Doing Harm (30 page)

And then, of course, there’s the whole GG thing.

“Shame” is just a word. The actual experience of it, day in and day out, is something else entirely. My guilt is like a worm in an apple, twisting and feeding, burrowing into the soft substance of my conscience. I’ve tried to tell myself that it was just one moment of weakness, that I should get a free pass, that being set up by a murderous psychopath doesn’t count.

But it does. Because I
let
it happen. Besides, I keep thinking about all of the things Sally’s put up with over the years for us. For
me.
Defying her parents by not marrying a nice Korean boy from a good Korean family. Supporting us financially during my time in med school. Spending all of those nights and days at home alone while I was at the hospital during my internship and residency.

It’s not like Sally’s a saint. We’ve had our fights. Sure, there’ve been plenty of times that I’ve been pissed as hell at her, and she with me. She thinks I’m stubborn and willful. I think she’s disorganized and judgmental. But, on the balance of things, I’d have to say I’ve gotten the better end of the deal in this whole marriage thing. She’s popular, effusive, charismatic; me, not so much.

Which is, maybe, what scares me the most. Part of me (that damn smart part, again)
wants
to tell her. Knows that, ultimately, coming clean is the only way to make things right between us again. That she deserves to know the truth. But one terrifying thought, a by-product of a deep, dark recess in my psyche, holds me back: What if Sally doesn’t need me as much as I need her? And she just walks away? With the girls?

No.
That can’t happen. I’d sooner rip my own heart out with a spoon as tell Sally about GG and risk losing my family. My only way out is to follow through with Luis’s plan—to flip things around and trap GG in the same corner she has me in right now. That’s the only way to sweep this thing under the rug forever. Only then can I be certain that Sally will never find out about this, and I can move on with my life.

“Tough day?”

“Yeah,” I grunt, pushing my lasagna around my plate without any real interest in eating.

“We haven’t had much of a chance to catch up lately.”

“I’m getting hammered. It’s been really busy.” Which isn’t a lie, I think, lifting my fork to my mouth. Technically.

“How’s your lady doing? The one in the Intensive Care Unit?”

“Same.”

“Is she getting better?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hmm.”

She pauses, then says, “Don’t forget. We’re having dinner at the McIntoshes’ house on Saturday. My mother will watch the girls.”

“Okay.”

“And remember that the girls and I are spending a week at Anita’s place in Providence. I know we were just there with my parents, but my brother’s going to be there with his kids, and we thought it would be nice to get all the cousins together. I mentioned it to you last week.”

I forgot she was spending the week at her sister’s. It’s not unusual. She and her sister are very close, and she drives to Providence often with the girls. “Right. When are you leaving again?”

“Next Monday. We’ll be back the following Sunday.” She purses her lips. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay here? All alone?”

I stare at my plate and shrug. “Sure.”

“Do you think you might be able to get away for a night to come join us? The girls would love it.”

“I’ll see. Maybe.”

She watches me eat for a while before continuing. “I also thought it’d be nice for us to go out to dinner on Friday as a family. We haven’t done that for a long time. I know work’s been really busy, but can you manage to get home early? Say by six?”

“I think so. Yeah. Sure.”

“Good.” She folds her hands in front of her. “By the way. Andrea called me today. From University.”

“Andrea. Andrea?” I put down my fork. “You mean … your old boss Andrea?”

“Yes.”

“Why?

“It’s not the first time. She calls me every once in a while to see how things are going. I call her every once in a while to keep a toe in the water with the career stuff. We had lunch one time last spring while my mom watched the girls.”

“You’ve never mentioned that to me.”

She shrugs. “It’s never seemed important. I think she likes to think of herself as my mentor.” She pauses before adding, “She’s the CEO now. Of University Hospital.”

“I know,” I reply, a little testier than I’d intended. Of course I know that. I feel a little queasy, and the lasagna flips around in my stomach, like clothes in a dryer. How involved has this woman Andrea been with Mr. Bernard’s case, I wonder? How much does she know about my punishment? Probably everything. To think that Sally’s only one degree of separation away from independently knowing how bad things have been for me at work makes me uneasy. “So, why are you telling me this now?”

“Because she offered me a job.”

“Oh. Huh.” Why the job offer now? Is the timing coincidental? I don’t know. All I can do at this point is try to act natural. I casually pick up my fork and start eating again. “Well, what did she say when you said no?”

“I didn’t say no, Steve. I told her I’d think about it.”

“What … really?” I put down my fork again. This I
really
didn’t see coming. “I didn’t … I mean, you want to go back to work?”

“I’m thinking about it, Steve.” She twists her hands together. “Hospital administration is always something I’ve loved. And, well, I really miss it.”

“What about the new baby?”

“Right. I’ve been thinking about that a lot. The baby’s due next February. You’ll be starting your new job at University next July, right?”

I nod and keep a straight face.

“Andrea is saying I could start part-time that fall,” Sally says. “That would give me six months off after I have the baby. Katie will be starting preschool. My mom’s offered to help out more and, with the extra money we’ll have, we can easily afford some day care. Maybe even a nanny. Nancy McIntosh—she’s a lawyer, you remember—is really encouraging me to do this. She loves splitting her time between career and kids, and does it really well. She’s been giving me some terrific advice.”

“Hmmm.” Nancy. For some reason, her involvement in all of this really bothers me. Probably because
Nancy
really bothers me.

“Anyway, Andrea offered to take me out to dinner, in the city, next week after we get back from Providence. I was thinking maybe Thursday night? The same night you have Morbidity and Mortality conference? That way, I can take the train into the city, and you can drive us both home after we’re done. What do you think?”

“Umm, sure,” I mumble. “I guess.”

“But … what?” Her eyes narrow. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s just … I guess I just need to, uh, process all of this, Sally. I didn’t realize that you wanted to go back to work.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No,” I say quickly. But it
does
bother me. If only a little. I’ve become very comfortable with our current arrangement: I go to work; she stays home with the kids. Simple, straightforward, and convenient. Especially for me.

“Fine. Now. Do you want to tell me what
is
bothering you?”

“What do you mean?” I push the food around my plate, avoiding her eyes.

“Steve”—she sighs—“living with you is getting to be like living with a teenager. You sulk. You talk in one-word sentences. You’re hardly ever home anymore.” She reaches out and grasps my arm with both of her hands. “What can I do to make things better? Tell me. You just need to talk to me. Please.”

“Look,” I say, putting down my fork. “I know I’ve been a little … distracted. It’s just—it’s just been really bad for me at work. You—you wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“Why?” she asks suspiciously, pulling her hands back. “Where were you tonight? And why does your breath smell like booze?”

“I—” I pause, feeling the blood rushing to my cheeks. “Luis and I stopped at a bar after work. To talk about some work stuff.” I pick up my fork again. “Really.”

She stares at me for perhaps thirty seconds. “Okay,” she says matter-of-factly, pushing herself away from the table. “Well. I’m going to bed. Turn out the lights when you’re done.” I hear the sound of her light footfall on the stairs, followed by our bedroom door’s closing.

I steeple my fingers under my chin and linger alone in the kitchen, the rest of my food cooling, staring into the dark night outside the kitchen window.

CHAPTER 13

Thursday, August 13

My cell phone is ringing.

My real cell phone. Not the one Luis gave me.

Sitting on the nightstand next to my bed, inches from my ear, it yanks me from a deep sleep. I fumble for the phone on the nightstand next to the bed and squint at my bedside clock. 3:05
A.M.

Sally groans, rolls over, and pulls a pillow over her head. I take my cell and stumble across the room into our tiny walk-in closet. I close the closet door behind me, flip the phone open, and blink blearily at the screen. The caller ID is blocked. The soft light from the screen plays about the cramped confines of the closet, casting everything in an eerie green glow.

I’m wide-awake in an instant. My heart starts racing. This can’t be anything good. Who would be calling me now?

I push the
ANSWER
key and prepare for the worst.

“Dr. Mitchell.”

“Hello, Doctor? Are you there? Is that you? Doctor? Doctor? Hello? Goddammit! Can anybody hear me? Hello? Hello?”

I know that voice.

“Mr.… Abernathy? Is that you?”

“Yeah. It’s me. I need to talk to you, Doc.”

How the
hell
did he get my cell-phone number?

“You need to talk to me … now?”

“Yeah, about my prostrate. It’s killing me.

“Your prostrate? I mean, your
prostate
?”

“Yeah. Goddamn thing’s still got me up going to the bathroom all night.”

Mr. Abernathy is calling me on my private cell phone.

At home.

At 3:00
A.M.

Because he wants to talk to me about his prostate.

I take a deep breath. “What is it that’s bothering you?”

“I’m getting up every night to piss.”

You’ve been getting up every fucking night to piss for the last twenty years, you evil old man. Why should tonight be any fucking different?

“Mr. Abernathy, are you still able to urinate?” I ask, with what I consider to be remarkable calm under the present circumstances.

“Hell yes, Doctor! I can’t stop! That’s my goddamn problem. What kind of a goddamn question is that? Aren’t you listening to what I got to say?”

I take another deep breath. “Do you have a fever?”

“No.”

“Chills?”

“No.”

“Any trouble breathing right now?”

“No.”

“Chest pain?”

“No.”

“Pain in your belly?”

“No.”

“Are you getting up more tonight to piss … er, urinate, than you did last night?”

“No.”

“Mr. Abernathy, is there any difference at all between the way you’re feeling tonight—right at this very moment, talking to me right now—and the way you were feeling last night, or the night before that?”

He hesitates. “No.”

“Mr. Abernathy, is this an emergency?”

He hesitates again, much longer this time. “Well … not exactly, I guess. It’s just … it’s just that these other pills you gave me still aren’t working. They’re not helping me. You’ve got to do something about it, Doc. I’m still getting up all night to go to piss. It’s killing me.”

I tighten my grip on my cell. The phone’s plastic casing groans ominously. “Okay, yeah, but is this maybe something we can talk about next week in my clinic, Mr. Abernathy? During the day? I can’t really help you much right now over the phone.”

Especially at three o’clock in the fucking morning, you fucking old bastard.

“Well … I guess if you think it’s all right to wait until then. Like it’s not an emergency, or nothing.”

“No, I don’t think this is an emergency, Mr. Abernathy. I think it’s okay if we wait until next week to discuss your prostate problem. During the day.”

“Okay, then. If you say so, and all. Good night, Doc.”

“Good night, Mr. Abernathy.”

Goddamn motherfucking motherfucker cocksucker!

I stab the
DISCONNECT
button with my thumb and throw the cell phone down to the floor as hard as I can. It bounces off the thin, cheap carpeting of the closet at a crazy angle, hits the wall with a thud, and breaks into several pieces. Cursing under my breath, I bend over to pick up the splintered electronic components; then, while standing back up, I bang the back of my head against a low-lying wooden shelf hard enough to see stars. I dig my front top teeth into my lower lip, deep enough to draw blood, to keep from waking up the whole neighborhood.

Rubbing my pounding head and tasting the warm, salty blood, I realize I forgot to ask Mr. Abernathy how he got my private cell-phone number. Probably from a naive hospital operator, who should have known better.

God
damn
the man.

I climb back into bed, but the combination of the adrenaline stirred up by Mr. Abernathy’s call and my throbbing head make it difficult for me to go back to sleep. So I just lie there, trying to collect my thoughts, which swirl around aimlessly, like autumn leaves scattered by the wind.

One month ago, my life was just fine, thank you. I was blissfully unaware of psychopathic, blackmailing med students. The way ahead was clear. The plan simple and straightforward. My dream job was waiting for me. All I had to do was to work hard and keep my nose clean.

I turn and gaze at Sally, who has fallen back to sleep. I listen to her slow, steady breathing. I sense the warmth of her body next to me.

I reach out for her in the darkness. She mumbles something incoherent, recoils from my touch, and edges away from me, curling up into a tight ball on the far side of the bed.