Doing Harm (7 page)

Still. A pretty smart guy. Harvard Medical School. Surgical internship here at University Hospital. Medical license in good standing from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

And something else. Something I’ve never before seen in this system.

An encrypted folder marked “Confidential.”

Huh.

I wonder what
that’s
all about.

I have just enough time to realize that the folder’s encryption algorithms are quite secure, and well beyond my ability to crack them, before a door opens behind me, and I hear voices.

I hurriedly sign out of the system, erase the computer’s Internet browser history, and start plowing once more through Mr. Bernard’s medication orders.

*   *   *

An hour later, I’m sitting in Dr. Collier’s huge office wearing a clean shirt, tie, and starched white coat. We face each other in comfortable leather chairs surrounded by a paper-and-glass sea of diplomas, medical-board certificates, awards, and signed pictures of famous, grateful patients. Soft classical music drifts from hidden speakers.

He starts off with some small talk, asking me about my family and such, then asks how the junior residents and the students are doing. He’s particularly interested in GG, on whom he’s already heard favorable buzz. I let him know everyone’s doing fine and that GG seems to be the real deal.

He grunts his approval, settles back in his chair, and examines his elegantly manicured nails.

“So, Steven … since our last talk, have you given any more thought as to what you’d like to do next year after you graduate from our program?”

“Well, sir, we really enjoy living in Boston. Sally’s family is here. So we were hoping to stay in the area.”

“Mmm. I understand that Northwest Hospital has been speaking with you about a position.”

“Yes, they have.”

“That’s a fine group.” He’s still examining his nails.

“Yes, sir, they are.”

“If you’re going into community practice, you couldn’t do much better.”

“No.”

“Steve, have you considered
not
going into community practice?”

My heart hammers away at my chest as I struggle to play it cool.
Is this the opening I was hoping for?

“I don’t … I’m not sure I understand, Dr. Collier.”

Dr. Collier’s attention shifts from his fingernails back to me. He leans forward in his chair. The Italian leather sighs. “That is, would you consider staying here with us? At this medical school, in our department? As a member of the faculty?”

Yes!

“Ummm … honestly, I didn’t know you were looking, Dr. Collier.”

“Well, Steven, we aren’t. Officially. But it’s like the great football coach once said: Even if I don’t have an opening on my team right now, if I see talent, I make an opening on the team. Do you know what I’m saying?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Give it some thought. You’re a talented young man. You have the potential to do important work in our field—with the proper guidance and mentorship, of course, which we can provide for you. I think you would do very well here with us.”

“Thank you, sir. That’s very generous. I would most definitely be interested in staying here at University.”

“Good. Now,” he says seriously, his eyes narrowing, “bear in mind that this opportunity—I hesitate to use the word ‘offer’ at this point—is completely dependent upon your job performance for the remainder of this year. Any consideration of your staying on at University will be contingent upon the continued satisfactory execution of your duties as chief resident. Deviations will prompt immediate reconsideration of this opportunity. Think of the rest of your chief year as an audition, of sorts. Is that clear?”

“Thank you. I understand, Dr. Collier.”

“Very good. You know, Steven,” he says expansively, leaning back and spreading his hands, “academic medicine is an extremely rewarding pursuit. Joining the faculty of this medical school, fresh from my own residency training here, was one of the best decisions I ever made.”

He rises from his chair. I follow suit.

Interview over.

We shake hands. He sits back down at his desk, studying the papers laid out in neat rows on top of it, already absorbed in his next administrative task of the day.

I leave his office with my feet floating six inches off the ground.

Before I’ve gone ten paces from the door to Dr. Collier’s office, I’m calling Sally to relay the good news.

*   *   *

It’s late when I finally get home that night. The house is quiet. There’s a light on in the kitchen. When I go to turn it off, I find a clean wineglass, a card, a single red rose, an unlit candle, and a half-full decanter of red wine with an uncorked bottle on the kitchen table. I gasp when I read the label on the bottle: an extremely expensive pinot noir that we’ve been carefully storing in our basement for the last several years, since our trip to California wine country. That was back before the girls came along, when Sally was still working, and we had some extra money. These days, with two kids and only my meager resident’s salary to live on, we wouldn’t be able to afford it.

I open the card. “Congratulations!” it reads. “I’m so, so proud of you and love you so much!”

“Way to go, Professor,” Sally says from behind me. She’s standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing a white T-shirt and pajama bottoms. “I thought I heard you come in. I was upstairs in bed reading.” She walks over and hugs me. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispers in my ear.

“You’re amazing. You know that? I don’t think it would have happened without you. Your conversation at the cocktail party greased the wheels for me.”

“I know.”

“How do you do it?”

“What can I tell you? You have your strengths, Mr. Surgeon. And I have mine.” She looks me squarely in the eyes, very serious. “You know I’d do anything for you, right? And the girls? You guys are my life.”

“What makes you say that all of a sudden?”

“No reason. Just because. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” I kiss her on the cheek and point to the wine. “I can’t believe you cracked this wine open. It’s one of your all-time favorites.”

“Have some,” she says, pulling up a chair. “We need to celebrate.”

I usually never drink on work nights, but … what the hell? The job isn’t guaranteed, but it’s pretty much in the bag, and what better time than the present to pat myself on the back a little? So I pour myself a generous amount.

“But where’s your glass?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Why?”

She holds up a home-pregnancy test-kit box and grins. “Positive. Twice.”

“Holy crap!” The glass almost slips from my grasp, and some of the wine sloshes over the side and dribbles down my fingers, but I hardly notice. “Really? Why didn’t you just say so, Sally? Oh my God.” I reach across the table and hug her, spilling more of the wine on my shirt. “Oh my God.” I’m suddenly as excited as a little kid who’s just heard the tune of an approaching ice-cream truck. We’ve been trying for only a few months. ’Bella took a lot longer, almost a year (much longer than Katie), so I wasn’t holding my breath this time. “I … wow.
Awesome.
” The words stumble out of my mouth. “Number three. A boy. Do you think it’s a boy?” I lay my hand across her stomach. “It’s got to be a boy. I
totally
deserve a boy.”

“You’re getting a little ahead of yourself there, Dad,” she says, laughing.

“Wow. Number three.”

“Number three.” She gestures to the wine. “Have some.”

“Yeah. I think I need it. But … you want me to drink without you?”

“I want you to celebrate
with
me. For both of us. For the job
and
the new baby.”

“To our son, then.” She laughs, and I take a sip. Nice. Mellow and smoky, the wine meanders down my throat and unfurls warm tendrils through my chest. Sally lights the candle and turns out the kitchen light. We hold hands and gaze out the window.

Our tiny house sits on a small hill in Braintree, with the kitchen facing west. Far away, toward the Blue Hills Reservation, a lightning storm silently wreaks havoc, rending the night sky in violent bursts of white and blue light. It looks like it’s moving this way. An ominous breeze stirs the trees in our backyard.

But here, for now at least, sipping the wine with Sally, the kitchen lit only by the flickering light of the candle, it’s quiet.

“Do you remember when we first had this wine?” I ask.

She smiles. “What a great trip.”

“I think that’s when we made Katie.”

“That’s
definitely
when we made Katie.”

“What was the play we saw? In San Francisco?”

“
Cats.
”

“That’s right.
Cats.
”

“How could you forget?”

“Probably because I can’t stand cats. And the play was lame.”

“Cynic. I thought it was great. That was the, um, third time I’d seen it.”

“Is that the one with…?” I snap my fingers. “You know. What’s that famous song? The cheesy one.”

“‘Memory.’”

“Right. I’m sure that’s
exactly
what T. S. Eliot’s vision was when he wrote those poems: an actor in a ridiculous cat costume belting out some cheesy ballad.”

“Stop.” She hits me jokingly on the arm. “Don’t pretend you didn’t have fun. And there was that one character you really liked. Um … Deuteronomy. Old Deuteronomy.”

“Was that the, like, older, leader cat?” I finish off my glass and pour another.

“Yes. You said that his songs were the only ones you thought really sounded like T. S. Eliot’s poetry.”

“Good memory.” I laugh. “I totally forgot about that. Deuteronomy…”

“So. Complete change of subject. I met a nice woman last week at book club. Her name’s Nancy McIntosh. Do you know her husband, Dan? He’s a resident at University.”

“Dan McIntosh? Yeah, I know Dan. He’s one of the general-surgery chiefs. He’s okay. A little hard-core—you know, in a general-surgeon kind of way. But generally an okay guy.”

“I like Nancy a lot, but she’s a little intense, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she invited us to a barbecue they’re having at their house next month, so of course I immediately offered to bring my special homemade potato salad. You know, the one everyone always raves about. Right?”

“Sure.”

“And she said—now, let me get this right—she said, ‘No, thank you. I think potlucks are gauche.’ So they’re having it catered.”

“Really? She actually used the word ‘gauche’? In casual conversation?”

“Yeah. It took me a few seconds to remember what the word meant, then a few more to realize that I’d just been insulted. So I guess we’re gauche.” We laugh together.

“So what does she do?”

“She’s a lawyer. With three kids, but still working full-time. Anyway, despite the gauche thing, I get the sense we really click. We’re also going to be having dinner with them. I just wanted to give you a heads-up, and see if you knew who her husband was.”

She yawns, leans back in her chair, and stretches, pushing her arms up over her head. Her T-shirt rides up to reveal her belly button and lower abdomen, which has remained remarkably flat after two pregnancies.

I drain the rest of my glass, lean across the table, and kiss her on the lips—lightly at first, then more deeply. She responds in kind, then pulls back and smiles.

She blows out the candle, takes me by the hand, and wordlessly guides me up the stairs. I peek in at the girls as we pass by their room at the top of the landing: Katie in her small bed, hemmed in by the wall on one side and a guardrail on the other; and Annabelle in the crib across from her. Their mouths are slightly agape; their tranquil, unlined features bathed in the soft yellow hues of the night-light.

Sally walks into our bedroom ahead of me. When she reaches the bed, she spins around to face me and slowly, provocatively, takes off her T-shirt. I close the door to our bedroom.

Maybe it’s the wine, or today’s double dose of good news and the promise it brings of great things to come, but our lovemaking tonight is much more erotic than it’s been in quite a long time. She sighs and moans and writhes as I explore the familiar contours of her body. The thunderstorm hits right as things are reaching their peak, and I’m grateful for the rain hitting the roof, and the thunder, which shield Katie and Annabelle from the unusually passionate clamor of their parents just across the hall.

CHAPTER 3

Wednesday, July 22

The last week has gone off without a hitch, except for one glaring exception: Mr. Bernard, the jovial carpenter from Maine. As if in direct challenge to my conversation with Dr. Collier, Mr. Bernard’s recovery hasn’t gone as well as it should have. In fact, it’s gone pretty damn poorly. It’s his kidneys: For some reason, they’ve stopped working, and we can’t figure out why. It seriously bugs me, this single blemish on my otherwise spotless record.

Today, instead of our usual gathering in the cafeteria, Luis, GG, and I attend morning report: a weekly meeting of all of the residents, nurses, and professors in our department with a rotating schedule of educational, scientific, and administrative lectures. Morning report, as with all of our departmental meetings, is always held in a lecture hall located in the center of the oldest section of University Hospital. The hall was originally built in the middle of the nineteenth century as an operating-room theater, but it’s since been converted into an auditorium with stadium-style seats facing a large projection screen and a lectern placed off to one side. Everyone calls it the Dome, a reference to its high, curved ceiling. Ornate marble lines the floor, and the wood-paneled walls groan under the collective weight of scores of fancy oil paintings and old black-and-white photos of the generations of redoubtable surgeons who paved the way before us, all stern, white males, their stale visages peering out over small bronze placards bearing the fading letters of their mostly forgotten names.

Luis, GG, and I find seats in the back of the room, near the projection booth. Today’s talk is a dull treatise on billing procedures presented by some managerial University Hospital type with a shiny bald spot, nasal voice, bow tie, and cheap suit. Most of my fellow residents nod off, but I spend the entire time brooding about Mr. Bernard’s kidney condition.