Flashback (1988) (48 page)

“Never again. I swear it. Not a drop. Not ever.”

Over the span of two and a half hours, with Suzanne as guide, Zack had wandered from the terror of his alcohol-induced hallucination, through a valley of tearful self-deprecation, across a brief stretch of cheery self-deprecation, and finally into an abysmal hangover.

“Never again?” she asked. “Do you want me to gut that in writing? You can sign it and hang it on the wall.”

Zack pressed against his temples.

“Write whatever you want,” he said, “as long as the pen doesn’t scratch too loudly on the paper. I just hope you can tell that I’m a total amateur at abusing my body like this.”

“Oh, I can tell.”

He did not clearly remember the shower, or the shampoo, or the first sips of tea, but he knew that Suzanne had taken him through each. Now, although his head still transposed each heartbeat into mortar fire, his thoughts had cleared enough at least to carry on a workable conversation.

He risked a deeper swallow of tea, and nearly wept with the realization that it was going to stay down.

“You’ve done an amazing job of putting me back together again,” he said. “Thanks.”

She smiled sadly.

“No big deal. Unfortunately, my ex-husband gave me a lot of practice.”

“Great. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was bad, but like everything else, it came to pass.…”

“Have you been up all night?”

“Uh-huh. Helene’s with Jen.” She handed him a cool washcloth. “Here, wipe your face off with this. You want some aspirin?”

“Soon. How are things at the hospital?”

“No real change—at least as of half an hour ago. Toby’s still
in coma. His temps around 102. Walsh thinks he’ll have a bed for him at either Hitchcock or Children’s by noon.”

“And my father?”

“No change either, as far as I know. I think that neurosurgeon from Concord—what’s his name?”

“Burris. John Burris.”

“Yes, well, I think John Burris is planning to have him transferred later today as well.”

“What a mess.”

Suzanne pulled back the curtain. Across the backyard, the first hint of dawn was washing over the face of There.

“So,” she said, motioning toward the granite escarpment, “the dreaded scene of your midnight climb.”

“That’s not so funny, Suzanne. I died on that rock. I really did.”

“Well, I certainly hope so. Because from what I’ve been able to extract from your babble these past two hours, I don’t think I would have much liked the guy who crawled up there in the first place. Confused, self-loathing, arrogant, the perennial victim—too close to Paul Cole for my taste.”

“Hey, come on. I was just seeing things the way they are. There wasn’t a single person in that hospital who had one encouraging word for me. Fifty thousand Frenchmen and all that … Well, those particular fifty thousand Frenchmen were saying that I screwed up. And don’t forget, you were one of them.”

“I know. I’m sorry for that.…”

“Don’t apologize. You were right—all of you were right. I did screw up. By the time I got home, I couldn’t stand who I was. And hallucination or not, when I went up on that cliff back there, I was honestly trying to break free of myself, to … to become more, I don’t know, more flexible, more human in my approach to medicine. And to everything else, for that matter.”

“I understand that.”

“And?”

“And I was wrong for saying the things I did. Zachary, you have no reason to change. You’re an excellent surgeon, a decent, caring son, and a wonderful friend to me. And I had no right to insinuate that you were otherwise. It was selfish and cruel of me. And it was wrong—very wrong. That’s why I called in the first place—to tell you that. I felt so guilty for what I said to you at the hospital—for leaving the way I did—
that I couldn’t sit still. Then, when you didn’t answer, I got frightened. That’s why I drove out here.”

“I’m glad you did,” he said. “But there was no need to feel guilty. You were right.”

“I was wrong, dammit! Stop saying that … She took a deep breath to calm herself and rubbed at the shadowy strain that enveloped her eyes.

“Zachary, as I told you, Paul was … a very sad, very sick man, totally lacking in any center to his life, any perspective. He never, ever put me or Jen ahead of himself, or his booze, or his drugs, or his other women. Never. I still have trouble believing that I could have misjudged anyone so badly. That’s why I’ve been so reluctant to get involved with you. But those things I said in the hospital last night—about loyalty, about what if it was me lying there—what I didn’t appreciate until after you left was that I was really saying them to a man I was trying not to fall in love with, not to another doc with a terrible decision on his hands. I was punishing you for being the first man since Paul that I wanted to trust. I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

Zack stared down at his hands.

“Thanks,” he said. “But you weren’t wrong. The truth of the matter is that my father is crippled, and I probably could have prevented it.”

“Zack, the truth of the matter is that you did what you thought was right. You didn’t cripple your father; an automobile accident and a piece of metal did. Can’t you see that? You did all you ever will be able to do. You did your best.”

Zack could only shake his head. Hadn’t he once said precisely the same thing to Wil Marshfield? Why couldn’t he believe it now, hearing it from her?

“… Doing what we do for a living isn’t easy,” Suzanne was saying. “Nobody ever promised us it would be. Nobody ever told us that everyone we took care of would get better, or that every decision we made was going to turn out to be the right one. Medicine isn’t a board game with a set number of cards and answers. Every situation is different.”

Zack looked over at her glumly.

“How in the hell am I ever supposed to trust my own medical judgment again?” he asked. “Can you answer that for me?”

“God,” she groaned. “Listen, Zachary. Have another cup of tea. Then try a cold shower. Then, if you want to continue to
castigate yourself, maybe you can try
really
climbing that wall out there. Do it with your hands tied behind your back, though. Put razor blades in your shoes. No sense in making it easy for yourself.”

“Hey, there’s no reason to snap at me like that.”

“Yes, there is,” she said, sounding close to tears. “There are plenty of them.” She snatched up her jacket and purse. “I came over to make sure you were all right, to tell you I was sorry, and to let you know that I was falling in love with you. I’ve done all that. It hurts too much to stick around and watch you sink out of sight in your own little bog of self-pity So if you’ll excuse me …”

“Wait.”

She turned back to him. Her eyes were dark and filmy, and as drawn and sad as he had ever seen them.

“What is it?” she asked wearily. “I … I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me, Zack,” she said. “What you’re doing, you’re doing to yourself. You’ve got nothing to apologize to anyone else for.”

“I’m sorry for not listening to what you’re trying to say. How’s that?”

“Whatever.”

“Suzanne, you don’t understand.”

“Don’t I? You forget that I was married to the master of melancholy. Unfortunately for you—for us—I understand
too well
. I feel terrible about what happened to your father. I would no matter
who
he was. And I don’t blame you for being upset—but it should be at the situation, Zack, not at yourself … at the vagaries of life and of medicine, not at the fact that you’re not perfect. I’m sorry, but after all those years of Paul, I have no patience for this kind of talk. Life’s too short. I simply have no patience for this at all.”

She headed for the door.

“Suzanne, please. Don’t go.” He crossed to confront her. “I don’t like the way I’ve been sounding, either. Really I don’t. But I’ve never had anything backfire on me like this before, and …”

“And what?” She was keeping her distance.

“And … nothing. I understand what you’re saying. Let’s leave it at that. It’s all beginning to sink in. And … and I’m going to be okay. Really, I am.… Could you stay? Just for a bit?”

She eyed him warily. And then, for the first time all morning, she smiled. It was a tired, five
A.M
. smile, but it was vintage Suzanne Cole.

“Sure, Doc,” she said. “I can stay for a bit if you want me to. You know, what goes around comes around. That definition of friend you once wrote for me cuts both ways: the one who helps you find the tools when you can’t seem to find them for yourself.”

She led him to the couch and laid his head on her lap.

“You’ve got to face it, Zack,” she whispered, stroking his forehead. “No matter how much you want to take off, no matter how much you’re hurting, you’ve got to go back into that hospital, pick up the pieces, and get on with business. There’s too much at stake not to. Way too much.”

“Way too much,” he murmured.

Slowly, his eyes closed. His breathing grew deeper and more regular. In seconds, he was out.

“Please, Zachary,” she urged softly. “Please don’t run.”

She lowered his head onto a pillow, brought his clock radio in from the bedroom, and set it for nine. A call to the O.R. would delay or postpone anything he had scheduled, and one to his office nurse would buy him time there as well. The next move would be up to him.

She was gathering her things when she spied a copy of one of her favorite pieces of medical writing: Davenports classic treatise on the principles and art of clinical medicine. The slim monograph was wedged on the bookshelf between several huge surgical tomes. She opened it to a passage that she had read enough over the years to know nearly by heart, marked the page for Zack, and then slipped out the front door into the cool, hazy July morning.

Provided Toby Nelms was reasonably stable, there was still time to have a cup of coffee with Helene, to get Jennifer dressed and off to day camp, and to shower, before making rounds. She was nearing twenty-four hours without sleep, but as she so often told her anxious patients, nobody ever died from lack of sleep.

“Hello, Whitey? … Frank Iverson here. I’m glad found you in. I know you’re due to open in a bit, so I won’t keep you.… Yes, well, I guess everyone in Sterling knows about it by now. Goddamn Beau Robillard. Never did a single decent
thing his whole life, and now, he can’t even die without hurting someone.… The Judge is doing okay, Whitey. John Burris, the neurosurgeon who operated on him, is sending him down to Concord early this afternoon by ambulance.… Well, I’m afraid you heard right. As things stand, he’s paralyzed from the waist down. But Burris isn’t making any predictions, and we’re all hopeful as hell this is just a temporary condition. The Judge is tough, as we both well know. If anyone can beat this thing, he can.… Say, Whitey, actually there’re two reasons I’m calling. First was to touch base with you about the Judge, and second was to tell you that I spoke to Sis Ryder in dietary about next month’s meat order. She’s agreed to try allowing your place to handle the whole thing rather than going through the Ultramed purchasing office. Just to see how it all works out.… Oh, you’re welcome. You deserve the chance. Oh, listen, there is one other thing. Needless to say, the Judge is in no shape to make that meeting this morning.… No, I’m afraid there’s no way to delay the meeting. The contract calls for the sale to be finalized at noon unless there’s a buyback vote by the board. I did speak briefly with him a few minutes ago, and he seemed content just to let each board member vote his conscience on this thing, and let the chips fall where they may. But Whitey, since you’ll be running the meeting, there’s one big favor you can do for me. I’d really appreciate it if that vote later this morning could be by closed ballot.… I know that’s not how you usually do it, but don’t you think that would be the fairest way? Do this for me, Whitey, and I promise you that dietary contract will be just the beginning.… Excellent, excellent. Hey, then, I’ll see you at the meeting. And Whitey, thanks.”

Frank replaced the receiver in its cradle, sipped his morning coffee, and then drew a careful line through Whitey Bourque’s name on the block-printed list of business he had to attend to that morning.

Before becoming administrator of Ultramed-Davis, Frank had never in his life made a list of things to do. Lists were for morning people, for grinds and drudges; for catchers and linebackers, not for quarterbacks. They were for draught horses, needing to know in advance precisely where they would be clopping to and when, not for thoroughbreds.

However, four years of exposure to the efficiency and effectiveness of UltraMA’s data banks, plus the pressures of juggling a dozen or more difficult situations at once, had
changed him. Now, he began each day with a carefully drawn-up menu.

Frank liked to look on his emergence as a list-maker as one of the more visible manifestations of his adaptability and maturity.

And of all the lists he had ever made, the one for this morning was easily the most exciting.

He scanned the roster of members of the board to assure himself that everything was in order for the meeting. It had taken a hell of an effort, but with the Judges influence virtually neutralized, he had used the promise of a closed-ballot vote, plus certain other inducements, to capture the additional members he had needed to block the buyback. The votes—six in all—had not come cheaply, but he had done what he had to do.

The sudden turn of events had him giddy. The whole thing was unbelievable—absolutely incredible: Zack teetering on the edge of oblivion at Davis, waiting only for the smallest nudge; the Judge eliminated from attending the decisive board meeting.

He couldn’t have scripted it better if he had tried. With Mainwaring due back from Georgia any time, everything had fallen into place—everything, that is, but one minor exception.

After brief thought, Frank took a black magic marker from his drawer and eliminated
Call Lisette
from his list.

“Fuck her,” he muttered.

The woman deserved neither the call nor the apology he had considered making. In fact, if there were to be any apologies, they would come from her. She would see the truth on her own—come to understand what she had pushed him to do—or she would lose out. The house, the car, even the children. She would lose out big. He had more than enough friends in high places to ensure that she paid for her desertion. This was simply not the day for dealing with a whiny, passive bitch like Lisette. This was a day of triumph. If she didn’t choose to be available to share it with him, that was her problem.