Robin Cook - Godplayer

“Please, Cassi,” said Dr. Obermeyer, lifting the light beam and peering at her beneath the eyepieces of the instruments. “Please hold your eye still.” He pressed down with a small metal stylus.

Irritative tears welled up, and Cassi could feel them spill over and run down the side of her face. She wondered how much longer she could stand it. Involuntarily she gripped the sheet covering the examining table. Just at the moment she thought she could no longer remain still, the light disappeared, but even after Dr. Obermeyer turned on the overhead lights, she could not see well. The doctor was a blur to her as he sat down at his desk to write.

It concerned her that he was being so reticent. Obviously he was annoyed at her.

“Can I sit up?” asked Cassi hesitatingly.

“I don’t know why you ask my opinion,” said Dr. Obermeyer, “when you don’t follow any of my other suggestions.” The ophthalmologist didn’t bother turning around as he spoke.

Cassi sat up and swung her legs over the side of the table. Her right eye was beginning to correct itself from the trauma of the bright light, but her vision remained blurry from the drops used to dilate her pupils. She watched Dr. Obermeyer’s back for a moment, digesting his comment. She’d expected him to be annoyed that she’d canceled her last appointment, but she hadn’t thought it would be this bad.

Only after he finished writing and closed his chart did he turn back to Cassi. He was sitting on a low stool with wheels, and he glided over to face her.

Cassi’s line of vision from her perch on the exam table was a good foot higher than the doctor’s. She could see the shiny area on the top of his head where his hair was thinning. He wasn’t the world’s best-looking man, with his full, heavy features and a deep line in the middle of his forehead. Yet the whole package was not unattractive. His face exuded intelligence and sincerity, two qualities that Cassi found appealing.

“I think I should be frank,” he began. “There is no sign of the blood clearing from your left eye. In fact it appears as if there is new blood.”

Cassi tried not to betray her anxiousness. She nodded as if she were listening to a discussion of another patient.

“I still cannot visualize the retina,” said Dr. Obermeyer. “Consequently I do not know where the blood is coming from or if it is a treatable lesion.”

“But the ultrasound test…” began Cassi.

“It proved that the retina is not detached, at least not yet, but it cannot show where the bleeding is coming from.”

“Perhaps if we waited a little longer.”

“If it hasn’t cleared by now, it’s extremely unlikely that it will. Meanwhile we could lose the only chance we have to treat. Cassi, I’ve got to see the back of your eye. We must do a vitrectomy.”

Cassi glanced away. “It can’t wait for a month or so?”

“No,” said Dr. Obermeyer. “Cassi, you have already gotten me to postpone this longer than I wanted to. Then you canceled your last appointment. I’m not sure you understand the stakes here.”

“I understand the stakes,” said Cassi. “It’s just not a good time.”

“It’s never a good time for surgery,” said Dr. Obermeyer, “except for the surgeon. Let me schedule this thing and get on with it.”

“I have to discuss it with Thomas,” said Cassi.

“What?” questioned Dr. Obermeyer with surprise. “You haven’t told him about this?”

“Oh yes,” said Cassi quickly. “Just not the timing.”

“When can you discuss the timing with Thomas?” asked Dr. Obermeyer with resignation.

“Soon. In fact tonight. I’ll be back to you tomorrow, I promise.” She slid off the table and steadied herself.

Cassi was relieved to escape from the ophthalmologist’s office. Deep down she knew he was right; she should have the vitrectomy. But telling Thomas was going to be difficult. Cassi stopped at the end of the corridor on the fifth floor of the Professional Building, the same building where Thomas had his office. She stared out a window at the early December cityscape with its leafless tree-lined streets and densely packed brick buildings.

An ambulance was screaming down Commonwealth Avenue, its lights flashing. Cassi closed her right eye, and the scene vanished to mere light. In a panic she reopened her eye to let the world back in. She had to do something. She had to talk with Thomas despite the difficulties they’d had since her visit to Patricia.

Cassi wished that Saturday two weeks previously had never taken place. If only Patricia had not called Thomas. But of course that had been too much to ask. Expecting Thomas to come home angry, Cassi was shocked when he didn’t come home at all. At ten-thirty, Cassi had finally called Thomas’s exchange. Only then did she learn that Thomas had an emergency operation. She left word for him to call and waited up until two, finally falling asleep with book in hand and light on. Thomas finally came home on Sunday afternoon and, instead of screaming at her, refused to talk to her at all. With deliberate calm he moved his clothes into the guest room next to his study.

For Cassi the “silent treatment” was an unbearable strain. What little conversation they did have was just chatter. Dinner was the worst, and several times Cassi, pleading a headache, took a tray to her room.

After a week, Thomas had finally exploded in a rage. The triggering event had been insignificant; Cassi had dropped a Waterford glass on the tiled kitchen floor. As Thomas rushed over to her and started yelling, he accused Cassi of being deceitful and maneuvering behind his back. How dare Cassi go to his mother and accuse him of drug abuse?

“Of course I’ve taken an occasional pill,” said Thomas, finally lowering his voice. “Either to help me sleep or keep me awake if I’ve been up all night. I dare you to name a single doctor who never took any of his own drugs!” He’d stabbed at her with his finger to make his point.

Having taken an occasional Valium herself, Cassi was not about to contradict Thomas. Besides, intuition told her to be quiet and let Thomas vent his anger.

In a more controlled tone Thomas asked her why in God’s name had she gone to Patricia. Cassi, of all people, knew how much his mother nagged him without anyone giving her such a potentially frightening subject.

Sensing that Thomas had yelled himself out, Cassi tried to explain. She said that having found the Dexedrine, she’d been scared and had mistakenly thought that Patricia would be the best person to help if Thomas did have a problem. “And I never said you were an addict.”

“My mother said you did,” snapped Thomas. “Who am I to believe?” He threw up his arms in disgust.

Cassi didn’t answer although she was tempted to say that if Thomas didn’t know the answer after forty-two years of living with Patricia, he was never going to. Instead, Cassi apologized for jumping to conclusions after finding the Dexedrine and worse still for going to his mother. Tearfully she told him how much she loved him, silently acknowledging the fact she was more terrified of Thomas’s leaving her than she was of his possible drug abuse. She wanted their relationship to return to normal. If the strain had started with her complaining about her diabetes, Cassi decided she would shield Thomas from any knowledge of her problems. But now her eye was forcing the issue. The arrival of another screaming ambulance brought Cassi to the present. As much as she did not want to upset Thomas, she knew she had no choice. She could not go into the hospital and have an operation without telling him even if she somehow found the courage to do so. With terrible foreboding Cassi pushed the elevator button. She’d see Thomas now. Knowing herself, she was afraid that if she waited until they were at home that evening, she would not be able to broach the issue.