Thanks to small mercies, he got to ride the elevator alone. Sunday mornings, even at shift change, tended to be quieter than the start of other days. As the floors ticked by, he braced himself for the imminent confrontation with Peter Wyatt. Earl had hung up on the man rather than listen to him scream threats over the phone, but not before he'd heard a good part of what the oncologist had planned for him. For starters there'd be charges of unprofessional conduct; a motion to suspend his appointment as VP, medical; and, after confirmation of lethal morphine levels in Elizabeth Matthews's blood, an official coroner's inquiry. Wyatt then pledged to lead a push that would see Earl prosecuted by law for gross negligence at best, manslaughter at worst. And of course he'd indicated a willingness to leak every savory detail of the process to the media.
But what Earl dreaded most had nothing to do with facing Peter Wyatt.
The door slid open, and he stepped into the ward. His welcome committee stood waiting for him by the nursing station, but he focused only on the elderly man with the gaunt eyes who sat hunched in a chair, looking out the window at a dreary gray dawn.
Monica Yablonsky, her brow furrowed like a gathering storm, tried to glare at him, faltered, and fidgeted with her glasses. Two nurses whom he hadn't seen before flanked her, their expressions expectant, as if he might be there to fix the mess. Wyatt, dressed for the occasion in his three-piece churchgoing best, bolted forward like the leader of a lynch mob in a bad western.
"Shut up, Peter," Earl said before Wyatt could open his mouth. Then he walked right by him, focusing solely on the frail figure by the window. "Mr. Matthews," he said, kneeling by his side.
The old man made no reply and didn't even glance his way.
Earl hesitated, uncertain whether to take the lack of response as a refusal to speak with him, or as the paralyzing impact of grief.
"Mr. Matthews," he repeated.
"Go away, please." The wavering voice sounded hollow, as if emanating from a gourd that had had the insides gouged out.
Earl swallowed. "Mr. Matthews, I know you have every right to be angry…" He trailed off, overwhelmed by how useless his words sounded. They always did when he attempted to comfort the living in the aftermath of a death, and this time he'd more than usual to account for. "I'm so sorry," he said again. He cast about for something to add, then let it be, resigned that nothing he could say would help.
In the depths of Matthews's eyes, previously so blank and lifeless, a dark glow began to burn, angry and hot. "I left her alone because you promised me she'd be all right." His voice rose barely above a whisper yet cut like steel. "From the day she got sick, that's what frightened her the most- my not being there at the end…" A sob convulsed him, choking off the rest of his lament, and left him struggling to draw breath. The jagged cry that finally burst from his throat resonated loudly along the corridor. Earl imagined it penetrating the elevator shafts and extending through the morning gloom to permeate the final seconds of every patient's awakening dream. This, it warned, is how much they can hurt you here.
Chapter 6
Thomas's silence while Jane prepared brunch became bothersome.
True, they were both worried about Dr. G. They'd talked about little else. But then he'd fallen silent, and she wondered if something else was troubling him. Had he not liked their lovemaking? Or did he find it awkward being in her new apartment?
She'd moved here just a few weeks ago, having previously shared a pad with some of her female colleagues to save money, but after two years of sorority living, she wanted the privacy of being on her own. Simple, small, but neat, the place felt cozy. She'd adorned the walls with bright travel posters from Greece, Hawaii, and the Caribbean and prints of Klee, Townsend, and Chagall paintings to make up for the lack of view- other brownstone apartment buildings and a nearby freeway. Sheer white curtains over the large windows admitted plentiful supplies of natural light while deadening the sight of neighborhood grunge. In all, not bad, especially since she'd accomplished everything on a nurse's salary. At least that's how she felt showing it to the girls from work. With Thomas, she'd wondered if her efforts might look pathetic to someone a year away from earning a doctor's income.
Not that he'd ever acted like a snob. If he had, she would have dropped him in an instant, having no time for superficial losers of that sort. Her doubts about his reaction had more to do with something quite profound in him that had taken her a while to find out. From what he'd told her of his background- farm people much like her own, his mother also a widow to whom he sent money- he seemed grounded in the same values of hard work and responsibility to family that she'd been raised to cherish. But bit by bit, usually when he lay in her arms after they made love, he also revealed how much he'd detested the harsh circumstances he and his mother endured after his father died. She slowly discovered that under his easy southern charm there burned a resolve to never again let anyone he loved fall victim to poverty. So she didn't know exactly how he'd react to her modest new home- be comfortable in it, as she hoped, or be constantly thinking he should upgrade her to a better one?
Not that he had such a great apartment himself: top floor, contemporary furnishings, but a view of Buffalo's city hall, a stumpy thirty-story building lined with narrow, pointy windows intended as a tribute to Art Deco. Too bad it resembled a circumcised penis covered with shiny scales. "Obviously this neighborhood's well beyond my meager budget, thank God," she frequently teased him. Good thing he found her jokes about it as funny as she did.
But none of that had to do with why she'd been hesitant to invite him over. Since they'd first become lovers, their desire for each other blatantly mutual, the nights she spent with him had always been on his turf, at his invitation. Changing the equation worried her. Would he feel pushed now that she could ask him? Since they were still new enough to each other that reading his moods sometimes proved a challenge, she let things stay the way they were for the first few weeks. Until yesterday. By then she reached a so-what-if-he-feels-pressure state of mind, fed up playing Daisy Mae to his Li'l Abner. He might be a hotshot in ER and a rescuer ready to snatch her from abject poverty, but when it came to romance, did all Tennessee men need women to take the lead? The good thing about Thomas in that department, once she pointed him in the right direction, was that he made it well worth her while.
"Why so quiet?" she asked, flipping the eggs.
He looked up from where he'd been sitting cross-legged on the floor and leafing through the Sunday New York Herald. Having often seen it lying around his place, she'd bought a copy on the way home from the hospital, fantasizing about them reading it together afterward, lounging in bathrobes, sharing interesting articles, comfortable with each other's company. She'd had it waiting for him when he arrived, along with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, and herself, fresh out of the shower. As she hoped, the paper ended up tossed in a corner, the drink remained untouched, and he'd quenched his thirst for her.
But as attentive as he'd been in bed, and as passionately as he swore to protect Dr. G., he seemed distracted afterward.
"Sorry, Jane, but I still can't get what happened this morning out of my head- that Yablonsky, accusing Dr. Garnet out loud the way she did. And why would he be up on Palliative Care giving out morphine in the first place? Whatever the reason, I think she may be making big trouble for him."