Робин Кук - Vital Signs

Dr. Arthur raised his eyebrows. “I think our patient here has been doing a little reading.” He picked up the IV tubing and injected the contents of the syringe. Then opened the IV to flow rapidly for a moment.

Dr. Carpenter stepped over to Marissa and put his hand on her shoulder. He looked into her dark brown eyes. “We’re only doing a simple biopsy. There’s been no talk of a hysterectomy. If you are wondering about my clothes, I’ve just come from surgery. The mask is because I have a cold and don’t want to spread it to any of my patients.”

Marissa looked up into Dr. Carpenter’s bright blue eyes. She was about to reply when the blue brought back a memory that she’d been long suppressing: the terror of being attacked in a hotel room in San Francisco a few years earlier and the horror of having to stab a man repeatedly to save her own life. At that moment the episode came back to her with such startling clarity, she could actually feel the man’s hands around her throat. Marissa started to choke. The room began to spin and she heard a buzzing noise that gradually got louder.

Marissa felt hands grabbing at her, forcing her down on her back. She tried to fight since she felt she could breathe easier if she were upright, but it was to no avail. Her head touched the examination table, and as soon as it did, the room stopped spinning and her breathing became easier. Suddenly she realized her eyes were closed. When she opened them, she was looking up into the faces of Dr. Arthur, the woman, and the masked face of Dr. Carpenter.

“Are you okay?” Dr. Carpenter asked.

Marissa tried to speak but her voice wouldn’t cooperate.

“Wow!” Dr. Arthur said. “Is she ever sensitive to the anesthetic!” He quickly took her blood pressure. “At least that’s okay. I’m glad I didn’t give her the whole dose.”

Marissa closed her eyes. At last she was calm. She heard more conversation, but it sounded as if it were someplace in the distance and didn’t involve her. At the same time she felt as if an invisible lead blanket were settling over her. She felt her legs being lifted, but she didn’t care. Then the voices in the room receded further. She heard laughter and then a radio. She felt instruments and heard the sound of metal hitting metal.

She relaxed until she felt a cramp like a menstrual cramp. It was pain but not normal pain in that it was more alarming than uncomfortable. She tried to open her eyes but her lids felt heavy. Again she tried to open her eyes but quickly gave up. It was like a nightmare from which she could not awaken. Then there was yet another cramp, sharp enough to bring her head off the examining table.

The room was a drug-induced blur. She could just make out the top of Dr. Carpenter’s head as he worked between her draped knees. The colposcope was pushed to the side on his right.

The sounds of the room still came to her as if from a great distance, although now they had a peculiar, echoing quality. People in the room were moving in slow motion. Dr. Carpenter raised his head as if he could sense her eyes on him.

A hand grasped Marissa’s shoulder and eased her back. But as she lay down, her numbed mind replayed the blurred image of Dr. Carpenter’s masked face and, despite her drugged state, a shiver of terror coursed through her veins. It was as if her doctor had metamorphosed into a demon. Instead of his eyes being crystal blue, they had become distorted. They appeared to be made of black onyx as dense as stone.

Marissa started to scream but she held herself in check. Some part of her brain was rational enough to remind her that all her perceptions were being altered by the medication. She tried to sit up again to take another look for reassurance, but hands restrained her. She fought against the hands, and once again her mind took her back to the hotel room in San Francisco when she’d had to fight with the killer. She remembered hitting the man with the telephone receiver. She remembered all the blood.

Unable to contain herself any longer, Marissa screamed. But no sound came out. She was on the edge of a precipice and slipping. She tried to hold on but she slowly lost her grip, falling into blackness...

“Damn!” Marissa said as her eyes rapidly roamed her office. She could not imagine where she could have put her keys. For the tenth time she pulled open her central desk drawer, the place where she always put them. They weren’t there. Irritated, she shuffled through the contents of the drawer, then slammed it.

“Holy Toledo!” she said as she looked at her watch. She had less than thirty minutes to get from her office over to the Sheraton Hotel where she was scheduled to receive an award. Nothing seemed to be cooperating. First she had an emergency: six-year-old Cindy Markham with a severe asthma attack. Now she could not find her keys.

Marissa pursed her lips with frustration and tried to retrace her steps. Suddenly she remembered. She’d taken home a bunch of charts the night before. Stepping over to the file cabinet, she saw the keys immediately. She snatched them up and headed for the door.

She got as far as her hand on the doorknob when the phone rang. At first she was tempted to ignore it, but her conscience quickly intervened. There was always a chance it involved Cindy Markham.

With a sigh, Marissa went to her desk and leaned over to pick up the receiver. “What is it?” she asked with uncharacteristic curtness.

“Is this Dr. Blumenthal?” the caller queried.

“This is she,” Marissa said. She didn’t recognize the voice. She had expected her secretary, who was aware of her time constraint.

“This is Dr. Carpenter,” said the caller. “Do you have a minute?”

“Yes,” Marissa lied. She felt a rush of anxiety, having expected his call over the last few days. She held her breath.

“First I’d like to congratulate you on your award today,” Dr. Carpenter said. “I didn’t even know you were a physician, much less an award-winning researcher. It’s kind of embarrassing to find out about your patients in the morning paper.”

“Sorry,” said Marissa. “I guess I could have said.” She looked at her watch.

“How on earth did a pediatrician get involved doing research on Ebola Hemorrhagic Fever?” Dr. Carpenter asked. “It sounds pretty esoteric. Let me see, I have the newspaper right here. ‘The Peabody Research Award goes to Dr. Marissa Blumenthal for the elucidation of the variables associated with the transmission of Ebola virus from primary to secondary contacts.’ Wow!”

“I spent a couple of years at the CDC in Atlanta,” Marissa explained. “I got assigned to a case where Ebola virus was being intentionally spread in HMOs.”

“Of course!” Dr. Carpenter said. “I remember reading about that. My God, was that you?”

“Afraid so,” Marissa said.

“As I recall, you almost got killed!” Dr. Carpenter said with obvious admiration.

“I was lucky,” Marissa said. “Very lucky.” She wondered what Dr. Carpenter would have said if she told him that during her biopsy his blue eyes had reminded her of the man who had tried to kill her.

“I’m impressed,” Dr. Carpenter admitted. “And I’m glad to have some good news for you. Usually my secretary makes these calls, but after reading about you this morning, I wanted to call myself. The biopsy specimens were all fine. It was merely a mild dysplasia. As I told you that day, the culdoscopy suggested as much, but it is nice to be a hundred percent certain. Why don’t you schedule a follow-up Pap smear in four to six months? After that, we can let you go for a year at least.”

“Great,” said Marissa. “I will. And thanks for the good news.”

“My pleasure,” Dr. Carpenter said.