Робин Кук - Brain

The nurse practitioner, Ms. Blackman, emerged from one of the rooms. She was a stocky forty-five-year-old woman with jet black hair pulled back into a tight bun on the crown of her head. She was dressed in a spotless white uniform, starched to a professional crispness. Her attire reflected the way she liked to run the clinic: with cool efficiency. She’d worked for the Med Center for eleven years.

The receptionist spoke to Ms. Blackman, and Katherine heard her name mentioned. The nurse nodded, turning to look in Katherine’s direction for a moment. Belying her crisp exterior, Ms. Blackman’s dark brown eyes gave an impression of great warmth. Katherine suddenly thought that outside of the hospital, Ms. Blackman was probably a good deal nicer.

But Ms. Blackman did not come over to talk with Katherine. Instead she whispered something to Ellen Cohen, then returned to the examination area. Katherine felt her face redden. She guessed she was being deliberately ignored; it would be a way for the clinic personnel to show their displeasure about her wish to see her own doctor. Nervously she reached for a coverless year-old copy of Ladies’ Home Journal, but she couldn’t concentrate.

She tried to pass the time thinking about her arrival home that night; how surprised her parents would be. She could imagine herself walking into her old room. She hadn’t been there since Christmas, but she knew it would look exactly as she’d left it. The yellow bedspread, the matching curtains, all the mementos of her adolescence carefully preserved by her mother. The reassuring image of her mother made Katherine question again if she should call and tell her parents she was coming home. The plus was that they would meet her at Logan Airport. The minus was that she’d probably be coerced into an explanation about why she was coming home, and Katherine wanted to discuss her illness face to face, not over the telephone.

Ms. Blackman reappeared after twenty minutes and again conversed with the receptionist in muted tones. Katherine pretended to be absorbed in her magazine. Finally the nurse broke off and came over to Katherine.

“Miss Collins?” said Ms. Blackman with subtle irritation.

Katherine looked up.

“I’ve been told you have requested your clinic records?”

“That’s correct,” said Katherine, putting the magazine down.

“Have you been unhappy with our care?” asked Ms. Blackman.

“No, not at all. I’m going home to see our family internist and I want a complete set of my medical records to take with me.”

“This is rather irregular,” said Ms. Blackman. “We’re accustomed to sending records only when they are requested by a physician.”

“I’m leaving for home tonight and I want the records with me. If my doctor needs them, I don’t want to have to wait for them to be sent.”

“This just isn’t the way we do things here at the Med Center.”

“But I know it’s my right to have a copy of my records if I want it.”

For Katherine an uncomfortable silence followed her last comment. She was not accustomed to such assertiveness. Ms. Blackman stared at her like an exasperated parent with a recalcitrant child. Katherine stared back, transfixed by Ms. Blackman’s dark and fluid eyes.

“You’ll have to speak to the doctor,” said Ms. Blackman abruptly. Without waiting for a response she walked away from Katherine and stepped through one of the nearby doors. The latch engaged after her with mechanical finality.

Katherine drew in a breath and looked around her. The other patients were regarding her warily as if they shared the clinic personnel’s disdain for her wish to upset the normal protocol. Katherine struggled to maintain her self-control, telling herself that she was being paranoid. She pretended to read her magazine, feeling the stares of the other women. She wanted to pull inside herself like a turtle or get up and leave. She couldn’t do either. Time inched painfully forward. Several more patients were called for their exams. It was now obvious she was being ignored.

It was three-quarters-of-an-hour later when the clinic physician, dressed in rumpled white jacket and trousers, appeared with Katherine’s chart. The receptionist nodded in her direction, and Dr. Harper sauntered over to stand directly in front of her. He was bald save for a frieze of hair that started over each ear and dipped down to meet in a wiry bush at the nape of his neck. He’d been the doctor who’d examined Katherine on two previous occasions, and Katherine had distinctly remembered his hairy hands and fingers, which had had an alien appearance when matted with the semi-transparent latex rubber gloves.

Katherine glanced up into the man’s face, hoping for a glimmer of warmth. There wasn’t any. Instead he silently flipped open her chart, supporting it with his left hand and following his reading with his right index finger. It was as if he were about to give a sermon.

Katherine let her glance drop. Along the front of his left pant leg was a series of minute bloodstains. Hooked onto his belt on the right was a piece of rubber tubing, on the left a beeper.

“Why do you want your gynecology records?” he said without looking at her.

Katherine reiterated her plans.

“I think it’s a waste of time,” said Dr. Harper, still flipping through the pages. “Really, this chart has almost nothing in it. A couple of mildly atypical Pap smears, some gram positive discharge explainable by a slight cervical erosion. I mean, this isn’t going to help anybody. Here you had an episode of cystitis, but it had been undoubtedly caused by sex the day before the symptoms started, which you had admitted to...”

Katherine felt her face flush with humiliation. She knew everyone in the waiting room could hear.

“... look, Miss Collins, your seizure problem has nothing to do with Gynecology. I’d suggest you head up to Neurology clinic...”

“I’ve been to Neurology,” interrupted Katherine. “And I have those records already.” Katherine fought back the tears. She wasn’t usually emotional, but the rare times she felt like crying, she had great difficulty controlling herself.

Dr. David Harper raised his eyes slowly from the chart. He took a breath and expressed it noisily through partially pursed lips. He was bored. “Look, Miss Collins, you’ve received excellent care here...”

“I’m not complaining about my care,” said Katherine without looking up. Tears had filled her eyes and threatened to run down her cheeks. “I just want my records.”

“All I’m saying,” continued Dr. Harper, “is that you don’t need any second opinions about your gynecological status.”

“Please,” said Katherine slowly. “Are you going to give me my records, or do I have to go to the administrator?” Slowly she looked up at Dr. Harper. With her knuckle she caught the tear that had spilled over her lower lid.

The doctor finally shrugged and Katherine could hear him curse beneath his breath as he tossed the chart onto the receptionist’s desk, telling the woman to make a copy. Without saying goodbye or even looking back, he disappeared into the examining area.

As Katherine put on her coat she realized she was trembling and again felt light-headed. She walked over to the receptionist’s desk and grasped the outer edge, leaning on it for support.

The bird-like blonde chose to ignore her while she completed typing a letter. When she put the envelope into the machine, Katherine reminded the receptionist of her presence.

“All right, just a moment,” said Ellen Cohen with irritated emphasis on each word. Not until she’d typed the envelope, stuffed, sealed and stamped it, did she get to her feet, take Katherine’s chart, and disappear around the corner. During the entire time she avoided Katherine’s eyes.