by Robin Cook
“David died nine years ago,” said Adam.
Margaret nodded and patted Adam’s arm. “I just wanted you to know what’s going on in his mind.”
Adam opened the door and went into his father’s office. It was a large square room with tall windows that looked out onto a pleasant inner garden. The other walls were covered with bookcases and in the middle of the room was a large oak desk. Two good-sized library tables were spaced perpendicularly on either side of it, creating a spacious U-shaped work area. In its center sat Adam’s father.
Adam resembled his father closely enough for people to guess their relationship. Dr. Schonberg, too, had thick curly hair, though his was graying at the temples. The greatest difference between the two men was size, the father being more than five inches shorter than his son.
As Adam came in and shut the door, Dr. Schonberg had a pen in his hand. Carefully he put it in its holder.
“Hello,” said Adam. He noted that his father had aged since he’d last seen him. There were lots of new creases across his forehead.
Dr. Schonberg acknowledged Adam’s greeting by nodding his head. He did not stand up.
Adam advanced to the desk, looking down into his father’s heavily shadowed eyes. Adam didn’t see any softening there.
“And to what do we owe this unexpected visit?” asked Dr. Schonberg.
“How is mother?” asked Adam, sensing that his fears had been correct. The meeting was already going poorly.
“Nice of you to ask. Actually, she’s not too good. She had to have shock treatment again. But I don’t want to trouble you with that news. Especially considering the fact that your marrying that girl had a lot to do with her condition.”
“That girl’s name is Jennifer. I would hope after a year and a half you could remember her name. Mother’s condition started with David’s death, not my marrying Jennifer.”
“She was just recovering when you shocked her by marrying that girl.”
“Jennifer!” corrected Adam. “And that was seven years after David’s death.”
“Seven years, ten years, what does it matter? You knew what marrying out of your religion would do to your mother. But did you care? And what about me? I told you not to marry so early in your medical career. But you’ve never had consideration for the family. It’s always been what you wanted. Well, you got what you wanted.”
Adam stared at his father. He didn’t have the energy to argue in the face of such irrationality. He’d tried that on their last meeting one and a half years ago with no result whatsoever.
“Don’t you care what is happening to me, how medical school is going?” asked Adam, almost pleading.
“Under the circumstances, no,” said Dr. Schonberg.
“Well, then I made a mistake coming,” said Adam. “We’re in a financial bind and I thought that enough time had passed to make it possible for me to talk to you about it.”
“So now he wants to talk finances!” said Dr. Schonberg, throwing up his hands. He glared at his son, his heavy-lidded eyes narrowed. “I warned you that if you willfully went ahead with the marriage to that girl I was going to cut you off. Did you think I was joking? Did you think I meant for a couple of years only?”
“Are there no circumstances that might make you reconsider your position?” asked Adam quietly. He knew the answer before he asked and decided not even to bother telling his father that Jennifer was pregnant.
“Adam, you’re going to have to learn to take responsibility for your decisions. If you decide something, you have to stick to it. There is no latitude for shortcuts or compromises in medicine. Do you hear me?”
Adam started for the door. “Thanks for the lecture, Dad. It will come in handy.”
Dr. Schonberg came around from behind his desk. “You’ve always been a smart aleck, Adam. But taking responsibility for your decisions is one lesson you have to learn. It’s the way I run this department for the FDA.”
Adam nodded and opened the door. Margaret backed up clumsily, not even bothering to pretend that she hadn’t been listening. Adam went for his coat.
Dr. Schonberg followed his son into the waiting room. “And I run my personal life the same way. So did my father before me. And so should you.”
“I’ll keep it in mind, Dad. Say hello to Mom. Thanks for everything.”
Adam turned down the corridor and walked to the elevator. After pushing the button, he looked back. In the distance Margaret was waving. Adam waved back. He never should have come. There was no way he was going to get money out of his father.
• • •
It wasn’t raining when Jennifer stepped from their apartment building, but the skies looked threatening. In many ways she thought that March was the worst month in New York. Even though spring was officially about to begin, winter still held the city firmly in its grip.
Pulling her coat tighter around her body, she set off toward Seventh Avenue. Under the coat she was dressed for rehearsal in an old leotard, tights, leg-warmers, and an ancient gray sweater with the sleeves cut off. In truth, Jennifer didn’t know if she would be dancing, since she was planning on telling Jason that she was pregnant. She hoped he would allow her to continue with the troupe for a couple of months. She and Adam needed the money so badly, and the thought of Adam dropping out of medical school terrified her. If only he weren’t so stubborn about accepting help from her parents.
At Seventh Avenue Jennifer turned south, fighting the rush-hour crowds. Stopping at a light, she wondered what kind of reception Adam was getting from his father. When she’d gotten up that morning she’d found the note saying he was off to Washington. If only the old bastard would help, thought Jennifer, it would solve everything. In fact, if Dr. Schonberg offered support, Adam would probably be willing to accept help from her parents.
She crossed Seventh Avenue and headed into Greenwich Village proper. A few minutes later she turned into the entrance of the Cézanne Café, descended the three steps in a single bound, and pushed through the etched-glass door. Inside, the air was heavy with Gauloise cigarette smoke and the smell of coffee. As usual, the place was jammed.
On her toes, Jennifer tried to scan the crowd for a familiar face. Halfway down the narrow room she saw a figure waving at her. It was Candy Harley, who used to be one of the Jason Conrad dancers but who now did administrative work. Next to her was Cheryl Tedesco, the company secretary, looking paler than usual in a white jumpsuit. It was customary for the three of them to have coffee together before rehearsal.
Jennifer worked her way out of her coat, rolling it up in a large ball and depositing it on the floor next to the wall. On top she plopped her limp cloth bag. By the time she sat down, Peter, the Austrian waiter, was at the table, asking if she wanted the usual. She did. Cappuccino and croissant with butter and honey.
After she’d sat down, Candy leaned forward and said, “We have good news and bad news. What do you want to hear first?”
Jennifer looked back and forth between the two women. She wasn’t in the mood for joking, but Cheryl was staring into her espresso cup as if she’d lost her best friend. Jennifer knew her as a rather melancholy twenty-year-old with a weight problem which seemed of late to be getting worse. She had pixieish features with a small upturned nose and large eyes. Her disheveled hair was a dirty blond. In contrast, Candy was strikingly immaculate in her appearance, her blond hair twisted neatly into a French braid.
“Maybe you’d better tell me the good news first,” said Jennifer uneasily.
“We’ve been offered a CBS special,” said Candy. “The Jason Conrad Dancers are going big time.”
Jennifer tried to act excited, although she realized she’d probably be too far along in her pregnancy for television. “That’s terrific!” she forced herself to say with enthusiasm. “When is it scheduled for?”
“We’re not sure of the exact date, but we’re supposed to tape the show in a few months.”
“So, what’s the bad news?” asked Jennifer, eager to c
hange the subject.
“The bad news is that Cheryl is four months pregnant and she has to have an abortion tomorrow,” Candy stated in a rush.
Jennifer turned to Cheryl. “I’m sorry,” she said awkwardly. “I didn’t even know you were pregnant.”
“No one did,” added Candy. “Cheryl kept it a secret till she heard that I’d had an abortion. Then she confided in me, and it was a good thing she did. I sent her to my doctor, who suggested amniocentesis because Cheryl said she’d been doing drugs right through her second month. She hadn’t realized she was pregnant.”
“What did the test show?” asked Jennifer.
“That the baby is deformed. There’s something wrong with its genes. That’s what they look for when they do an amniocentesis.”
Jennifer turned back to Cheryl, who was still staring into her expresso, trying not to cry.
“What does the father think?” asked Jennifer and then was sorry, for Cheryl put her hands over her face and began to sob bitterly. Candy put her arm about Cheryl as Jennifer glanced around at the nearby tables. No one was paying attention. Only in New York could you have such privacy in a public place. Cheryl took a tissue from her purse and blew her nose loudly.
“The father’s name is Paul,” she said sadly.
“How does he feel about your having an abortion?” asked Jennifer.
Cheryl wiped her eyes, examining a dark smudge of mascara on the tissue. “I don’t know. He took off and left me.”
“Well,” said Candy, “that gives us a pretty good idea about how he feels. The bastard. I wish men could take on the burden of being pregnant, say every other year. I think they might be a little more responsible if that were the case.”
Cheryl wiped her eyes again, and Jennifer suddenly realized how terribly young and vulnerable the girl was. It made the problem posed by her own pregnancy seem small in comparison.
“I’m so scared,” Cheryl was saying. “I haven’t told anyone because if my father finds out, he’ll kill me.”
“Well, I hope you’re not going to the hospital by yourself,” said Jennifer with alarm.
“It won’t be so bad,” said Candy with some assurance. “I’d been worried before my abortion, but it went smoothly. The people at the Julian Clinic are outstandingly warm and sensitive. Besides, Cheryl will have the world’s best gynecologist.”
“What’s his name?” asked Jennifer, thinking that she could not say the same about Dr. Vandermer.
“Lawrence Foley,” said Candy. “I’d been turned on to him by another girl who had to have an abortion.”
“It seems like he’s doing a lot of abortions,” said Jennifer.
Candy nodded. “It’s a big city.”
Jennifer sipped her cappuccino, wondering how to tell her friends that she herself had just found out she was pregnant. She postponed the moment by turning back to Cheryl and saying, “Perhaps you’d like it if I went with you tomorrow. Seems to me you could use some company.”
“I’d love that,” said Cheryl, her face brightening.
“Not so fast, Mrs. Schonberg,” said Candy. “We have rehearsal.”
Jennifer raised her eyebrows and smiled. “Well, I have some news myself. I found out yesterday that I’m two and a half months pregnant myself.”
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Candy.
“Oh, yes!” said Jennifer. “And when I tell Jason, he may not care whether I come to rehearsal or not.”
Candy and Cheryl were too stunned to speak. In silence, the three finished their coffee, paid the bill, and set off for the studio.
Jason was not there when they arrived, and Jennifer felt relieved and disappointed at the same time. She removed her outer clothes and found a free area on the dance floor. Turning sideways, she lifted her sweatshirt so that she could see her profile. She had to admit that she already showed a little.
• • •
Adam washed his hands in the men’s room on the first floor of the hospital complex. Catching a glimpse of his haggard face in the mirror, he realized he looked exhausted. Well, maybe it would make the dean more sympathetic. After his disastrous meeting with his father, Adam had decided his only recourse was an additional student loan from the medical center. Straightening his frayed button-down collar, he thought he certainly looked poor and deserving, and that he should go directly to the dean’s office before he lost his courage.
Bursting into the secretary’s office to demand an appointment, Adam was almost dismayed when the woman said she thought the dean had a few moments between appointments. She went in to check. When she returned, she said Adam could go right in.
Dr. Markowitz stood as Adam crossed his office threshold. He was a short, stocky man with dark curly hair not unlike Adam’s. He had a deep tan, even though it was just March. He approached Adam with his hand outstretched. When they shook hands, his other hand grasped the back of Adam’s.
“Please, sit down.” The dean gestured to a black academic chair in front of his desk.
From his chair Adam could see a manila folder with his name on the tab. Adam had met the dean only a few times, but each time Dr. Markowitz had acted as if he were intimately aware of Adam’s situation. He had obviously pulled the file in the minute or two Adam had been kept waiting.
Adam cleared his throat. “Dr. Markowitz, I’m sorry to take your time, but I’ve got a problem.”
“You’ve come to the right place,” said Dr. Markowitz, although his smile relaxed an appreciable amount. Adam recognized that the dean was more politician than doctor. He had an unhappy feeling that this meeting would be no better than the one with his father. He crossed his legs and gripped his ankle to keep his hands from shaking.
“I just found out my wife is pregnant,” he began, watching Dr. Markowitz’s face for signs of disapproval. They weren’t subtle. First, the dean’s smile vanished. Then his eyes narrowed as he folded his arms guardedly across his chest.
“Needless to say,” continued Adam, trying to keep up his courage, “this is going to put us in a financial bind. My wife and I depend on her income, and now with a child on the way . . .” Adam’s voice trailed off. You didn’t need to be a fortune-teller to know the rest.
“Well,” said Dr. Markowitz with a forced laugh, “I’m an internist, not an obstetrician. Never was very good at delivering babies.”
Some sense of humor, thought Adam.
“My wife sees Dr. Vandermer,” said Adam.
“He’s the best,” offered Dr. Markowitz. “Can’t get better obstetrical care than Dr. Vandermer. He delivered our two children.”
There was an awkward pause. Adam became aware of the ticking of an antique Howard clock hanging on the wall to his left. Dr. Markowitz leaned forward and opened the folder on his desk. He read for a moment, then looked up.
“Adam, have you considered that this might not be a good time to start your family?”
“It was an accident,” said Adam, wanting to avoid a lecture if that was what the dean had intended. “A birth control failure. A statistic. But now that it has happened, we have to deal with it. We need additional financial support or I have to drop out of school for a year or so. It’s as simple as that.”
“Have you thought about terminating this pregnancy?” asked Dr. Markowitz.
“We’ve thought about it, but neither one of us is willing to do so.”
“What about family support?” questioned Dr. Markowitz. “I don’t think that dropping out of school is a wise move. You have a lot invested in getting to where you are today. I’d hate to see that put in jeopardy.”
“There’s no chance of family support,” said Adam. He didn’t want to get into a conversation about his father’s intransigence or his in-laws’ interference. “My only hope is to borrow more money from the school. If not, I’ll have to take a leave of absence.”
“Unfortunately, you are already borrowing the maximum allowed,” said Dr. Markowitz. “We have limited resources in regard to student loans. We have to spread arou
nd what we have so everyone who needs support has access to it. I’m sorry.”
Adam stood up. “Well, I appreciate your time.”
Dr. Markowitz got to his feet. His smile reappeared. “I wish I could be more help. I hate to see you leave us. You have an excellent record up until now. Maybe you should reconsider the advisability of allowing the pregnancy to go to term.”
“We’re going to have the child,” said Adam. “In fact, now that the shock of it all is over, I’m looking forward to it.”
“When would you start your leave?” asked Dr. Markowitz.
“I’m finishing Internal Medicine in a few days,” said Adam. “As soon as it is over, I’ll look for a job.”
“I suppose if you’re going to take a leave, it is as good a time as any. What do you plan to do?”
Adam shrugged. “I hadn’t made any specific plans.”
“I might be able to get you a research position here at the medical center.”
“I appreciate the offer,” said Adam, “but research doesn’t pay the kind of money I’m going to need. I’ve got to get a job with a decent salary. I was thinking more about trying one of the big drug firms out in New Jersey. Arolen gave our class all those leather doctor bags. Maybe I’ll give them a try.”
Dr. Markowitz flinched as if he’d been struck. “That’s where the money is,” he said, sighing. “But I must say I feel as if you were deserting to the enemy. The pharmaceutical industry has been exerting more and more control over medical research recently, and I for one am legitimately concerned.”
“I’m not wild about the idea,” admitted Adam. “But they are the only people who might be seriously interested in a third-year medical student. If it doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll be back for that research position.”
Dr. Markowitz opened the door. “I’m sorry we don’t have more resources for financial aid. Best of luck, and let me know as soon as you can when you plan to get back to school.”
Adam left, determined to call Arolen that afternoon. He would worry about pharmaceutical pressure on research once he had cashed his first paycheck.
