Робин Кук - Brain

Two more patients were called before Katherine was handed a manila envelope. She managed to thank the girl, but wasn’t given the courtesy of a response. Katherine didn’t care. With the envelope under her arm and her bag over her shoulder, she turned and half-ran, half-walked out into the confusion of the main GYN waiting room.

Katherine paused in the heavy air as a smothering wave of dizziness descended over her. Her fragile emotional state combined with the sudden physical effort of rapid walking had been too much. Her vision clouded and she reached out and groped for the back of a waiting-room chair. The manila envelope slipped from under her arm and fell to the floor. The room spun and her knees buckled.

Katherine felt strong hands grasp her upper arms, supporting her. She heard someone try to reassure her and tell her that everything was going to be all right. She wanted to say that if she could sit down for just a moment she’d be fine, but her tongue wouldn’t cooperate. Vaguely she was aware she was being carried upright down a corridor, her feet, like those of a marionette, bumping ineffectually along the floor.

There was a door, then a small room. The awful spinning sensation continued. Katherine was afraid she might be sick, and cold perspiration appeared on her forehead. She was conscious of being lowered to the floor. Almost immediately her vision began to clear and the whirling of the room stopped. She was with two doctors dressed in white and they were helping her. With some difficulty they got one of her arms out of her coat and had applied a tourniquet. She was glad she was away from the crowded waiting room so that she was not a spectacle for everyone to stare at.

“I think I feel better,” said Katherine, blinking her eyes.

“Good,” said one of the doctors. “We’re going to give you a little something.”

“What?”

“Just something to calm you down.”

Katherine felt a needle pierce the tender skin on the inside of her elbow. The tourniquet was pulled off and she could feel her pulse in her fingertips.

“But I feel much better,” she protested. She turned her head to see a hand depressing the plunger of a syringe. The doctors were bent over her.

“But I feel okay,” said Katherine.

The two doctors didn’t respond. They just looked at her, holding her down.

“I really feel better now,” said Katherine. She looked from one doctor to the other. One of them had the greenest eyes Katherine had ever seen, like emeralds. Katherine tried to move. The doctor’s grip tightened.

Abruptly Katherine’s vision dimmed and the doctor appeared far away. At the same time she heard a ringing in her ears and her body felt heavy.

“I feel much...” Katherine’s voice was thick and her lips moved slowly. Her head fell to the side. She could see she was on the floor of a storeroom. Then darkness.

March 14

Mr. and Mrs. Wilbur Collins supported each other while they waited for the door to be opened. At first the key wouldn’t go into the lock, and the superintendent pulled it out and examined it to make sure it was the key to 92. He tried it again, realizing he’d had it upside down. The door opened and he moved aside to allow the Women’s Dean of the university to step inside.

“Cute apartment,” said the Dean. She was a petite woman, about fifty, with very nervous and quick gestures. It was apparent she felt under pressure.

Mr. and Mrs. Wilbur Collins and two uniformed New York City policemen followed the Dean into the room.

It was a small one bedroom apartment, advertised to have a river view. It did, but only from a tiny window in the closet-like bathroom. The two policemen stood aside with their hands clasped behind their backs. Mrs. Collins, a fifty-two-year-old woman, hesitated near the entrance as if she were afraid of what she might find. Mr. Collins, on the other hand, limped directly to the center of the room. He’d had polio in 1952 and it had affected his right lower leg, but not his shrewd ability in business. At fifty-five he was the number two man in the First National City Bank of Boston empire. He was a man who demanded action and respect.

“Since it’s been only a week,” offered the Dean, “maybe your concern is premature.”

“We never should have allowed Katherine to come to New York,” said Mrs. Collins, fidgeting with her hands.

Mr. Collins ignored both comments. He headed for the bedroom and looked in. “Her suitcase is on the bed.”

“That’s a good sign,” said the Dean. “A lot of students react to pressure by leaving school for a few days.”

“If Katherine had left, she would have taken her suitcase,” said Mrs. Collins. “Besides, she would have called us on Sunday. She always calls us on Sunday.”

“As Dean, I know how many students suddenly need a breather, even good students like Katherine.”

“Katherine is different,” said Mr. Collins disappearing into the bathroom.

The Dean rolled her eyes for the benefit of the policeman, who remained impassive.

Mr. Collins limped back into the living room. “She didn’t go anyplace,” he said with finality.

“What do you mean, dear?” asked Mrs. Collins with mounting anxiety.

“Just what I said,” returned Mr. Collins. “She wouldn’t go anywhere without these.” He tossed a half-empty packet of birth control pills onto the seat of the couch. “She’s here in New York and I want her found.” He looked at the policemen. “Believe me, I intend to see action on this case.”

April 15

Dr. Martin Philips leaned his head against the wall of the control room; the coolness of the plaster felt good. In front of him four third-year medical students were pressed against the glass partition, watching in total awe as a patient was being prepared for a CAT scan. It was the first day of their radiology elective; they were starting with neuroradiology. Philips had brought them to see the CAT scanner first because he knew it would impress and humble them. Sometimes medical students tended to be smart-alecky.

Within the scanner room the technician was bending over, checking the position of the patient’s head in respect to the gigantic doughnut-shaped scanner. He straightened up, peeled off a length of adhesive tape, and bound the patient’s head to a Styrofoam block.

Reaching over to the counter, Philips took the requisition form and the patient’s chart. He scanned both for clinical information.

“The patient’s name is Schiller,” said Philips. The students were so absorbed in the preparations that they did not turn to face him while he spoke. “Chief complaint is weakness of the right arm and right leg. He’s forty-seven.” Philips looked at the patient. Experience told him that the man was probably tremendously frightened.

Philips replaced the requisition form and chart while inside the scanner room the technician activated the table. Slowly the patient’s head slid into the orifice of the scanner as if he were to be devoured. With a final glance at the position of the head, the technician turned and retreated to the control room.

“Okay, step back from the window for a moment,” said Philips. The four medical students obeyed instantly, moving to the side of the computer, whose lights were blinking in anticipation. As he had surmised, they were impressed to the point of submission.

The technician secured the communicating door and took the mike from its hook. “Stay very still, Mr. Schiller. Very still.” With his index finger the technician depressed the start button on the control panel. Within the scanning room the huge doughnut-shaped mass surrounding Mr. Schiller’s head began abrupt, intermittent rotational movements like the action of the main gear of a gigantic mechanical clock. The clunking sound, loud to Mr. Schiller, was muffled for those on the other side of the glass.