Cassi listened hopefully. She’d had trouble sorting out the real from insulin-induced dreams in the past.
“But it is still very difficult for me to believe that I could have given myself an overdose of insulin,” she said.
“It might not have been an overdose. You could have just given yourself your usual dose. You may have thought it was time for your evening shot.”
It was an attractive explanation. Certainly an easier one to accept than that Thomas wanted her to die.
“My real concern,” Joan went on, “is whether you are depressed now.”
“I guess a little, mostly about Robert. I suppose I should be happy about the results of the surgery, but under the circumstances, it’s difficult. But I can assure you, I don’t feel self-destructive. Anyway, they’ve taken away all my insulin.”
“It’s just as well,” said Joan, standing up. She was convinced Cassi was not suicidal. “Unfortunately I’ve got two legitimate consultations to do. I’ve got to get a move on. You take care and call if you need me, promise?”
“I promise,” said Cassi. She smiled at Joan. She was a good friend and a good doctor. She trusted her opinion.
“Was that lady a psychiatrist?” asked one of Cassi’s roommates after Joan left.
“Yes,” said Cassi. “She’s a resident like I am, but further along in her training. She’ll be finishing this spring.”
“Does she think you’re crazy?” the woman asked.
Cassi thought about the question. It wasn’t as stupid as it sounded. In a way Joan did think she was temporarily crazy. “She thought I was very upset,” said Cassi. Euphemisms seemed easier. “She thought that I might have tried to hurt myself in my sleep. If I start doing anything weird, you’ll call the nurses, won’t you?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll scream my bloody head off.”
Cassi’s other roommates, who had been listening, enthusiastically concurred.
Cassi hoped she hadn’t scared the three women, but in a way it made her feel more comfortable that they would be watching her. If it were true that she had given herself an overdose without knowing it, she could use a little nervous concern.
She closed her eyes and wondered when Robert’s funeral was. She hoped she’d be released in time to go. Then she thought of the SSD project and wondered what would happen to it. Remembering the printouts she’d taken from his room, she decided to see if someone could locate them for her.
She rang for the nurse, who promised to check Cassi’s former room. A half-hour later, the nurse returned and said that the two LPNs who had helped move Cassi had not seen the computer printout. The nurse added that she’d checked all the drawers herself without success.
Maybe the SSD data had been a hallucination, too, thought Cassi. She seemed to recall going into Robert’s room, picking up the material, and then bumping into Thomas. But perhaps it was all a dream. Cassi wondered how she could check. The easiest way would be to ask Thomas, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to do that.
Glancing around the room, Cassi was glad to see her three roommates getting ready for dinner. Just having them there made her feel safe.
Thomas stopped short of the bridge over the marsh inlet. He switched off the engine and checked for any traffic before opening the door. Getting out of the car, he walked out onto the arched wooden bridge, his shoes making a hollow noise on the old planks. The tide was on its way out and the current rushed beneath the small bridge, swirling in frenetic eddies about the support pilings.
Thomas needed a breath of air. The two Talwin he’d taken before leaving the office had had disappointingly little effect on his mood. He’d never felt such anxiety before. The Friday afternoon conference had been a disaster. And on top of that were the mushrooming problems with Cassi.
Thomas stood on the deserted bridge for almost half an hour, letting the damp breeze chill him to the bone. The discomfort was therapeutic, making it possible for him to think. He had to do something. Ballantine and his cohorts were intent on destroying everything Thomas had carefully built. In his hand he gripped a drug vial, intending to throw it into the water. But he didn’t. Instead he returned it to his coat.
Slowly Thomas felt better. He had an idea, and as the idea took form, he began to smile. Then he laughed, wondering why he hadn’t thought of it before. With a new surge of energy he returned to his car and warmed his fingers by holding them over the defroster vent.
After pulling into the garage, he crossed the courtyard to the house at a run. He moved the drug container to his suit pocket when he took off his coat and, feeling better than he had all day, went in to greet his mother.
“I’m so glad you’re on time,” she said. “Harriet is just putting dinner on the table.” She took his arm and led him into the dining room. He knew she was in a good mood because she had him to herself, but she managed to inquire politely about Cassi before serving herself from the platter of Yankee pot roast.
When Harriet had gone back into the kitchen, she began asking about Thomas’s day.
“Are things going better at the hospital?”
“Hardly,” said Thomas, not eager to discuss the worsening hospital situation.
“Have you spoken with George Sherman?” asked Patricia with disgust.
“Mother, I don’t want to talk about hospital politics.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes, but Patricia could not contain herself and again spoke up. “You’ll know what to do with the man when you become chief.”
Thomas put down his fork.
“Mother, can’t we talk about something else?”
“It’s hard to avoid the issue when I can see how much it is bothering you.”
Thomas tried to calm himself with a series of deep breaths. Patricia could see him tremble.
“Look at you, Thomas, you’re like a spring wound too tightly.” Patricia reached over to stroke her son’s arm, but Thomas evaded her touch by pushing back his chair and standing up.
“The situation is driving me crazy,” admitted Thomas.
“When do you think you’ll be chief?” asked Patricia, watching her son begin to pace back and forth like a caged lion.
“God, I wish I knew,” said Thomas through clenched teeth. “But it better be soon. If not, the department will be in shambles. Everyone seems to be going out of their way to destroy the cardiac vascular program I set up. Boston Memorial is famous because my operating team made it so. Yet instead of letting me expand, they are constantly cutting down my time in the OR. Today I learned that my surgical time is being reduced again. And you know why? Because Ballantine made arrangements for the Memorial Teaching Service to have free access to a large state mental institution out in the western part of the state. Sherman went out there and said the place was a cardiac surgical gold mine. What he didn’t say was that the average mental age of the patients was less than two years. Some of them are actually deformed monsters. It makes me furious!”
“Well, won’t you be backing the house staff on those cases?” asked Patricia, trying to think of the positive side of the issue.
“Mother, they are mentally defective pediatric cases, and Ballantine plans to recruit a full-time pediatric cardiac surgeon.”
“Well, then, that won’t affect you.”
“But it will,” shouted Thomas. “It will put more pressure on me to cut back my OR time.” Thomas felt his temper rising. “My patients will either have dangerous delays before surgery or will have to go elsewhere.”
“But surely your patients will be scheduled first, dear.”
“Mother, you don’t understand,” said Thomas, making an effort to speak slowly. “The hospital doesn’t care that I only take on patients who not only have a good chance of survival but are worth saving. To build the reputation of the teaching school, Ballantine would rather sacrifice valuable OR time for a bunch of imbeciles and defectives. Unless I become chief I won’t be able to stop them.”