.

Thomas paced his study, mumbling out loud that it was unfair that he should have to weather such abuse at home after his frustrating day at the hospital. Angrily he wondered why Cassi had stayed with his mother instead of joining him. For a moment he considered returning to the hospital, fantasizing about Mr. Campbell’s daughter and the respect that she would be willing to show him. He remembered her comment about wishing there was something she could do for him.

But the cold rain beating on the window made the idea of returning to town seem like too much effort. Instead he picked up the journal from the top of his towering pile of reading and sprawled in the burgundy leather armchair next to the fireplace.

Trying to read, Thomas found his mind wandering. He wondered why his mother could still, after all these years, irritate him so easily. Then Thomas thought about Cassi and the SSD series that she’d been helping Robert Seibert with. There was no doubt in his mind that the kind of publicity that such a study would generate would be extraordinarily detrimental to the hospital. He also knew that Robert just wanted to get his name in print. He didn’t care who he hurt.

Thomas threw the unread journal to the side and went into the bathroom off the study. Staring into the mirror, he looked at his eyes. He’d always thought he looked young for his age, but now he was not quite so sure. There were dark circles under his eyes, and the lids seemed red and swollen.

Returning to his study, he sat at his desk and opened the second drawer on the right, removing a plastic bottle. He popped a yellow pill into his mouth and, after a brief hesitation, another. Over at the bar he poured himself a single-malt whiskey and sat down in the leather armchair that had been his father’s. He already felt a lessening of his tension. Reaching over to the side table, he picked up the journal again and tried to read.

But he couldn’t concentrate. He still felt too much anger. His mind went back to his first week as the chief cardiac surgery resident when he’d been faced with a full intensive care unit and two senior attendings who were demanding space. Without empty available beds, the whole surgical schedule came to a halt.

Thomas remembered how he had gone into the intensive care unit and carefully checked over each patient to see if any could be moved out. In the end he chose two “gorks,” patients in irreversible coma. It was true they needed round-the-clock special nursing that could only be given in the ICU, but it was also true they were beyond any hope of recovery. Yet when Thomas ordered them moved, their physicians were livid and the nursing staff refused the order. Thomas could still remember the humiliation he experienced when the nursing staff prevailed and the brain-dead patients stayed in the ICU. Not only hadn’t the problem been solved, but Thomas had made additional enemies. It was as if no one understood that surgery, that life-giving process, as well as the costly intensive care unit, were intended for patients who would recover, not the living dead.

Back at the bar, Thomas refreshed his drink. The ice had diluted the Scotch and blunted its taste. Looking back at the burgundy leather chair, Thomas remembered his father, the businessman, and Thomas wondered what the old man would have thought of him had he lived. Thomas had no idea because, like Patricia, Mr. Kingsley had never been particularly appreciative or supportive of Thomas, always more willing to criticize than commend. Would he have approved of Cassi? Thomas guessed that his father probably would not have thought much of a girl with diabetes.

Cassi felt anxious after Thomas had left the table. Since he’d already been in a bad mood prior to coming down for dinner, she was afraid he was upstairs seething. Desperately she hunted for conversation but could only elicit “yes” or “no” from Patricia, who acted as if she were pleased she’d driven Thomas away.

“Did Thomas have a bad clubfoot?” Cassi finally asked, hoping to break the silence.

“Terrible. Just like his father, who was crippled for life.”

“I had no idea. I never would have guessed.”

“Of course not. In contrast to his father, he got treated.”

“Thank goodness,” said Cassi sincerely. She tried to imagine Thomas with a limp. It was hard for Cassi even to think of Thomas being crippled as a young baby.

“We had to lock the boy in foot braces at night,” said Patricia, “which was a strain because he screamed and carried on as if I were torturing him.” Patricia dabbed at her lips with her napkin.

Cassi pictured Thomas as an infant, strapped into his confining foot braces. Undoubtedly it had been a type of torture.

“Well,” began Patricia, abruptly standing up. “Why don’t you go up to him? Obviously he needs someone. He’s not such a strong boy despite his aggressive manner. I’d go, but he’s obviously chosen you. Men are all the same. You give them everything and they abandon you. Good night, Cassandra.”

Dumbfounded by Patricia’s rude exit, Cassi sat by herself for a moment. She heard Patricia talking with Harriet, then the front door slammed. The house was quiet except for the squeak of the porch swing as gusts of wind blew it back and forth.

She got up and began to mount the stairs, smiling suddenly at the thought that she and Thomas had shared a point in common while growing up; they both had had childhood afflictions. Knocking on the study door, Cassi wondered what kind of mood Thomas would be in. After the way he’d behaved in the car, combined with Patricia’s pestering, she expected the worst. But when she entered the room, she was immediately relieved. Thomas was sitting sideways with his legs draped over one arm of his chair, drink in one hand, medical journal in the other. He looked relaxed and handsome. And more important, he was smiling.

“I trust you and Mother remained cordial,” he said, raising his eyebrows as if there were a chance that the opposite had occurred. “I’m sorry for my abrupt departure, but the old woman was about to drive me mad. I didn’t quite feel up to a scene.” Thomas winked.