Point of Balance (23 page)

26

I didn't begin to simmer down until I was holed up in my office again. My pulse had slowed from jackhammer to frantic drum rate. I flopped into my chair and finished buttoning up the shirt that I had hastily put on in the car. I suddenly thought it would be best to ditch that suit—too many people had seen it that day. I had a spare one in my locker, in a different color, so I went down to get changed and on the way I stealthily picked up a few biohazard waste bags. I put on my scrubs and white coat, and into the bags I stuffed the sweat pants and top, my suit and shirt. I put the wallet I'd stolen off Hockstetter into another one and didn't even open it to see what was inside. I threw it all into one of our red containers, sealed it and wrote on the label in thick, block letters:

DANGER

HIV RISK

I told a porter to take it all away. No one in their right mind would open those bags, and in a couple of hours they would be reduced to ashes.

As I watched them go away, the adrenaline began to wear off and relief kicked in, making me buckle at the knees, so I had to lean
against the wall. Somebody had taken his hand out of the ventriloquist's dummy I had turned into.

I also realized I was aching all over. I shut myself up in the first empty consulting room I found and raided the supply trolley. My elbows and knees were covered in cuts and grazes from wrestling with Hockstetter on the concrete floor. I lathered them good and proper in chlorhexidine and could feel a sharp pain on the left side of my chest as I leaned over. I breathed deeply a couple of times, which turned the dull ache into a bewildering, stabbing pain that filled my whole thoracic cavity.

Just great. Goddamned asshole has broken one of my ribs.

Fine action hero I'd turned out to be. Tooled up and I couldn't even overpower a fat fifty-year-old without getting a broken rib in the process. I must have made the injury worse by bending over to disinfect my grazes.

I couldn't go to Radiology and ask them to do me a couple of X-rays to see whether I ran the risk of a punctured lung, so I had to prod with my fingers to check it out. The bone seemed to be in the right place, so it must only have been cracked. It wasn't much to worry about and wouldn't kill me, but it hurt like hell. I would have to stuff myself with painkillers and struggle on as best I could.

I went back to my consulting room. Several patients who would need surgery in the medium term were waiting outside.

I treated them mechanically, getting their names mixed up a couple of times, something that had never happened to me before. I pay careful attention to my patients; their lives and their selves matter to me. But by that stage I had one eye on the door, in case the police burst in to arrest me for assault and battery. The other I had on the phone, expecting Meyer to call any second to tell me events surrounding the president's operation had taken a surprising turn. But nobody came to the door, nor did anybody call.

I did what I could with the patients. I scheduled the most urgent cases for the following week, although unbeknownst to me I'd be in jail by then.

Seconds after the last patient was out the door, while I was doubled up in pain and wondering what the damage to my liver would be if I took a couple more painkillers, my cell phone rang.

“What the hell is it now, White?”

“Dr. Evans?”

I froze on the spot. It was the First Lady's voice. Only then did I notice the display showed the caller ID was blocked, rather than merely blank, as it was when White called.

“Forgive me, ma'am,” I answered. “I thought you were somebody else. I wasn't expecting you.”

“Honestly, Dr. Evans, I just wanted to apologize.”

“To apologize?” I repeatedly dumbly.

I had not imagined her calling me up, in any way, shape or form. I thought she would get Captain Hastings or the man in the bow tie to call the hospital director. I was not prepared for what came next.

“The way in which we decided . . . in which the decision was made to change the neurosurgeon for the president's operation was not very appropriate. I should have called before now.”

“It would have been more polite, yes,” I said before I could stop myself.

What am I getting at?

“I'm sorry. I want you to understand it was not my doing,” she said defensively. “The cabinet met; a lot of people heard for the first time that my husband was ill. The meeting went on for hours and there was a lot of pressure over where to operate.”

“I understand, ma'am. Everybody insists the president is more than just another patient. Unfortunately, I don't. For me he's just a person. If I treated him otherwise, I would expose him to unnecessary risks.”

She stayed silent for a while. I could hear her breathing on the other end of the line and I wondered where she was. Maybe in the Oval Office, with her husband nearby, looking at her expectantly. No, that was impossible. She'd be in her room, alone, trying to keep her emotions under control.

“That is very commendable, doctor. It is rare to find people with such unshakable convictions today. As a wife, I thank you for it.”

“But the decision was not yours. I understand that, too. I'm sure Dr. Hockstetter will do a great job tomorrow.”

“Dr. Evans, actually . . . something's come up.”

“What is it? Is the president okay?”

“The president's fine. Sadly, Dr. Hockstetter has broken one of his hands.”

She said it casually, trying to sound calm and collected. Without going into details. And she wasn't offering me the operation either.

Then it occurred to me that maybe this was some kind of test. She was playing politics with me, although I didn't really know to what end. Did she suspect that Hockstetter's mugging had been a dirty trick? If so, why was she calling me? Or was her reticence just sheer pride?

Be that as it may, my fate and Julia's depended to a large extent on what I said next. Should I clam up and wait for her to make the request I so wanted to hear, in order to avoid suspicion? Or should I massage her ego and show that I was at her beck and call?

I had only a few seconds to make up my mind. I decided to act the innocent over Hockstetter's injury.

“Why are you telling me all this, ma'am?”

She cleared her throat.

“I suppose you can guess.”

“I can guess, but you have yet to ask me.”

“Actually, Dr. Evans, I was hoping first to persuade you to take back your original condition, so you can operate at Bethesda.”

“Ma'am . . . In the cabinet they can ponder the scenarios and political fallout all they like. But the one with the scalpel a hairbreadth from the area controlling your husband's speech will be me. So the answer is no.”

“Dr. Evans—”

“Tell me something, ma'am,” I interrupted. “Tell me how much the columns in the
Post
, the polls and the ratings, will matter to you
on Saturday morning, when your husband can see his daughters and say their names without getting them wrong.”

The silence that descended seemed everlasting. I could feel anxiety gripping my shoulders, making them as heavy as lead. I had gone for broke, and stuck to my guns in order to clear myself of suspicion, but had left everything in the hands of a gut decision made by her. I had to dig my fingernails into my hand so as not to shout out, “
I'll do it wherever, just give me the operation, I must be the one who does it.
” Because to do that would have revealed me to be the opposite of what she wanted—somebody who was not dying to operate, who didn't desperately need it. She had made that very clear to me when we first met.

Talk. Say something, damn it.

“You win, doctor. You can have it your way.”

My body tingled all over with relief, from head to toe. I tried to make my voice sound as cool as possible when I answered.

“This is no competition, ma'am. Your husband alone has to come out on top here.” The words spilled out as crisp and clear as a mountain spring. But I felt like a fraud.

“I'll get Hastings to make the arrangements. And, Dr. Evans . . . Thank you. Anybody else in your situation would have made a big deal of the whole business. May I say it's an honor to know somebody as levelheaded and professional as you.”

I muttered an unintelligible reply, but she hung up before I had finished. I dropped into my chair, weary and disgusted with myself. I just wanted to go home as soon as possible and sleep for a full day. But that day's emotional roller-coaster ride was far from over.

27

I had to go see Meyer in his office to tell him, of course. The meeting was brief and embarrassing. While I was on my way up he'd been given the news and he was happy as a clam again, although he didn't thank me this time, either, for getting the Patient back. He dismissed me with a wave and mouthed the words “Don't screw up again” before he got bogged down in another call with Hastings about the details. I had no more desire to stay in his office than to have splinters shoved under my fingernails, but even so I found his peevishness and, above all, his parting words insulting.

I went back to Neurosurgery, much the worse for wear and in a foul mood. Meyer had ordered me to stay on a couple of hours for a briefing on security protocols for the day ahead, and I had no option but to go along. I had hoped to hide away in my office, lie down behind my desk and get some sleep while I could, but inevitably that was also to be denied me. When I walked past the nurses' station, one of them beckoned me.

“Dr. Evans! Somebody's been asking for you, named Jim Robson.”

I blinked in amazement. That was the last thing I'd expected. My father-in-law had never been to see me at work. In fact, I'd have bet a case of Bud he didn't even know the name of the hospital where I practiced. By the looks of things, I'd have lost.

“I'm not in the mood for monkey business. For God's sake, get rid of him. Tell him I'm not here.”

The nurse swiveled her eyes and pursed her lips. I got her meaning a second before I heard a voice behind me.

“It's too late for that, David.”

I wanted the ground to swallow me up, or to jump over the counter and hide among the half-open boxes of rubber gloves. But I had no alternative other than to turn around, shamefaced.

“Hello, Jim.”

There he was, with the creases on his pants straight as knife edges and his stare every bit as sharp. He said nothing, although I would have preferred him to shout and call me everything under the sun.

“I . . . I'm sorry,” I went on. “I didn't mean to insult you. It's just that I'm tied up right now.”

“For a change. I don't want to waste your time. Is there any place we can talk?”

We went to the snack bar in a typical Robson silence, as impalpable as smoke but as solid as a brick wall. Rachel used to take her time getting mad, but when she did she was exactly like her father, much as it would annoy her for me to say that. She would sink into a baleful sulk, at which I would throw everything I had, from jokes to hugs. It was useless; the best thing to do was ride it out.

We both ordered some of the god-awful coffee they serve there and went over to a table by the window. When I sat down I felt a shooting pain in my ribs that made me jump. Jim looked at me askance but said nothing. I guess he was working himself up to speak and I didn't want to sway him.

“Thing is,” he said after he cleared his throat, “I've come to beg your pardon.”

That I did not expect at all, and it put me even more on my guard. Jim had never asked my forgiveness for anything, and, as far as I knew, Rachel took after her father when it came to apologies. And I had sampled many of my wife's. Rachel belonged to the
sorry but
species. The group of people who never simply apologize. If
after an argument you manage to corner them and make them face facts, they apologize, only to counterattack with an explanation that shows you were actually to blame. “Sorry I was late, but I wouldn't have been if you'd remembered to buy the bread.”

That had stoked many an argument in my first few years with Rachel, until I ended up accepting that that was the way she was and she wouldn't change. She would never acknowledge her mistakes in words, but in more subtle and tangible deeds. For example, by making juice and bringing it to me in bed for breakfast. Buying me a novel on her lunch break. Putting on the stupid show about pawnshops that I loved and she hated. And at the same time I realized that those gestures were better than the five-letter word most of us say far too easily.

“Why do you want to beg my pardon?” I said carefully.

“For the way I behaved the other night, but I thought you deserved a dressing-down . . .”

I used the coffee cup as a shield so Jim wouldn't see me smile at the
sorry but
.

“. . . and even so I went about it the wrong way. You were in my home and I behaved like a punk. That isn't the Virginia way, David.”

I had personal experience of Jim's Virginia ways, so I did no more than give a nod, without committing myself.

Jim couldn't look me in the eye but stared into space while the twilight cast half his face in shadow.

He clearly wanted to keep talking, but our shared history had been a very rocky road. We had never talked, not really talked. At most a couple of noncommittal pleasantries—nearly always pathetic attempts on my part—before Jim got tired and turned up the volume on the TV. The nearest thing we had ever had to a heart-to-heart was that Tuesday night.

“I need to ask you something, Dave.”

“Go ahead.”

“Did you ever cut a deal with God? You know, talk to Him, ask
Him to bring Rachel back. I have, many times. It makes me feel so stupid and so childish.”

His frankness disarmed me. Like many guys who've been the man about the house for decades, Jim was used to having others interpret his feelings for him. It must have been a painstaking effort for him to say those words. I thought maybe I'd been too hard on him.

“No, Jim. I have not. But I would have, had I thought it was any use. I'd have done anything. You may believe I didn't do enough, that she died because I didn't notice she was ill. You know what? I don't care. You can't think anything I haven't thought already.”

My father-in-law shook his head.

“I haven't come to blame you, even if I do, damn it. I'll blame you as long as I live, because I've got nothing better to do. I spend the whole day stuck at home moping over old photos and brooding. Photos in which just three people are having a good time and which I don't recall taking. Photos of birthdays, special occasions, a heap of good memories which a stranger captured on film because I was too busy breaking my back to support my family.”

He paused to take a sip of coffee. Mine had been finished for some time.

“All those years I thought it was enough to put bread on the table. That someday there would be time to relax and enjoy life with my daughters. But there never was. And when I was at home, when we had a little time together, I was too busy setting an example of the damned rectitude I wanted to instill in them. I was strict, too hard. I was a shitty father, Dave.”

A tear trickled down his cheek and splashed on the table. He either didn't notice or didn't care.

“If I had a second chance, if I could have my time over again . . . this time it'd be different. I'd get it right. If I had a girl again, I wouldn't talk to her about the importance of hard work, or hellfire, and never, ever would I spank her. If I had a girl, I wouldn't force any rules or values on her. I'd tell her to go after whatever it took to
make her happy, because before you know it you're dead and can't make amends, nothing can be undone, there's no . . .”

His voice was full of broken glass and he couldn't finish the sentence.

“No turning the clock back.” I finished it for him.

We remained silent for a few minutes. Back there in the kitchen somebody dropped a tray of cutlery on the floor. They were getting ready for suppertime. The place would soon be full of weary relatives and companions who would chew their soggy spaghetti out of sheer boredom.

“I know how you feel,” I said after a while. “That's how I felt the first time I killed somebody.”

He looked at me distrustfully.

“A neurosurgeon is not a dentist. If I cut something, it stays cut. And at times, above all while you're learning, you cut where you shouldn't. It's that simple.”

“I don't know if I want to hear this, David.”

“No patient does, and we don't like talking about it, either. It isn't great PR. We all have our own private cemetery. And the one you most remember is the first.”

Jim hesitated for a second but in the end curiosity got the better of him.

“What happened?”

“Her name was Vivian Santana. She was a fifty-year-old teacher who loved crackers. She ate tons of them, so the upshot was mammoth blood pressure and an aneurysm. She was one of the first ops I did on my own. Supposedly, all I had to do was clamp the clip in the right place. I'd already done it a dozen times under supervision. But this time, there was only me and my fingers, nobody else. The aneurysm burst and she went without blood supply for a few minutes. By the time I got another neurosurgeon's help, it was too late. She died two days later.”

My father-in-law stared at me long and hard. He said nothing, but I believe there was a flash of understanding between us. He
understood I was a bit more than a smart-assed know-it-all with a degree in medicine, and that it takes guts to do what we do.

“After you deal with the relatives and your bosses as coolly as you can, you have a guilt trip. You get depressed, you think of chucking it all to become an attorney or an insurance salesman. If you're lucky, a buddy helps when you're down in the dumps, although that almost never happens. And sooner or later you realize somebody had to do the op. Somebody had to hold the scalpel. And the only way to get anywhere is by doing it.”

“So you hear me.”

“I hear you. There may be no way back, but you did the best you could, which is all anybody can ask for.”

Jim leaned over toward me. There was a weird glint in his eyes.

“But I want to try again. I can do it better than last time around. That's why I asked you to let Julia come live with us.”

I hardened my expression.

“I thought I'd made myself clear, Jim. That will never happen.”

“I know, I know. I won't insist,” he said, raising his hands. “But you could let us spoil her a bit now and again. I could swing by your place now and take her away for a long weekend. There's a fair in the next town. We'd drop her off on Monday, with a bellyful of cotton candy and a bunch of teddy bears.”

For a second I froze, not knowing what to say. I could not believe this was happening.

“She's got school tomorrow,” I spluttered.

“At her age a day off school won't make any difference. I'm not asking just for my sake. It would also perk Aura up a bit. Every night, when we turn out the light, she sobs away in silence for hours. She thinks I don't notice, but I do. And it breaks my heart.”

“Can't be done.”

Jim's face darkened, and he contorted his lips into a crooked smile.

“Why, David?”

I don't know whether it was the heat in there, the sunlight, the
tension, the fatigue or dehydration, but I began to feel lightheaded. It was an effort to look straight ahead and pain hammered at my temples.

“Next weekend,” I said when I could find a reply.

“There won't be a fair next weekend. We always used to take Rachel to the fair, you know? But her mother and I never let her go on too many of the rides.”

I felt faint again. I tried to ward it off by massaging my temples. For a second I thought I would collapse onto the table, but I held myself upright.

“I'm sorry. It's simply impossible.”

“It has to be possible.”

“Enough, Jim,” I said, raising my voice almost to a shout. I just wanted him to shut up and leave me in peace. I had no credible excuse to offer, no explanation to satisfy him.

There was a sudden change in the look on his face when reality forced its way through to his brain and smashed the props for his phony smile to smithereens. It was like watching a building being demolished by explosives, leaving behind a pile of twisted girders and rubble.

“I know what's going on here,” he said. “Own up.”

I was befuddled by the dizziness and a dawning migraine. I heard that sentence clearly and I gauged it inside my head until it acquired monumental proportions. I was so scared somebody would find me out that I began to stammer.

“Wha . . .What are you talking about?”

“What's up with Julia. You think I don't know what's going on?”

“I . . . How long have you known for?”

“Since you came over. Then I knew it. When were you going to tell me?”

“I was going to leave it as long as possible. I hoped you wouldn't find out.”

“For God's sake, Dave. What do you take me for? These things are obvious, and if you want my opinion, it's too damn soon.”

I was totally at a loss. He had blindsided me.
How could it be too soon to kidnap my daughter?

“What did you say?”

“Don't act dumb with me. It's normal for you to want to find another woman, but it's still too soon. It's only been a few months. Show a bit of respect, Dave. Take it like a man.”

“I haven't got another woman . . . How could you even think that?”

“Don't you lie to me! I knew you were hiding something as soon as you walked through the door. You're a terrible liar, David.”

“You're barking up the wrong tree.”

“Julia's very young. This could do her great harm. I'm afraid another woman will make her forget us. Her grandmother and I want to spend more time with her so that doesn't happen.”

I had thought of nothing other than losing Rachel in the long and painful months that had gone by since she had passed away. There had been only a void, a void and memories. For that reason, Jim's words hurt and humiliated me as much as if he had spat in my face.

I got to my feet, vaguely aware people were stealing surreptitious glances at us. Jim huffed and puffed, and his face was livid. If I didn't end that conversation we would come to blows, and I could not afford to make a spectacle of myself.