Before Coleman could answer there was a knock on the door. Impatiently Pearson called out, “Yes?”
A girl secretary came in, glancing curiously from one to the other. It occurred to Coleman that Pearson’s voice, at least, must have been clearly audible in the corridor outside. The girl said, “Excuse me, Dr. Pearson. There are two telegrams for you. They just came.” Pearson took the two buff envelopes the girl held out.
When she had gone Coleman was about to reply. But Pearson stopped him with a gesture. Beginning to thumb open the first envelope, he said, “These will be the answers about the girl—Lucy Grainger’s patient.” His tone was quite different from that of a few moments before. He added, “They took long enough about it.”
Automatically David Coleman felt a quickening of interest. Tacitly he accepted Pearson’s view that their argument could be postponed; this was more important. As Pearson had the first flap open the telephone jangled sharply. With an exclamation of annoyance he put the two envelopes down to answer it.
“Yes?”
“Dr. Pearson, this is Obstetrics,” a voice said. “Dr. Dornberger is calling you. One moment, please.”
There was a pause, then Dornberger came on the line. He said urgently, “Joe, what’s wrong with you people in Pathology?” Without waiting for an answer, “Your technician’s wife—Mrs. Alexander—is in labor and the baby will be premature. She’s on the way here in an ambulance, and I haven’t got a blood-sensitivity report. Now get it up here fast!”
“Right, Charlie.” Pearson slammed the receiver down and reached for a pile of forms in a tray marked “Signature.” As he did, the two telegraph envelopes caught his eye. Quickly he passed them to Coleman. “Take these. See what they say.”
Pearson riffled through the forms. The first time, in his haste, he missed the one he wanted; the second time through he found it. He lifted the telephone again, listened, then said brusquely, “Send Bannister in.” Replacing the phone, he scribbled a signature on the form he had removed.
“You want me?” Bannister’s tone and expression made it plain that he was still smarting from the reprimand earlier.
“Of course I want you!” Pearson held out the form he had signed. “Get this up to Dr. Dornberger—fast. He’s in Obstetrics. John Alexander’s wife is in trouble. She’s going to have a premie.”
Bannister’s expression changed. “Does the kid know? He’s down in—”
Impatiently Pearson cut him off. “Get going, will you! Get going!” Hastily Bannister went out with the form.
Dimly David Coleman had been aware of what was going on around him. His mind, however, had not yet grasped the details. For the moment he was too concerned with the awesome significance of the two telegrams which he held, opened, in his hand.
Now Pearson turned to him. The old man said, “Well, does the girl lose her leg or not? Are they both definite?”
Coleman thought: This is where pathology begins and ends; these are the borderlands where we must face the truth of how little we really know; this is the limit of learning, the rim of the dark, swirling waters of the still unknown. He said quietly, “Yes, they’re both definite. Dr. Chollingham in Boston says, ‘Specimen definitely malignant.’ Dr. Earnhart in New York says, ‘The tissue is benign. No sign of malignancy.’ ”
There was a silence. Then Pearson said slowly, softly, “The two best men in the country, and one votes ‘for,’ the other ‘against.’ ” He looked at Coleman, and when he spoke there was irony but no antagonism. “Well, my young pathologist friend, Lucy Grainger expects an answer today. She will have to be given one, and it will have to be definite.” With a twisted smile, “Do you feel like playing God?”
Sixteen
A police patrolman on duty at Main and Liberty heard the ambulance’s siren six blocks away. Moving out from the sidewalk, and with the skill of long practice, he began to expedite the traffic flow so as to leave the intersection clear. As the siren grew louder and the flashing warning light became visible, threading its way toward him, the patrolman inflated his cheeks and blew two sharp whistle blasts. Then, signaling a halt to all traffic in the side roads, he authoritatively waved the ambulance driver through a red light. Pedestrians at the intersection, turning their heads curiously, caught a blurred glimpse of a young woman’s white face as the ambulance swept by.
Inside, Elizabeth was only dimly conscious of their progress through the busy city streets. She sensed they were moving fast, but the buildings and people outside were a confused pattern racing past the window near her head. Momentarily, between each onset of pain, she could see the driver up ahead, his two big hands nursing the wheel, turning quickly, first right, then left, taking advantage of every opening as it occurred. Then the pain came back and all she could think of was to cry out and to hold on.
“Hold my wrists! And hang on all you want.” It was the ambulance attendant, leaning over her. He had a stubble of beard and a cleft chin, and for a moment Elizabeth believed it was her father come here now to comfort her. But her father was dead; hadn’t he been killed at the railroad? Or perhaps he had not and he was in this ambulance along with her, being taken to some place they could be cared for together. Then her head cleared and she saw it was not her father but a stranger whose wrists were red with the gouge marks her nails had made.
She had time to touch the marks before the next pain came. It was a gesture, all she could do. The man shook his head. “Don’t worry. Just you hold on all you want. We’ll be there soon. Old Joe up front is the best wagon driver in the city.” Then the pain again, worse than before, the intervals between growing shorter, the sensation as if all her bones were being twisted beyond endurance with the agony centered in her back, the torture of it overflowing into a flame of red, yellow, purple in front of her eyes. Her nails dug deeper and she screamed.
“Can you feel the baby coming?” It was the attendant again; he had waited until the last pain subsided, then leaned close.
She managed to nod her head and gasp. “I . . . I think so.”
“All right.” He eased his hands gently away. “Hang on to this for a minute.” He gave her a towel he had rolled tight, then turned back the blanket over the stretcher and began to loosen her clothing. He talked softly while he worked. “We’ll do the best we can if we have to. It wouldn’t be the first one I’ve delivered in here. I’m a grandfather, you see, so I know what it’s all about.” His last words were drowned out by her cry; once more, at her back, flooding around her, blinding, overpowering, the crescendo of agony, crushing, unrelenting. “Please!” She grasped for his wrists again, and he gave them, faint lines of blood appearing as her nails ripped flesh. Turning his head, he called forward, “How are we doing, Joe?”
“Just went through Main and Liberty.” The big hands turned the wheel sharply right. “There was a cop there; he had it sorted. Saved us a good minute.” A swing to the left, then the head leaned back. “You a godfather yet?”
“Not quite, Joe. It’s getting pretty close though, I reckon.”
Again the wheel spinning; a sharp turn to the right. Afterward: “We’re on the home stretch, boy. Try to keep the cork in a minute more.”
All Elizabeth could think, through the miasma that engulfed her, was: My baby—he’ll be born too soon! He’ll die! Oh God, don’t let him die! Not this time! Not again!
In Obstetrics, Dr. Dornberger was scrubbed and gowned. Emerging from the scrub room into the busy interior hallway which separated the labor rooms from the delivery areas, he looked around him. Seeing him through the glass partitions of her office, Mrs. Yeo, the head nurse, got up and came toward him, holding a clip board.
“Here’s the blood-sensitivity report on your patient, Dr. Dornberger. It just came in from Pathology.” She held out the board so he could read without touching it.
“About time!” Unusual for him, it was almost a growl. Scanning the form on top of the clip board, he said, “Sensitivity negative, eh? Well, there’s no problem there. Is everything else ready?”