Doing Harm (37 page)

Then I’ll have the evidence I’ll need against GG, and Mr. Schultz will have his life.

A straightforward plan.

But not without its risks.

What if I can’t jump-start Mr. Schultz’s heart after she’s shut it down? What if the ICD short-circuits in response to the external commands, and the subsequent heat from the burning metal cooks the surrounding heart muscle like a steak on a flaming grill? Fatal v-fib. Charbroiled heart. Those would be bad things.

But I have no other options. Neither does Mr. Schultz, frankly: Without my help, he’s a dead man. Well, okay, not exactly a dead man for certain—I could, I reluctantly concede, protect him simply by never leaving his side while he’s in the hospital. But that would just make GG choose another victim. Besides, I need my evidence.

So I’ll just have to roll the dice with Mr. Schultz’s heart, and he and I will both have to take our chances.

CHAPTER 19

Wednesday, August 19

As with Mrs. Samuelson, my Safety Committee–mandated restrictions don’t prevent me from interacting with Mr. Schultz outside the operating room. My biggest concern is making certain that GG doesn’t realize what I’m up to, so I’m careful to keep a low profile, only peeking at Mr. Schultz briefly in the preoperative area once I’ve made certain that GG is already scrubbed in on a very long operation. I decide that it’s best not to introduce myself to him so that he doesn’t mention our meeting to GG.

From what I can tell, observing from the other side of the room as the staff preps him for surgery, Mr. Schultz appears to be a complete, unadulterated bastard. It’s enough to make me think twice about trying to save his life. Seriously. He’s 275 pounds of cantankerous flesh packed onto a five-foot-three-inch frame. His greasy, thinning hair, dyed the color of black shoe polish, is styled into an ugly comb-over that stretches ineffectually to cover the broad swathes of sweaty skin shining from his tanned pate like a copper surface reflecting bright sunlight. He has corpulent, baggy jowls, thick folds of brown belly fat that spill out from under his hospital gown and over the sides of his bed, and a wheezy, rasping voice that sets my teeth on edge. He reminds me of a huge frog; rather than lying on the gurney, he should be squatting on his haunches on the floor.

He and his wife (equally stocky and fat) treat the staff like hotel bellhops. His deep-set eyes roam suspiciously across their ID badges as he hands his Rolex over to his wife for safekeeping and peppers the nurses with questions about where they’re from and where they went to school. His wife has this annoying habit of nodding and repeating each question before they have a chance to answer. I wonder if it’s going to end up being a long three days.

But his surgery goes off without a hitch, and his first night in the hospital passes uneventfully.

CHAPTER 20

Thursday, August 20

Day two also goes by smoothly. Throughout the morning and into the afternoon, Mr. Schultz remains safely ensconced in the heart-patient area, alternately stuffing his face with food and screaming into his cell phone about various business deals. The monitors keep close tabs on his heart rhythm, which remains rock-solid normal. I check on him several times throughout the day, careful always to make certain that GG is nowhere in the vicinity. As afternoon wanes into evening, and the overnight nurses begin their shift, I peek into his room one last time. He’s lying in bed, watching TV. His heart tracing is pristine.

On my way to my office to pick up my laptop, which I had locked there for safekeeping earlier in the day, I pass a bank of windows overlooking the main entrance of the hospital. Glancing out at the people milling below, I stop and do a double take.

It’s GG.

She’s strolling away from the hospital, her arm casually draped through the arm of another med student, a good-looking guy I’ve seen around the hospital with a dark complexion and black, shoulder-length hair. She laughs at something he says and puts her head on his shoulder. He puts his arm around her, and she sidles up even closer.

I smile to myself. That seals the deal: There really is nothing for me to worry about tonight.

My pager goes off. A text message from the University Hospital operator blinks unassumingly at the bottom of the screen.

Mrs. Abernathy for Dr. S. Mitchell
.

Mrs
. Abernathy? I stare at the phone number.

Huh
.

Mrs
. Abernathy.

I didn’t know there was a Mrs. Abernathy.

It’s a little odd, and the message makes me realize that I haven’t heard from Mr. Abernathy for the last few days.

My curiosity gets the better of me. I dial the number and wait through several rings. No one answers. I’m about to hang up when a hesitant voice, diaphanous as tissue paper, finally answers.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Dr. Mitchell from University Hospital. Is this Mrs. Abernathy?”

“Yes.” The soft voice solidifies, as if taking form from a mist. “Yes, Dr. Mitchell. Thank you.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Well, I just wanted to call and let you know that Ray … Ray, well, he passed a few days ago. Just fell over right in front of the TV, watchin’ his favorite show. He … excuse me, Doctor.”

She stops, sniffles, and blows her nose loudly, right into the phone.

I wait. Then, after a while, she says, “Are you still there, Doctor?”

“Yes, I’m still here, Mrs. Abernathy. What was it?”

“The TV show?” Suspicion steals into her voice. “Pardon me, but what kind of a question is that, Doctor?”

“No, no, Mrs. Abernathy. I didn’t mean what TV show was he watching. I meant what happened to him?”

“Oh. Right. Heart attack. That’s what they told me. Anyways, by the time the ambulance got here, well…” Her voice trails off.

“I’m sorry.” The words ring hollow to me, serving more my own selfish need to fill the awkward silence than to soothe her grief.

Her voice finds purchase again. “Never felt a thing. At least, that’s what the nice young emergency-room doctor told me. What a polite boy he was. Like you. Anyways, we had a lot a good years together, me and Ray. Lot a good years.” Her voice disappears back into the ether, and I wonder if it will return. It does, after a moment. “It was his time. We had a lot a good years, but it was his time. Anyways, I called you, Dr. Mitchell, because I wanted you to know that you were Ray’s favorite doctor. He really liked you very much. More than any of the others.”

His favorite doctor? Really?

“Ray was very particular about his doctors. He felt like you were the only doctor who ever … well, who just … listened. Cared about what he had to say. Cared about him. He never said that about any of the others. He was very particular about his doctors.”

Somebody once said that movies are like life with all of the boring parts cut out. Well, if my life is a movie with all of the boring parts left in, I guess at this point I should be having a movie
moment.
A revelatory flash of self-insight when I’m overcome with sadness and regret; when I’d realize the error of my ways and appreciate the old guy for who he had been in a sentimental kind of way, and paint him with a bright postmortem gloss that reimagines him as a curmudgeonly but lovable old man.

“Thank you,” I stammer. “I’m sorry for your loss.” But at this particular moment, I’m not sorry. I’m about as far from sorry as you can get. Because all I can think about is how I’ll never have to return the bastard’s phone calls again. Or rewrite his prescriptions. Or get woken up at 3:00
A.M.
at home with his stupid questions. Or sit through his verbal abuse in clinic with a tight smile and clenched fists. I’m glad he’s dead, in fact. I really am. He was an evil bastard. And now he’s dead. Good.

His favorite doctor.

Whatever.

The intensity of my satisfaction surprises me.

And shames me.

“Anyways,” Mrs. Abernathy continues, “we’re havin’ a service this Sunday, and I was wonderin’ if maybe you’d consider comin’. For Ray’s sake. I know you doctors are always real busy and all, but it would just mean so much to me. And to Ray. I know he’s smilin’ at us from Heaven at this very moment.”

Somehow, beneficently peering down at us from his celestial perch in Heaven is not exactly what I envision Mr. Abernathy doing right now.

“Sure, Mrs. Abernathy,” I hear myself say with something that passes for sincerity. “I have a lot of things to do that day, but I think I can make it.” I pause, then add, “For him.” Just saying the words leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

“Will you, Dr. Mitchell? Will you? Oh, that’d be wonderful. Thank you. Thank you, sir.”

Her tone brightens as she eagerly recites the name and address of the funeral home. I pretend to listen (
Uh-huh, uh-huh … Boyle Street … okay, Mrs. A…)
as I scribble gibberish on a Post-it note.

“I can’t tell you how much this means to me. I can’t wait to meet you.”

“I look forward to meeting you, too, Mrs. Abernathy. See you then.”

“You too, Doctor. Thank you so much.”

I hang up the phone, crumple up the Post-it note, toss it in a nearby trash can, and take my laptop up to the SICU. I want to check on Mrs. Samuelson just one last time before grabbing a few hours of sleep. She’s doing great and is being transferred out of the SICU tomorrow.

I walk into the SICU. It’s relatively quiet tonight, at only half capacity, so there aren’t many nurses around. I creep into Mrs. Samuelson’s darkened room. She’s snoring softly. I sink into a reclining chair, open up my laptop, and run once more through the heart monitor and imaging software. Everything looks good. Satisfied, my gaze wanders from the screen and lights on Mrs. Samuelson. She looks peaceful.

I smile to myself. For the moment, at least, I seem to have finally caught a few breaks.

I yawn and realize how
really
tired I am.

I push the recliner back and close my eyes, just for a moment …

CHAPTER 21

Friday, August 21

And jerk awake, totally disoriented, my heart pounding. I thrust the recliner into a sitting position and anxiously survey the room, trying to get my bearings. Darkness still presses against the windows over Mrs. Samuelson’s bed. I have a bad feeling I can’t explain.

I don’t know how long I’ve been out. My legs are warm and sweaty underneath the laptop, which, despite having automatically entered power-saving mode, radiates residual heat.

I glance at Mrs. Samuelson, still sleeping, her breathing easy and rhythmic, like the steady breaking of waves along a calm beach. Somebody has drawn curtains across the glass wall of her room, visually separating us from the rest of the SICU and the nurses’ station—an allowance for privacy granted to patients like Mrs. Samuelson who are doing well and no longer require intense, minute-to-minute care.

If anything, the calmness of the whole scene only increases my sense of unease.

What’s wrong? Why do I feel this way?

My pager goes off, puncturing the stillness and making me jump. It’s an extension in the Cardiac Intermediate Care Unit.

That’s where Mr. Schultz is.

A lead ball instantly materializes in my belly. Why are they calling
me
? I tap the number into my cell phone.

“Cardiac Intermediate Care Unit. This is Karen.”

“Karen, this is Dr. Mitchell, returning a page.”

“Let me check to see who’s trying to get ahold of you, Doctor. Just a moment while I put you on hold.” There’s an electronic
click,
followed by a jazzy, instrumental version of the Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction.” The next twenty seconds stretch into an eternity.

Click.
“I’m sorry, Doctor Mitchell, but nobody here paged you.”

I really don’t like the way this conversation is heading. “Okay.” My mouth and tongue are so dry that I have trouble forming the words. “Since I have you on the line, Karen, how’s Mr. Schultz doing?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Schultz. Room 505.”

“Five oh five? Oh, right—505. We transferred him to a regular bed, off the monitors, earlier this evening.”

“
What?
”

“We’re pretty full tonight, Doctor. We needed his bed for a patient with an acute MI. Your patient in 505 was stable, so the cardiology fellow on call authorized the transfer one night earlier than planned.”

“Where did he go?”

This time, she doesn’t bother to put me on hold. “Lydia, where did the patient in 505 go? Pavilion 10 West? Yes? Pavilion 10 West, Doctor. Room 1014.”

Panic seizes me by the throat.

Mr. Schultz is now in a private room in a regular area of the hospital, off the continuous heart monitor, and completely vulnerable to an attack from GG. My heart is now hammering away in my chest.

“When? When did you transfer him?”

“Oh, several hours ago. Lydia paged the intern on call, and a medical student—a tall girl with a ponytail—showed up to help move the patient and sort out the transfer orders. Doesn’t she work with you?”

The overhead announcement, the disembodied voice clear and dispassionate, catches me before I have time to react to this disturbing bit of news.

“Code Blue, Pavilion Ten. Code Blue, Pavilion Ten. Code Blue, Pavilion Ten.”

The hospital code team is being called to Pavilion Ten.

Which, of course, means that a patient is currently dying on Pavilion Ten.

The same floor to which Mr. Schultz was sent under GG’s direct supervision.

It’s all happening again.

Please no. Please, God, no. Not again.

There’s no time to even think. Pavilion Ten is seven floors up. I dash to the nearest bank of elevators and push the
UP
button. And wait. And then wait some more.

Come on, come on.
I frantically thumb the elevator button over and over.

Who the hell can be riding the elevator at 4:00 a.m.?

The doors finally open, and I’m inside in an instant, jabbing at the
10
key.