The Proteus Cure (3 page)

She trotted up to her third-floor office, turned on the overhead light, flung her coat on the guest chair, and sat in her rolling black leather ergonomic. She’d decorated it as an extension of her house: White walls with the same tan curtains she’d bought for her home office.

A picture of Dek holding a model train engine smiled at her from a brass frame. She sniffed apple pie and remembered the gel candle on the side table. A comforting smell, unlike the “Summer Rain” one she’d bought a few months ago that smelled like Windex.

She grabbed Kelly Slade’s chart from her desktop. Records had dropped it off because Kelly had missed her appointment today. That wasn’t like her. Last week the poor woman had been virtually devastated by some truly odd symptoms. Sheila had taken pictures, ordered labs, and scheduled a follow-up for today.

She’d been a Tethys patient, another VG723 success story. For two years, no contact, then last week, presenting with those disturbing changes in her skin and hair. Sheila hadn’t known what to think.

Odd she didn’t make it in today.

Sheila dialed the home number from the chart. After a few rings, she got an answering machine and hung up. She couldn’t find a cell number so she turned on her computer.

While she waited for it to boot up she tapped on the desk’s glass top and looked around. Framed degrees and academic awards dotted the walls. Papers covered the desk. Despite her efforts, the place still didn’t feel homey. Not enough color. She frowned. Have to work on that.

She reached across the desk and retrieved the clay pencil cup a patient’s child had made her as a thank-you for saving her dad. She pushed back the papers and set it before her. In purple crayon it read,
Thank you, Dr. Sheila.

It should have read
Thank you, VG723
.

For the thousandth time she wondered why 723 wasn’t used on children.

Well, at least it cured their parents.

When her screen came to life she keyed in Kelly’s name. Gray letters popped onto the screen: “File closed—Deceased.”

Her fingers jumped off the keys. The date was two days ago. How could that be?

She put her index finger to her lips where her teeth started to tug at a nail, but she caught herself.

Bad habit.

She felt a pang as she stared at the screen.

Poor Kelly. She’d overcome so much, and now … gone. Doctors were supposed to be inured to death, but she sure wasn’t. Not yet anyway.

No cause of death mentioned but Sheila guessed it must have been some kind of accident.

She’d presented with a fascinating syndrome. Well, fascinating to Sheila, maddening to Kelly. The distraught woman had cried for answers and Sheila hadn’t had any.

She had to investigate Kelly further. She’d talk to Bill about it at lunch. Get his take.

She put on her coat on and headed back to the hospital.

Tanesha Green slipped off the edge of the examining table in her oversized napkin cape and stepped to the small mirror on the wall.

Lordy, how she hated looking at herself these days. Her hair, skin … downright scary, not to mention embarrassing what with all her friends and relations staring at her like she done it on purpose. And no matter how many times she told them it weren’t none of her doing, absolutely
none
, she could tell by their eyes that they thought she was fronting, like she was trying to become some sort of Afro-Saxon.

Her hair … used to be so black. Black as an eight ball—and just as shiny when she fixed it up. Okay, maybe not perfect black. A touch of gray had been creeping in—after all, she was pushing forty. But now … mousy brown and straight as corn flax. Where’d
that
come from?

And her skin? Her lifelong shade of fresh-brewed Jamaican coffee had upped and gone. Now it was … she didn’t know what to call it. Weak tea with four of those little creamer things thrown in. Yeah, that came close.

And it was getting worse.

Even her little Jamal was starting with the funny looks.

Something damn well had to be done. Which was why she come here again, dammit. She hated this city hospital.

Nothing here like the fancy rooms over at Tethys, but this was a lot closer. And Tethys just did cancer. This wasn’t cancer. She heard a sound on the other side of the door and bustled back to the paper-covered table. But with short legs and too much belly, not easy getting herself seated again.

Damn, girl, but you’re packing on the pounds.

Hell, it was all this worry. Once she got her condition fixed, she could start on a diet. Now she was just too nervous. And when she got too nervous she just ate. And ate.

Tanesha was smoothing the front of the paper cape when the door opened.

A man in a white coat stepped inside, carrying a manila folder. Tanesha had never seen him before.

“Hey, you’re not Doctor Gleason.”

The man smiled—not a happy smile, not by a long shot. Hardly a smile at all.

“Hey, I’m quite well aware of that.”

This hatchet-faced stranger was older than Dr. Gleason by at least ten years—looked mid fifties—with graying hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and pale skin. Had that air of honkey superiority that riled Tanesha every time she faced it.

“Well then, where’s Doctor Gleason? He’s the one I usually see.”

She knew you didn’t always get the same doctor here at the public clinic, but she liked Gleason. Folks said the Penner Brigham had the best clinic in Boston, and only a short hop on the T from her place. Kind of like a lottery with which doctor you got, but if they worked here they must be good.

“Doctor Gleason is a bit under the weather, so I’m covering for him. If you wish to cancel today and make another appointment, no problem. You can stop at the desk on your way out and I’m sure they’ll be happy to accommodate you.”

Tanesha thought about that. She’d taken an instant dislike to this Wonder Bread with a stethoscope, but appointments here took time to get. And to tell the truth, Doc Gleason hadn’t been much help. Some tests and such, but everything kept coming back normal. This one wasn’t so friendly, but maybe he was smarter.

Tanesha gave a mental shrug: What she have to lose?

She sighed. “No, I guess you’ll do.”

“A ringing endorsement if I ever heard one.”

Without another look at her he seated himself at the little desk built into the wall and opened her chart. Doc Gleason always shook her hand and acted like he was glad to see her. This cracker looked like he could care less.

“Ain’t you gonna tell me your name?”

Without looking up he said, “Kaplan. Doctor Gerald Kaplan. And you, I see, are Tanesha Green.” Finally he looked at her. “What can I do for you, Tanesha Green?”

She snorted. “Something more than Doc Gleason, I hope.”

“That is certainly a possibility. But I’ll need a little more input than ‘Something more than Doc Gleason.’ Could we be a little more specific?”

Lord, this was one cold-ass bastard.

She pointed to her head. “Lookit my hair. It didn’t used to be like this. I used to have a full-frizz Afro. Now I gots this … this light brown thatch. But as if that ain’t enough, my skin’s going white. I been going around in circles with Doc Gleason and—”

“It’s obviously some odd variant of vitiligo.”

This guy sounded bored to death. Didn’t even bother to get up.

Tanesha pointed to him. “That’s what Doc Gleason said at first. Viti … viti—”

“Vitiligo. It’s an autoimmune condition that causes loss of skin pigment.” He frowned as he eyed her exposed arms. “But it’s usually patchy. Yours appears to be unusually uniform and pervasive.”

“It’s all over the place too. And it ain’t that viti-thing.”

She saw the doctor cock his head, saw his eyebrows jump toward his hairline.

“Oh? And you received your medical degree from …?”

He was steaming her, really getting her blood up. She had a mind to haul off and whack him good upside the head.

“Ain’t got no medical degree, but I know I ain’t got viti-whatever. First thing Doc Gleason did was send me to a skin guy. He couldn’t figure it out neither, but he said it wasn’t no viti-thing.”

“Did he take a biopsy?”

“Supposed to but it got put off.”

Kaplan frowned. “Too bad. I would have liked to have seen the result.”

Yeah, he sounded real interested—about as interested as she was in watching
Seinfeld
reruns.

She grabbed her shoulder bag from behind her, fished out her driver's license, and held it out to Kaplan.

“Here. Looky this.”

Kaplan didn’t bother to stand, just rolled his chair toward her, took the card, and rolled back to the desk. He looked at the photo on the license, then back to her.

“You’re right. A startling change.”

“I been living with this skin for thirty-nine years. I know when something ain’t right.”

He kept shaking his head as he looked at the card, then at her, then at the card again.

Tanesha felt her patience thinning.

“Look, you gonna help me or not? I mean it’s not like I like seeing doctors. I don’t. I seen enough of you when I had the cancer and—”

“Cancer? Really.”

Hey, all of a sudden a spark of interest. Kaplan began flipping through her chart.

“Yeah, the big C. And lemme tell you—”

“What kind of cancer, if I may be so bold to ask?”

“Colon. Started passing blood one day a couple years ago and some doctor put a tube up there for a look and said that’s what I got. I don’t know where it come from. Ain’t no cancer in my family.”

“So you received a resection followed by chemotherapy, I assume.”

“Yeah. Chemo, radiation—you think all that junk’s maybe got something to do with this?”

Kaplan finally hauled himself out of the chair and stepped up beside her. He bent and looked at the skin on her upper arm. Lots of skin there—too damn much.
Had
to do something about all this fat. He lifted her paper cape and looked at her back, then he poked a finger onto her hair.

He shook his head. “No, I’ve seen a lot of cancer survivors but never anything even remotely like this.”

“’Scuse me, but just because you never seen it don’t mean it ain’t because of what they give me. Lemme tell you, I was sick as a dog. I wanted someone to shoot me so’s I could feel better. And all for nothing."

Kaplan’s eyebrows did their lift thing again. “What do you mean, ‘All for nothing?’ You’re here now, alive and apparently well. I wouldn’t call that nothing.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t but I would. Damn shit spread from my colon all through my liver. They said I was a goner. I was getting ready to meet the Lord up close and personal. Only then they come up with this new treatment.”

“Really. And what might that be?”

“Some code name. But I’ll never forget it: VG-seven-twenty-three.”

His eyes got this faraway look. “Yes, codes are SOP for clinical trials. That means you were part of an experimental protocol.” He shook his head. “But VG-seven-twenty-three is a new one on me, and I make a point of keeping up on these things.”

“Guess you ain’t as up as you think, sugar. That stuff’s already a couple years old.”

“Who treated you with this VG-seven-twenty-three?”

“The Tethys folks.”

Kaplan started nodding. “Ah. That explains it. They play everything very, very close to the vest.”

“Hey, I don’t care where they plays it, long as it got me better. They put those little stem cells in me and—”

“Wait! Stem cells?”

Something in his voice made her look closer and she saw his whitebread face got even whiter.

“Yeah, stem cells. You heard of them?”

“Yes. Cutting edge stuff.”

This doc had changed. Like a different person. No more high-and-mighty honkey ’tude. Looked like a puppy who’d just heard its first roll of thunder.

“That’s good. At least you know
something
. Me, I don’t know what they is, but they sure as shit saved my life.”

Kaplan backed toward the desk and dropped into the chair like he was drunk.

He picked up her license and started doing that look-at-the-card-then-look-at-her thing again. With each look he seemed to get older and—Tanesha wouldn’t have thought it possible—paler.

“Hey, you’re scaring me, doc. What’s wrong?”

He stared at the license a long time before saying, “Nothing.” She could barely hear him. “Nothing at all.”

“Then why you so—?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, popping up from his chair. “I can’t help you.”

“What you mean?”

He grabbed her chart and handed back her license.

“No one here can help you.”

“But this here hospital is supposed to be a, watchacall, medical center, a teaching hospital—”

“Believe me, Ms. Green, this hospital has no answers for you. You need to go back to Tethys.”

Now she was really spooked.

“You think it was that VG-seven-twenty-three?”

“I do.”

“But you just said you didn’t know nothing about it.”

“No, I do know about it. Too much about it.”

“But—”

“Tethys,” he said, looking like an old man who’s just heard his whole family got wiped out in a drive-by. “Go back to Tethys.”

And then he was out the door, slamming it closed behind him.

Tanesha sat there in shock, her stomach twisting into a knot.

What just happened? One minute he’s all uppity, next he’s outta here.

First thing she did after tearing herself out of the stupid little cape and getting back into her blouse was pull out her cell phone. Her fingers shook as she called information for the Tethys number.

What was the name of that doctor who’d kept track of her cancer treatments? Japanese name but not a Jap. Nice lady. Nicest doctor there. Tekka … Takka … Takamura. That was it. That was who she’d ask for.

Tethys was all the way up in Bradfield, practically New Hampshire, but that was where she damn well was going.

Sheila walked out of a patient’s room and collided with a familiar solid figure.

“Bill. I didn’t see you.”

He didn’t step back. Neither did she. They stayed planted against each other. The feeling of his body against hers … damn. She hated that he was married. How the hell long before she got over this stupid schoolgirl crush?