by Robin Cook
“Are you tired from working last night?” asked Cassi.
“Yes, I probably am. I haven’t thought too much about it, though.”
“And your cases? They went okay?”
“I told you, they went fine,” said Thomas. “In fact I could have done another bypass if they had allowed me to schedule it. I did three cases in the time it took George Sherman to do two and Ballantine, our fearless chief, to do one.”
“Sounds like you should be pleased,” said Cassi.
They stopped in front of an anthracite metallic 928 Porsche. Thomas hesitated, looking at Cassi over the top of the car. “But I’m not pleased. As usual there was a host of little things to annoy me, making my work more difficult. It seems to be getting worse, not better, around the Memorial. I’m really fed up. Then to top it all off, at the cardiac surgery meeting, I was informed that four of my weekly OR slots were being expropriated so George Sherman could schedule more of his goddamn teaching cases. They don’t even have enough teaching patients to fill the slots they already have without dredging up patients who have no right to precious space in the hospital.”
Thomas unlocked his door, climbed in and reached across to open Cassi’s.
“Besides,” said Thomas, gripping the steering wheel, “I have a feeling something else is going on in the hospital. Something between George Sherman and Norman Ballantine. God! I’ve just had it with all the bullshit!”
Thomas gunned the engine, then rammed the car back, then forward, the tires screeching in protest. Cassi braced herself against the dashboard to keep herself upright. When he stopped to stick his card into the slot for the automatic gate, she reached over her shoulder for her seat belt. As she locked it in place, she said, “Thomas, I think you should fasten yours, too.”
“For Chrissake,” yelled Thomas. “Stop nagging me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Cassi quickly, now certain that she was in some way partially responsible for her husband’s foul mood.
Thomas weaved in and out of traffic, cutting in front of irate commuters. Cassi was afraid to say anything lest she anger him further. It was like a Grand Prix free-for-all.
Once they were north of the city, the traffic thinned out. Despite the fact Thomas was going over seventy, Cassi began to relax.
“I’m sorry I seemed like a pest, especially after an aggravating day,” she said finally.
Thomas didn’t respond, but his face was less tense and his grip on the steering wheel not as tight. Several times Cassi started to ask if she’d been responsible for upsetting him, but she could not find the right words. For a while she just watched the rain-slicked road rushing toward them. “Have I done something that’s bothered you?” she said at last.
“You have,” snapped Thomas.
They rode for a while in silence. Cassi knew it would come sooner or later.
“It seems Larry Owen knows all about our private medical matters,” said Thomas.
“It’s no secret that I have diabetes,” said Cassi.
“It’s no secret because you talk about it so often,” said Thomas. “I think the less said the better. I don’t like us to be the brunt of gossip.”
Cassi could not remember mentioning anything to Larry about her medical problems, but of course that wasn’t the issue. She was well aware she’d talked to a number of people about her diabetes, including Joan Widiker that very day. Thomas, like her mother, felt Cassi’s disease was not a subject to be shared, even with close friends.
Cassi looked over at Thomas. The bands of light and shadow from the oncoming cars moved down his face and obscured his expression.
“I guess I never thought discussing my diabetes affected us,” said Cassi. “I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful.”
“You know how gossip is in a medical center,” said Thomas. “It’s better not to give them anything to talk about. Larry knew more than just about your diabetes. He knew that you might have to have eye surgery. That’s pretty specific. He said he heard it from your friend Robert Seibert.”
Now it made sense to Cassi. She knew she hadn’t said anything to Larry Owen. “I did talk to Robert,” she conceded. “It seemed only natural. We’ve known each other so long, and he told me about his surgery. He’s having impacted wisdom teeth out. With his history of severe rheumatic fever he has to be admitted and treated with IV antibiotics.”
They turned north off Route 128, heading toward the ocean. There were unexpected patches of heavy fog, and Thomas slowed down.
“I still don’t think talking about such problems is a good idea,” said Thomas, squinting through the windshield. “Especially to someone like Robert Seibert. It’s still beyond me how you can tolerate such an overt homosexual.”
“We never talk about Robert’s sexual preferences,” said Cassi sharply.
“I don’t understand how you could avoid the subject,” said Thomas.
“Robert is a sensitive, intelligent human being and a damn good pathologist.”
“I’m glad he has some redeeming qualities,” said Thomas, conscious that he was baiting his wife.
Cassi bit down her reply. She knew that Thomas was angry and was trying to provoke her; she also knew that losing her own temper would accomplish nothing. After a brief silence, she reached across and massaged Thomas’s neck. At first he remained rigid, but after a few minutes she felt him respond.
“I’m sorry I talked about my diabetes,” she said, “and I’m sorry I talked about my eye condition.”
Maintaining her massage, Cassi stared out the window with unseeing eyes. A cold fear made her wonder if Thomas was getting tired of her illness. Maybe she’d been complaining too much, especially with all the upset about changing residencies. Thinking about it, Cassi had to admit that Thomas had been distancing himself from her in the last few months, acting more impulsive and with less tolerance. Cassi made a vow to talk less about her illness. She knew, more than anyone, how much pressure Thomas put himself under, and she promised herself not to make it worse.
Moving her hand up his neck, Cassi thought it would be wise to change the subject.
“Did anyone say anything about your doing three bypasses while the others did one or two?”
“No. No one says anything because it’s always the same. There really isn’t anyone for me to compete with.”
“What about competing with the best: yourself!” said Cassi with a smile.
“Oh, no!” said Thomas. “Don’t give me any of that pseudopsychology.”
“Is competition important at this point?” asked Cassi, becoming serious. “Isn’t the satisfaction of helping people return to active lives enough?”
“It’s a nice feeling,” admitted Thomas. “But it doesn’t help me get beds or OR time even though the patients I propose are the most deserving both from a physical and sociological standpoint. And their gratitude probably won’t make me chief, although I’m not sure I want the position any longer. To tell you the truth, the kick of surgery doesn’t last like it used to. Lately I get this empty feeling.”
The word “empty” reminded Cassi of something. Had it been a dream? She glanced around the interior of the car, noting the characteristic smell of the leather, listening to the repetitive click of the windshield wipers, letting her mind wander. What was the association? Then she remembered-“empty” was the word Colonel Bentworth used to describe his life in recent years. Angry and empty, that’s what he’d said.
Emerging from the leafless woods, they sped across the salt marshes. Through the rain-swept window, Cassi caught glimpses of the bleak November landscape. Fall was gone, its last agonal bits of color driven from the naked tree limbs by the rain. Winter was coming, its arrival heralded by the damp chill of the night. They rounded the last bend, thundered over a wooden bridge, and turned into their driveway. Within the bouncing headlights, Cassi could see the outline of their house. It had originally been built around the turn of the century as a rich man’s summer home in the shingle style peculiar to New Eng
land. In the nineteen-forties it had been winterized. Its sprawling character and irregular roof line gave it a unique silhouette. Cassi liked the house, perhaps more in summer than in winter. The best part was the location. It was situated directly on a small inlet with a northern view of the sea. Although it was a forty-minute drive north of Boston, Cassi felt the commute was worth it.
As they pulled up the long driveway, Cassi thought back to when she had first started dating Thomas. They had met when she was sent to the Memorial on her internal medicine rotation her third year of medical school. She’d seen Dr. Thomas Kingsley one day on the ward. He and a group of residents who followed after him like puppies were evaluating a heart attack victim in cardiogenic shock. Cassi had watched Dr. Kingsley with fascination. She’d heard about him and was astonished that he looked so young. She found him extremely attractive, but she never thought someone as dashing as Thomas would ever give her a second glance, except perhaps to ask her an embarrassing medical question. If Thomas had seen her on that first day, he’d given no indication whatsoever.
Once within the hospital community, Cassi found that it wasn’t as intimidating as she’d feared. She worked very hard and to her amazement suddenly found herself very popular. Previously she had not had time to date, but at the Boston Memorial, work and social life merged. Cassi found herself actively pursued by most of the house staff, who taught her all sorts of things, frivolous and otherwise. Soon even some of the younger attendings began to compete, including a handsome ophthalmologist who could not take no for an answer. Cassi had never met anyone quite so single-minded and persistent, especially in front of his Beacon Hill fireplace. But it had all been fun and not serious until George Sherman asked her out. Without much encouragement from Cassandra, he sent her flowers, small presents, and then, out of the blue, proposed marriage.
Cassi did not turn George down immediately. She liked him even though she didn’t think she loved him. While she was still thinking over how best to handle things, something even more unexpected occurred. Thomas Kingsley asked her out.
Cassi remembered the intense excitement she had felt being with Thomas. He had an aura of self-assurance that some people might have labeled arrogance. But not Cassi. She felt he simply knew what he wanted and made decisions with bewildering rapidity. When Cassi tried to talk about her diabetes early in their relationship, Thomas dismissed the subject as a problem of the past. He gave her all the confidence she’d lacked since third grade.
It had been difficult for Cassi to face George and tell him that not only did she not want to marry him, but she had fallen in love with his colleague. George took the news with seeming composure and said he’d still like to be her friend. When she saw him on occasion in the hospital afterward, he seemed more concerned about her happiness than the fact that she had jilted him.
Thomas was charming, considerate, and gallant, a far cry from what Cassi expected. She’d heard that he was famous for intense but short relationships. Although he rarely told her that he loved her, he showed it in many ways. He took Cassi on teaching rounds with the fellows and had her come to the OR to see special cases. For their first Christmas together he bought her an antique diamond bracelet. Then on New Year’s Eve he asked Cassandra to marry him.
Cassi had never intended to get married while in medical school. But Thomas Kingsley was the kind of man that she had not even allowed herself to dream about. She might never meet anyone like him, and since Thomas was in medicine himself, she was confident it would not hinder her work. Cassi said yes and Thomas was ecstatic.
They were married on the lawn in front of Thomas’s house in view of the sea. Most of the hospital staff had attended and afterward referred to it as the social event of the year. Cassi could remember every moment of that glorious spring day. The sky had been a faraway blue, not unlike Thomas’s eyes. The sea had been relatively calm, with small white caps licked by the westerly breeze.
The reception was sumptuously catered, the lawn dotted with medieval-looking tents from the top of which heraldic flags snapped in the wind. Cassi had never been so happy, and Thomas appeared proud, ever mindful of the smallest details.
When everyone had left, Thomas and Cassi walked the beach, mindless of the icy surf grabbing at their ankles.
Cassi had never felt quite so happy nor quite so secure. They spent the night at the Ritz-Carlton in Boston before leaving for Europe.
After they had returned from their honeymoon, Cassi went back to her studies but ever mindful of her powerful mentor. In every conceivable way, Thomas helped Cassi. She’d always been a good student, but with Thomas’s help and encouragement, she excelled beyond her wildest expectations. He continued to encourage her to come frequently to the OR to see particularly interesting cases and, while she rotated on surgery, to have her assist, experiences which other medical students could only dream about. Two years later, when it came to graduate study, it was the pathology department that recruited Cassi, not vice versa.
Perhaps the memory that warmed Cassi’s heart more than any other was the weekend she graduated from medical school. Thomas had acted subdued from the moment they’d awakened that morning, which Cassi had attributed to a complicated surgical case Thomas was expecting. During dinner the night before, he’d told Cassi about a patient who was scheduled to be flown in from out of state. He’d apologized for not being able to take her to the celebration dinner the evening after the commencement, and although she was disappointed, Cassi had assured Thomas that she understood.
During the ceremony, Thomas had made a fool of himself and embarrassed Cassi by following her to the podium and taking hundreds of flash pictures with his Pentax. Afterward, when Cassi expected him to disappear abruptly to surgery, he led her across the lawn to an awaiting limousine. Confused, Cassi climbed into the long black Cadillac. Inside were two long-stemmed glasses and a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon.
As if in a fantasy, Cassi was whisked out to Logan Airport and hurried aboard a commuter flight to Nantucket. She tried to protest that she had no clothes and could not possibly go without first returning home, but Thomas had assured her that every detail had been attended to and indeed it had. He showed her a bag, packed with all her makeup and medicine, as well as some new clothes, including the sexiest pink silk Ted Lapidus dress Cassi had ever seen.
They only stayed for a single night, but what a night. Their room was the master suite of an old sea captain’s mansion that had been converted to a charming country inn. The decor was early Victorian with a huge canopy bed and period wallpaper. There was no television and more importantly, no telephone. Cassi had the delicious sensation of total isolation and privacy.
Never had she felt so in love nor had Thomas ever been so attentive. They spent the afternoon bicycling along country lanes and running in the icy surf on the beach. Dinner was at a nearby French restaurant. Their candlelit table was set within the shelter of a dormer whose window looked out over Nantucket Harbor. The lights from the anchored sailboats flickered across the water like the sparkle of gemstones. Capping the dinner was Cassi’s graduation present. To her utter astonishment, she gingerly lifted from a small, velvet-lined box the most beautiful three-strand pearl choker she’d ever seen. It was secured in front by a large emerald surrounded by diamonds. As Thomas helped her put the necklace on, he explained that the clasp was a family heirloom, brought from Europe by his great-grandmother.
Later that night, they discovered that the imposing canopied bed in their room had one unexpected flaw. It squeaked mercilessly whenever they moved. This discovery brought on fits of uncontrolled laughter but did nothing to diminish their enjoyment. If anything, it gave Cassi another wonderful memory of the weekend.
Cassi’s reverie was broken by the jerk with which Thomas brought his Porsche to a stop in front of their garage. He reached across and pressed the automatic door button inside the glove compartment.
The garage, also weathered shingle, was completely separate from the house. There was a
n apartment on the second floor, originally designed for servants, where Thomas’s widowed mother, Patricia Kingsley, resided. She’d moved from the main house when Cassi and Thomas married.
The Porsche thundered into the garage, then with a final roar, died. Cassi got out, careful that the door did not hit her own Chevy Nova that was parked alongside. Thomas loved his car as much as his own right arm. She also closed the door without too much force. She was accustomed to slamming car doors, something which had been a necessity with the old family Ford sedan. On several occasions Thomas had become livid when she’d reverted back to her old habit despite his lectures on the careful engineering of the Porsche.
“It’s about time,” said Harriet Summer, their housekeeper, when Thomas and Cassi entered the hall. To emphasize her displeasure, she made sure they saw her check her wristwatch. Harriet Summer had worked for the Kingsleys since before Thomas was born. She was very much the old family retainer and had to be treated as such. Cassi had learned that very quickly.
“Dinner will be on the table in a half hour. If you’re not there, it will get cold. Tonight’s my favorite TV show, Thomas, so I’m leaving here at eight-thirty come what may.”
“We’ll be down,” said Thomas, removing his coat.
“And hang up that coat,” said Harriet. “I’m not going to be picking them up all the time.”
Thomas did as he was told.
“What about Mother?” asked Thomas.
“She’s as she always is,” said Harriet. “She lunched well and she’s expecting a call for dinner, so get cracking.”
As Thomas and Cassi started upstairs, Cassi marveled at the change in her husband. At the hospital he was so aggressive and commanding, but the minute Harriet or his mother asked him to do something, he obeyed.
At the top of the stairs, Thomas turned into his second-floor study, saying that he’d see Cassi in a few moments. He didn’t wait for her to reply. Cassi wasn’t surprised, and she continued down the hall toward their bedroom. She knew he liked his study, which was something of a mirror image of his office at the hospital except that it had a wonderful view of the picturesque garage and the salt marshes beyond. The problem was that over the last few months Thomas had begun to spend more and more time there, occasionally even sleeping on the couch. Cassi had not commented, knowing that he was troubled with insomnia, but as the number of nights he spent away from her increased, it had begun to distress her more and more.
