But were his calculations correct? It all depended on Monday's Hour of Power occurring at 4:00 p.m. Had it? Had it really? His memory had been so haphazard lately, he didn't know if he could trust it on this. He strained to remember.
Yes. On Monday he remembered using the Touch on his last patient. That had been late afternoon. Right. It had been 4:00 p.m., he was sure of it.
Tony's low voice stirred him back to the here-and-now.
"You don't have to do this, Al. You can tell them you don't put on exhibitions and you'd prefer—"
"It's all right, Tony," he told his worried-looking friend. "I can handle this."
Alan stood up and approached the board's end of the table. The silent members swiveled in their seats as he passed behind them, as if afraid to take their eyes off him for a fraction of a second. Lou Albert's jaw hung slack and open as he watched from the far side of the table. Bud Reardon's smile became hesitant as Alan approached. He was clearly astonished that Alan had accepted his challenge.
Alan paused before the spot where Reardon's foot rested on the table. He was taking a terrible risk here. If his calculations were off by a single hour, he would be branded a quack or worse by these men. But it was going to work, he was sure of it. And that would wipe the frank disbelief off these smug faces in the blink of an eye.
He reached forward and touched the toe, wanting to heal it, praying that it would be healed.
Nothing happened.
With his blood congealing in his veins, he held on, although he knew in his very core that he was going to fail. The Touch never delayed; if it was working, it worked right away or not at all. Still, he hung on and gripped the angry-looking joint with increasing pressure until Bud Reardon winced in pain and pulled his foot away.
"You're supposed to make it better, Alan, not make it hurt worse!"
Alan was speechless. He had been wrong! His calculations had been off! Damn his sieve of a memory! He could feel their eyes boring into him. He could hear their thoughts— Charlatan! Phony! Liar! Madman! He wanted to crawl under the table and not come out.
Dr. Reardon cleared his throat once more. "Assuming we were in your office and you tried what you just tried with similar results, what would be your next move?"
Alan opened his mouth to speak and then closed it. He had prescribed the medication thousands of times, yet its name crouched over the far edge of his memory, just beyond his reach. He felt like a castaway on a desert isle watching the smoke from the stacks of a passing ship that was just over the horizon.
Reardon mistook Alan's hesitation for uncertainty about what was being asked of him and tried to clarify.
"What I'm saying is, what tests would you order now? What medication?"
Alan's mind was completely blank. He stabbed at an answer. "An X ray and a blood test."
"Oh, I hardly think an X ray would be necessary," Reardon said in a jovial tone, but his smile quickly faded as he stared at Alan. " 'Blood test' is a little vague, don't you think? What, specifically, would you order?"
Alan racked his brain. God, if he could only think! He played for time.
"A profile. You know—a SMAC-20."
Alan saw the concern and suspicion growing in Reardon's face. It was reflected in the other faces around him.
"Not very specific, Alan. Look. I know this is very elementary, but for the record, tell me the etiology of gout."
Tony jumped in then. "First of all, there is no record. And secondly, Dr. Bulmer is not here to be examined on gout or whatever's wrong with Dr. Reardon's foot!"
"It was not intended as such," Reardon said, "but we seem to be faced with an incredible situation here. I've asked Dr. Bulmer a question any first-year medical student could answer, and I'm still waiting for a reply."
Alan felt the room constrict around him as he sank into a fog of humiliation. Why couldn't he think? What was wrong with him?
"Well, don't hold your breath!" Tony said as Alan felt himself grabbed by the arm and pulled toward the door. "Dr. Bulmer didn't have to come here and he sure as hell doesn't have to stay here!"
Alan allowed himself to be led to the door. He heard Reardon's voice behind him.
"It would be better if he stayed. From what I've seen this morning, Dr. Bulmer appears mentally impaired and the board will have to take appropriate action."
And then they were out in the hall and heading for the parking lot.
"Shit, Alan! Shit, shit, shit!"
That was all Tony had said since they had reached the car.
"And the worst part of this whole thing is that you didn't even have to be there! Christ! What happened in there!"
Alan shook his head as he drove. He felt absolutely miserable, and Tony wasn't helping matters with his rantings.
"I don't know. I couldn't come up with the answer. I've diagnosed and treated gout countless times, but it just wasn't there. It was as if part of my memory had been blocked off, like it was there but it was hiding, or hidden. It still is."
"If they decide you're impaired, they can suspend your privileges—I remember seeing that in the bylaws. They can put you on suspension until you've been evaluated by a shrink or a drug-rehabilitation guy—"
"Drugs! You think I'm on drugs?"
"No. I know you better than that. But, Al, you haven't been yourself lately. And you looked spaced this morning when he started quizzing you. I'm sure the board thinks you're either on something or you've cracked."
Alan couldn't argue with him. He'd seen their expressions. One face lingered in the front of his memory. As Tony had propelled him from the room, Alan had glanced back and seen Lou Alberts staring after him. It was as if all their years of ill-feeling and competition had been washed away; Lou's face was a study of shock, dismay, and—worst of all—pity.
"And there's worse coming, let me tell you. The hospital is required by law to notify the State Board of Medical Examiners if any staff member is suspended because of suspected impairment or any other form of incompetence."
Impairment . . . incompetence . . . the terms rankled in Alan's brain. After fighting constantly to stay on top of clinical medicine, to be judged incompetent while so many other doctors coasted along with outdated knowledge and practices.
He slowed to a stop at an intersection and sat there, staring at the road ahead as a crystalline ball of fear formed and grew in his chest.
"Maybe they're right," he said. "Maybe I do need help."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm lost, Tony. I don't know which way to go."
"Don't worry, Al. I'm with you all the way. We'll sit down and—"
"No!" Alan said, hearing his voice rise in pitch as the fear spread down his arms and legs, encompassing him completely. "I mean now. Here. This road! I know I've been here thousands of times, but I'm lost!"
He turned and stared into Tony's shocked eyes.
"How do I get home from here?"
___24.___
Sylvia
"You didn't have to come along," Alan said as he got into the car and sat beside her.
"I wanted to," Sylvia said and forced a smile. He looked so haggard and tired; his eyes had a haunted look.
As Ba put the car in gear and began to drive, Alan said, "I'm glad you did, though. That was why I asked if I could borrow Ba instead of hiring a cab. I need a friend along, and you're it."
His words warmed her. She was glad he considered her someone he could turn to in time of need. "But what about… ?" She didn't finish the question.
"Ginny?" He sighed. "We're barely speaking. She wants me to see a psychiatrist. Even Tony wants me to see one."