The Doctor Rocks the Boat (12 page)

“Well, he called me last night,” Jennifer went on, “and asked how I was getting on with my book about the Lenapes. . . .”

To Fenimore's knowledge, Jennifer had not written a word about the Lenapes. “So, what did you tell him?”

“I thought fast and told him it was still in the research stage and I'd like to come down and interview him.”

“Quick thinking.”

“He sounded very pleased.”

“A first for Roaring Wings,” Fenimore muttered.

“I'm going down on Saturday to talk to him.”

“I see.” He detected an underlying excitement in her voice that was disturbing. He realized he hadn't heard it for some time.

“What's wrong?” she asked, sensing his disappointment.

“Nothing. I was hoping you could teen-sit this weekend. Tanya, Horatio's homeless friend, is moving in on Saturday.”

“Oh, I am sorry. Maybe I could change—”

“No. We'll manage,” Fenimore said heroically.

“I'm really excited. I'm taking a tape recorder along.”

“Do you think he'll go for that?”

“Probably not, but it's worth a try. I don't know shorthand.”

“Have you ever interviewed anyone?”

“No.”

“Well, be sure to prepare a good list of questions.”

“I've already started. Dad has a wonderful library on the Lenapes.”

“Well . . . good luck.”

“Thanks. And I'm sorry I can't help out.”

Fenimore called Doyle back.

“Don't worry, Doctor,” she said cheerfully. “I'll be glad to come for the weekend. Just be sure your TV is working.”

“Bless you,” Fenimore said.

Having solved that crisis, Fenimore was feeling good, except for a tiny gnawing doubt about Jennifer. Rafferty's warning came back to him. Had he been taking her too much for granted? He ate a lonely dinner of lowfat ham on rye, washed down with a Diet Coke. By using paper plates and cups, he had managed to reduce his dishwashing chores to a minimum. He was washing his single utensil—the knife he had used to spread the mustard—when the doorbell rang.

F
enimore peered through the frosted glass panels of his Victorian front door and was surprised to see another youth with Horatio. Slighter and shorter, but with the same dress code—baggy pants, T-shirt, baseball cap worn in reverse. Where was Tanya? He opened the door.

Casting a quick glance up and down the street, Horatio shoved his companion into the vestibule. In the stronger light of the hall, it was obvious that the youth's features were too delicate for a boy's, and even though the T-shirt was two sizes too big, certain curves were discernable underneath.

“Come in. Come in.” Fenimore's shyness emerged in the form of brusqueness. He didn't know many teenage girls. Most of his female patients were sixty-five or over.

As soon as she was inside, Tanya yanked off her cap, letting an abundance of thick, dark hair fall to her shoulders. “Geez, Rat. That hat was squeezin' my brains to death.”

“If you had any,” Rat said.

She jabbed him with her elbow.

He feigned mortal injury.

Thus Fenimore was introduced to teenage courtship for the
first time. The performance was interrupted by Tanya, who broke into a violent fit of coughing. Fenimore hurried her into his inner office, and asked Horatio to leave while he examined her.

The minute they were alone, Fenimore sensed the young woman's tension. He knew he should have a female chaperone. Especially in light of the child's history. He cursed himself for not having Doyle there. But he had to listen to her chest. And he couldn't do it adequately unless she removed her shirt. He told her to go into the examining room and take off her T-shirt.

When he entered, she had removed her shirt and was holding it over her small breasts. Adopting his most professional manner—no small talk, no jokes—he said, “This may be cold,” and pressed the metal disk of his stethoscope against her bare back. His nervousness was instantly replaced by concern. He heard definite rales, and when he asked her to cough for him she went into a spasm that continued until he brought her a glass of water and cough syrup with codeine. There was no need to listen to her chest. Fenimore had learned all he needed to know. He said, “Your cold has turned into something more serious. I'm prescribing an antibiotic, and you must get plenty of rest.”

She looked alarmed.

“You'll be fine in a few days,” he assured her. “Rat and I, and my nurse, Mrs. Doyle, will take good care of you.”

It was Tanya's turn to look nervous. “I can't pay you anything.”

“Don't worry. I'll take it out of Rat's pay.” He winked. “He works for me, you know.”

She smiled for the first time. “He won't like that.”

“I know.” He smiled back. He told her to put on her shirt, and left the room.

He found Rat in the outer office, reading a medical journal. He read them often, and afterward, to Fenimore's amazement, asked intelligent questions about the articles. Fenimore told the boy about Tanya's condition. “She can't go back to that cellar tonight. She has to stay here. And you'll have to be her chaperone.”

“Huh?”

“I know, it's crazy, but these are the times we live in. You can sleep on the couch. You'd better call your mother.”

While Horatio made his call, Fenimore took Tanya upstairs and introduced her to her new quarters. She was thrilled. The clean white sheets were what attracted her most. She ran her hand lightly over them, as if the plain cotton were satin or silk and buried her face in the pillow. He showed her the bathroom down the hall. Horatio joined them, and watched his friend's face with pleasure as she reacted to her new surroundings.

“Uh . . . do you have a nightgown?” Fenimore asked, hesitantly.

“My mom gave her one of hers,” Horatio said. He tossed a grocery bag with the nightgown at Tanya. She caught it.

“What about a toothbrush?”

The boy drew a new one from his pocket and flipped it at her. She dropped it.

“Butterfingers!”

Rat had thought of everything. Fenimore wondered when the girl had last brushed her teeth. For someone who had lived in a cellar for over six weeks, they looked remarkably clean. Then it dawned on him that she had been clean when he had examined her. She had no body odor, and when he had bent to listen to her lungs, her hair had smelled of shampoo. After Tanya had taken her antibiotic and gone to bed, Fenimore confronted Horatio.

“I took her to my house first,” he said, “and my mom helped her clean up. Tan wouldn't come to see you—dirty.”

He patted the boy's shoulder. “You've taken good care of her, Rat.” Fenimore had thought of asking Mrs. Lopez to take the girl in, but then he had remembered that she worked full-time and the two teenagers would be alone all day—at least in the summer. Besides, she had a limited income and didn't need another mouth to feed.

Embarrassed by the doctor's praise, Rat grabbed the blanket and pillow that Fenimore had brought down for him, threw himself on the sofa, and picked up the TV remote. Sal curled up beside him.

“You know where the fridge is,” Fenimore said.

Horatio grunted.

Fenimore returned to his room. Unaccustomed to having a full house, and missing Sal's company, he slept fitfully.

S
aturday began quietly enough.

Fenimore overslept. Something he rarely did. Probably due to his restless night. By the time he dressed and arrived downstairs, Rat had purchased coffee and bagels from a deli on the corner and was passing them out.

Tanya was wearing the same clothes as the night before.

“We'll have to get you some new clothes, young lady,” Fenimore said.

She looked down at her outfit. “What's wrong with these?”

“Yeah, Doc. What's wrong with those? I took a lot of pains with that outfit.” Rat looked at Tanya appraisingly.

“I'm sure you did. But she'll need more than one ensemble.”

“En—what?”

“Outfit.”

“Okay. Sure. But if you're gonna take Tan shoppin', I'm coming with you,” he said. “Or she'll end up looking like a nun in lace-ups.”

“Lace-ups!” she gasped.

“Yeah, and I don't mean sneakers.”

“Oow.” She screwed up her face.

“He might even make you wear a bra.”

Tanya blushed.

So did Fenimore. “That's enough, Rat. You can come along if you want, but you have to behave yourself.”

He shrugged, falling into his standard tough-guy stance.

Tanya began to cough. When she recovered, Fenimore said, “There will be no shopping until you're all well. Why don't you lie down on the couch and watch TV while Rat and I get to work.”

Office hours were about to begin and Mrs. Doyle would be arriving any minute. Rat set the TV to the Cartoon Channel for Tanya. Mrs. Doyle came in with her overnight bag and the latest
TV Guide
under one arm. Rat introduced Tanya to the nurse. Rat and Doyle went to work in the office. Fenimore took care of his morning patients and went to the hospital to do his rounds. He wondered briefly how Jennifer was making out with Roaring Wings. (Poor choice of words!) How her interview was going. When he returned, Doyle had prepared a healthy lunch for the four of them: chicken sandwiches, fruit cups, and iced tea. Tanya only coughed once during the meal. After lunch, Sal put her stamp of approval on the new guest by curling up beside her on the sofa. Fenimore suggested that Tanya take a nap. Horatio plumped a pillow behind her head. The warmth of the look she sent him in return did not escape Fenimore.
Young love,
he thought wistfully, and returned to his office.

He was daydreaming at his desk when the phone rang, startling him. Since Doyle was there, he let her answer it. He couldn't hear her words through the door, but he sensed her alarm. A moment later she burst in.

“It was Mrs. Ashburn. Chuck collapsed during rowing practice. He's in Emergency at HUP. She wants you to come!”

HUP was its usual chaotic self. A vendor was selling melons from the back of a ramshackle truck at one entrance. The main lobby
was full of people milling around, chatting, reading, sleeping, and chasing after their children.

Fenimore automatically made his way through the mêleé to the elevators. He could have come in the back entrance, but his mind was so absorbed with Chuck he simply forgot. The Cardiac Care Unit was on the eighth floor. He got off with a young woman and an elderly couple, and wondered, fleetingly, who they were coming to visit. Fenimore was used to visiting the CCU at his own hospital. He did so every day. But as a doctor, not as a family friend. It made a difference. A small group was gathered outside in the corridor: Frank O'Brien, Henry Walsh, and a few rowers, still in their rowing attire. Only immediate family members were allowed in the CCU. A young man, probably a resident, was speaking to them quietly as Fenimore came up. He told Fenimore to go right in.

The CCU was as busy as the lobby, but the personnel—doctors, nurses, technicians, and orderlies—moved with purpose, sure of their errands. The chief cardiologist was standing on one side of Chuck's bed; Caroline and Charlie were on the other. The cardiologist nodded at Fenimore. Caroline glanced up and gave a wan smile. Charlie's gaze was riveted to his son's face. The father's face, usually ruddy, was putty-colored. Chuck lay supine, eyes closed, his complexion ashen. A nurse was deftly connecting him to an echocardiograph machine. Fenimore glanced at the EKG above the boy's head and saw that nothing much was going on. The rate was fast, but the tracing looked normal. Before he had a chance to speak to the Ashburns, the cardiologist signaled him to join him in the corridor.

“A strange business,” he said.

“What happened?”

He told Fenimore, “Chuck was coming into the dock after his practice, when he collapsed. Just slumped over his oars. He was in a singles, and by the time some of the crew members reached him, he was unconscious. Two of the boys took turns giving him
CPR until the ambulance came, but he didn't regain consciousness.”

“What tests have been done?”

“A cardiogram, a blood count, SMA-12, and electrolytes, and they're about to do an echo.” The doctor drew Fenimore down the hall, away from the people outside the CCU, who were staring at them. He spoke in a hushed tone. “There's something odd about this case, Fenimore.”

“In what way?”

“It seems he's an SCD candidate. He has an ICD implant. The coach brought the boy's wallet in and we found his interrogation card. But when we interrogated the ICD there was no sign of a cardiac event at any time.”

“Are you sure?” Fenimore shouldn't have said that. It was insulting. But the doctor, intent on the case, took no offense. “Was the ICD functioning properly?” Fenimore asked.

“Perfectly.”

“You're suggesting his collapse was caused by something else.”

The other doctor nodded. “We'll know more when we have the lab tests.”

“How soon will that be?”

“About an hour. Mrs. Ashburn said you were an old family friend, and I thought you should know.”

“I appreciate it.”

The doctor excused himself.

Fenimore wasn't sure what to do next. He couldn't help the Ashburns until he saw the results of the lab tests. And he didn't want to get involved with the group in the corridor. He looked at his watch. 1:45. He remembered it was Saturday and there should be a cardiology lecture. Scheduled each week, these lectures were open to HUP alumni who wanted to keep up in their specialties. Many were from out-of-town. He decided to check out the auditorium. As he made his way to another part of the hospital, he spied a familiar face. Ott—the architect for the marina. What was he doing here? Oh . . . he was probably on the faculty at the
architecture school. But that was on the other side of campus. So what, Fenimore. People are allowed to cross the campus. He quickened his steps. If he was going to go to the lecture, he might as well be on time.