"Only that this woman had died."
"That's right. Does your Carl Horner make mistakes often? " The idea of an error didn't jibe with Marco Sebastian's description of the man.
"Once every century or so as far as I can tell. I've been here four years now, and this is the first time I've encountered any screw up by his machines. Do you want me to send this chart over to you?"
"Can I pick it up in person, Bill? There are some other things I want to talk with you about."
"One o'clock okay with you?"
"Fine. And Bill, could you order a printout of the record of a Beverly Vitale."
"The woman who bled out on the inpatient service?"
"Yes."
"I've already reviewed it. A copy's right here on my desk."
"Excellent. One last thing."
"Yes?"
"I'd like to meet Carl Horner. Is that possible?"
"Old Carl's a bit cantankerous, but I suspect it would be okay."
"One o'clock, then?"
"One o'clock." + Ellen Sandler clutched her housecoat about her and sat on the edge of her bed staring blankly at a disheveled blackbird foraging for a bit of food on the frozen snow beyond her window. She was expected at the office in less than an hour. The house was woefully low on staples. Betsy's math teacher had set up a noontime conference to investigate her falling interest and grade in the subject. Eve needed help shopping for a dress for her piano recital. Darcy had come home an hour after weekday curfew, her clothes tinged with a musty odor that Ellen suspected was marijuana. So much to do. So much had changed, yet so little. The silence in the house was stifling. Gradually, she focused on a few ongoing sounds, the hum of the refrigerator, the drone of the blower on the heating and air conditioning system Sandy had installed to celebrate their last anniversary, the sigh that was her own breathing.
"Get up, " she told herself. "Goddamn it, get up and do what you have to do." Still, she did not move. The hurt, the oppressive, constricting ache in her chest seemed to make movement impossible. It wasn't the loneliness that pained so, although certainly that was torture. It wasn't the empty bed or the silent telephone or the lifeless eyes that stared at her from the mirror. It wasn't even the other woman, whoever she was. It was the lies-the dozens upon dozens of lies from the one person in the world she needed to trust. It was the realization that while the anguish and hurt of the broken marriage might, in time, subside, the inability to trust would likely remain part of her forever.
"Get up, dammit. Get up, get dressed, and get going."
With what seemed a major effort, she broke through the inertia of her spirit and the aching stiffness in her limbs, and stood up. The room, the house, the job, the girls-so much had changed, yet so little. She walked to the closet, wondering if perhaps something silkier and more feminine than what she usually wore to the office would buoy her. The burgundy dress she had bought for London caught her eye. Two men had made advances toward her the first day she wore it, and there had been any number of compliments on it since. As she crossed the room, Ellen felt the morning discomforts in her joints diminish-all, that is, except a throbbing in her left thigh that seemed to worsen with each step. She slipped off her housecoat, hung it up, and pulled her flannel nightgown off over her head. Covering much of the front of her thigh was the largest bruise she had ever seen.
Gingerly, she explored it with her fingers. It was somewhat tender, but not unbearably so. She did not know how she had gotten it. She had sustained no injury that she could remember. It must, she decided, have been the way she slept on it. She selected a blue, thin wool jumpsuit in place of the dress, which, it seemed, might not cover the bruise in every situation. She dressed, still unable to take her eyes off the grotesque discoloration. Her legs had always been one of her best features. Even after three children, she took pride that there were only a few threadlike veins visible behind her knees. Now this. For a moment, she thought about calling Kate for advice on whether or not to have a doctor check things out, but she decided that a bruise was a bruise.
Besides, she had simply too much else to do. A bit of makeup and some work on her hair, and Ellen felt as ready as she ever would to tackle the day. The face in her mirror, thin and fine featured, would probably turn some heads, but the eyes were still lifeless. She was leaving the room when she noticed the note tacked to the doorjamb. Each day it happened like this, and each day it was like seeing the note for the first time, despite the fact that she had tacked it there more than a year before. "Take Vit, " was all it said. Ellen went to the medicine cabinet, took the sheet of multivitamins plus iron from the shelf, punched one out, and swallowed it without water. Half consciously, she noticed that there was only a four-week supply remaining, and she made a mental note to set up an appointment with her physician at the Omnicenter. Although she was limping slightly as she left the house, Ellen found the tightness in her thigh bearable. In fact, compared to the other agonies in her life at the moment, the sensation was almost pleasant. The sign, a discreet bronze plate by the electronically controlled glass doors, said, "Metropolitan Hospital of Boston, Ashburton Women's Health Omnicenter, 1975." Kate had been one of the first patients to enroll and had never regretted her decision.
Gynecological care, hardly a pleasant experience, had become at least tolerable for her, as it had for the several thousand other women who were accepted before a waiting list was introduced. The inscription above the receptionist's desk said it all. "Complete Patient Care with Complete Caring Patience."
Kate stopped at the small coatroom to one side of the brightly lit foyer, and checked her parka with a blue-smocked volunteer. She could have used the tunnel from the main hospital, but she had been drawn outdoors by the prospect of a few minutes of fresh air and a fluffy western omelet sandwich, spetcialite' de la maison at Maury's Diner. The receptionist signaled Kate's arrival by telephone and then directed her to Dr. Zimmermann's office on the third floor. The directions were not necessary. Zimmermann had been Kate's Omnicenter physician for four years, since the accidental drowning death of Dr. Harold French, his predecessor and the first head of the Omnicenter. Although she saw Zimmermann infrequently-three times a year was mandatory for women on birth control pills-Kate had developed a comfortable patient-physician relationship with him, as well as an embryonic friendship. He was waiting by his office door as she stepped from the elevator.
Even after four years, the sight of the man triggered the same impresi sions as had their first meeting. He was dashing. Corny as the word was, Kate could think of no better one to describe him. In his late thirties or early forties Zimmermann had a classic, chiseled handsomeness, along with an urbanity and ease of motion that Kate had originally felt might be a liability to a physician in his medical specialty. Time and the man had proven her concerns groundless. He was polite and totally professional. In a hospital rife with rumors, few had ever been circulated regarding him. Those that had gone around dealt with the usual speculations about an attractive man of his age who was not married. Active on hospital and civic committees, giving of his time to his patients and of his knowledge to his students, William Zimmermann's was a star justifiably on the rise. "Dr. Kate." Zimmermann took both her hands in his and pumped them warmly. "Come in, come in. I have fresh coffee and… Have you had lunch? I could send out for something."
"I stopped at Maury's on the way over. I'm sorry for being so thoughtless. I should have brought you something."
"Nonsense. I only asked about lunch for your benefit. I have been skipping the meal altogether-part of a weight loss bet with my secretary."
Even if the bet were concocted on the spot, and considering the man's trim frame that was quite possible, his words were the perfect breeze to dispel Kate's embarrassment. Zimmermann's office was the den of a scholar. Texts and bound journals filled three walls of floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and opened or marked volumes covered much of a reading table at one end of the room. On the wall behind his desk, framed photographs of European castles were interspersed with elegantly matted sayings, quotations, and homilies. "The downfall of any magician is belief in his own magic."