In the privacy of her bathroom, she applied the drop of urine and waited.
In one minute she'd know.
Reruns of the last six weeks tumbled through her mind.
She'd missed before. Rather, it had come late a few times, by as much as two weeks. She'd assumed that this time she'd skipped a cycle altogether but that her period would arrive any day now. She'd been so careful to use the foam with her diaphragm and insist he wear a condom. It never occurred to her that they could have messed up. "The problem arrives when you forget," Dr. Graceton had reassured her in recommending the switch after the damn pill kept causing nausea, even after many tries on different types and dosages.
But there had been times in the middle of the night when she woke with him entering her again. God help her, she loved yielding to him in that half-asleep state. Even then she remained aware enough to feel he'd put on protection, and the diaphragm would still be in place from when they'd made love hours earlier, then fallen asleep in each other's arms.
The trouble was she hadn't added more foam.
Thirty seconds.
She looked out the open door at the rest of her apartment. It didn't seem so bright anymore. The paintings she'd chosen for color rather than any specific artist looked drab and cheap, every bit the pathetic imitations they were. Strange how baubles meant to comfort lost their luster when real trouble hit.
Ten seconds.
She felt so stupid sitting there on the tile floor, her future in the hands of a reagent to detect the chemistry of an embryo implanted in her womb. It would be six weeks old now, little more than a ball of cells, but the tissue already beginning to differentiate into what would become brain, heart, and skin. She hugged her knees and began to rock slightly, the way she had as a little girl whenever something worried her.
Such little problems then: homework, what boy would or wouldn't talk to her, exams. Even her worries an hour ago now seemed insignificant: paying bills, what groceries to get. All little stuff. Her only big concern had been what would happen to Dr. G. That still mattered.
Shit, what would he think of her now? And Dr. Graceton. She'd been so kind, taking her on as a new patient- doubtless because Dr. G. had spoken to her.
Or her mother. She'd been ecstatically proud to have a daughter who would be the first woman in the family to have a profession, as opposed to her own lifetime of waiting on tables at the local Denny's, double shifts galore after Dad died.
Now this.
And how would Arliss, her little brother, take it? They'd planned to escape Grand Forks together. First she'd get out through nursing, then he'd follow, and she'd help with the money for his college tuition. He'd been crazy about animals since they got their first puppy, and he dreamed of becoming a vet. If she stopped work, his future crashed as well.
And most of all, what would Thomas think?
Or would she tell anyone? She could just get rid of it privately, with no one she cared about the wiser.
She stared at the indicator dot.
It turned blue as a newborn's eyes.
Chapter 8
Later that same evening, 5:45 p.m. CEO's office, St. Paul's Hospital
Dr. Paul Hurst threw down the article Earl had shown him. "But they're supposed to die. It's a terminal ward."
"I still thought you should know."
"On the basis of… what did you say? A fall in average length of stay from twenty-seven days to twenty-four about three months ago, and a point-five increase in the number of deaths reported each morning? That's infinitesimal."
"Not exactly. It's a rise of fourteen deaths a month, all of them occurring at night. And three months before that there had been a similar change, an increase of about eleven deaths a month, again mainly at night. In the previous years, the rate appeared to hold steady, about three-point-three deaths a day, and only half of them on that shift."
Hurst rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "Will you listen to yourself? You sound like my stockbroker pitching nonexistent returns. Besides, it could be that patients are admitted at a later stage of the disease these days and therefore die sooner once they're here. Hell, it sounds like something you should applaud, a reduced length of stay and more efficient use of beds. You spearheaded that trend everywhere else in the hospital to keep ER from getting overcrowded. Why not in palliative care?"
Most doctors were comfortable with inevitable death, considering it as natural as life, but Earl had never heard one of his profession suggest it be celebrated as part of efficient bed use. The majority were aware enough of their own mortality not to be so callous. However, there were exceptions.
Paul Hurst, originally a general surgeon, had had his first heart attack in his mid-forties and had looked ashen ever since. That had been twenty years ago. At the time he stopped practicing medicine and assumed the post of VP, medical, having made the dubious calculation that hospital politics would be less stressful than the OR.
It hadn't worked out that way.
Earl had become his enemy a decade ago by exposing an accounting scandal Hurst had attempted to cover up. In the aftermath Hurst had tried to get Earl fired more than once, and failed.
But during the last few years, once Hurst had succeeded in getting what he'd been after all along, to be CEO of St. Paul's, a watchful state of quiet had existed between the two men. Not a truce exactly, but more an admission that Earl Garnet gave as good as he got- that had been the consensus of those who followed hospital power games the same way they did baseball.
Their pronouncement had given Earl no small amount of satisfaction.
"Sure, it could be later admissions," he conceded, picking up the New England Journal article and shoving it back at Hurst. "I just want to make sure we haven't got our own angel of death up there taking it on herself to ease their suffering."
The report had made national headlines in the mid-eighties. It appeared after a case in New York City where police charged a nurse with poisoning children on a pediatric ward with intravenous digoxin, yet a court of law found her innocent. A group of epidemiologists subsequently looked at several hospitals with clusters of unexplained cardiopulmonary arrests; their goal was to provide a tool that would prevent such wrongful accusations in the future or, in the case of actual foul play, more accurately pinpoint the culprit. For each of the institutions they examined, they plotted all such mysterious occurrences against the work schedule of the nurses who'd had access to the patients; in several instances they found a particular nurse who had been on duty when most of the deaths occurred. The results led to the successful prosecution of four serial killers, one of whom had been active in two states. Ever since, any unexplained rise in a hospital's mortality rate had administrators nervously eyeing their nursing rosters.
Hurst grabbed the article from him and tapped the opening paragraph with his gloved hand. Even enclosed in latex, his surgeon's fingers matched the rest of him- long and thin. "I suggest you take another look at the criteria for what you're insinuating." He peered over the top of stylishly small eyeglasses with wire frames and read, " 'Suspicions should be raised only when clusters of deaths and cardiopulmonary arrests occur that are either unexpected in timing or inconsistent with a patient's previous clinical course.'" He broke off and again threw the paper back on his massive mahogany desk. "You haven't shown any of that."
"I intend to check further."
"Oh, Jesus!" He reached up as if to rub his eyes, then, as if the sight of the gloves made him think otherwise, made a pyramid with his fingers in front of his mask.
Earl had watched this gesture at hundreds of meetings over the years, albeit without the protective gear. It usually preceded Hurst making a calculated move to undercut anyone who dared oppose him. He braced for what his longtime opponent would say next. As he waited, the incongruity of two men completely garbed in OR wear amid the luxurious setting of a wood-paneled room, inch-thick broadloom, and floral-covered antique chairs that any museum would die for made the moment surreal.