Fatal Complications

by John Benedict

  “I’m sure you handled it.” She gave him a light pat on the shoulder.

  Rob didn’t say anything. He smelled her distinctive floral scent—pleasant, but very different from Gwen’s.

  “Need anything?” she asked.

  “No. Just some sleep.”

  “Okay, I’ll leave you be. I’m going to work a little longer.” She turned to leave. “Oh, one more thing.”

  “What?” His heart accelerated again.

  “Jessica was a real hit tonight. They loved her.”

  “I’m sure. Hated to miss opening night. I’ll see it tomorrow night for sure, I promise.”

  “Great,” she said and walked out of the room.

  “See you tomorrow,” he said to her back.

  Rob sighed his relief and sat down on the edge of the bed. He ran both hands through his hair and waited for his heart to slow down. How in the world had it gotten this crazy? Gwen’s power over him was something he still didn’t understand—he couldn’t begin to fathom his reaction to her. Gwen and he had been going at it for several months now, meeting every chance they got, twenty minutes here, an hour there, no time was too short. Had it really been almost a year since he had met her? Rob realized full-well things were out of control and it scared the hell out of him. Mr. Precision—always in complete command of the complexities of gynecologic surgery and the art of delivering babies—had no use for this wild uncertainty. And lying to his wife seemed like something someone else would do, not him. He hated himself for it.

  He knew he should break it off with Gwen now—before it was too late. A little preventative medicine, painful and distasteful now, but much better in the long run. Although they had progressed well beyond the kissing stage, amazingly they hadn’t consummated the relationship. Rob realized this wasn’t by accident or due to any lack of passion—God knew he was aching with desire. He had actively resisted taking things to the next level, sensing that having sex with Gwen would undoubtedly carry him well past the point of no return. He clung to this last vestige of reversibility or deniability, like a drowning man to a life preserver. He wondered if it was still even possible to step aside from this path? When had he become so weak?

  Rob climbed into the cold, empty bed and began his nighttime ritual. Even though his faith was crumbling all about him, he still managed to get out a prayer. He asked God for the same thing he had asked for every night for the past several months, as he lay down and wrestled with his sleep demons. He prayed that one of them would die. He didn’t even care which one. He might lie in his bed for hours staring up at the ceiling as he played his twisted version of Russian roulette with the universe. Interestingly, the well-oiled chambers making up the gun of fate rotated smoothly enough; he never had any trouble imagining any one of them dead.

  Sometimes he wished Gwen, beautiful Gwen, would take a bullet. Other times it was his wife Cindy’s turn. He was also perfectly willing to take his place in the cosmic crosshairs; he would welcome his own ticket out of misery. But the triggering mechanism seemed to be faulty or the triggerman was asleep on the job. He even smiled a little at his own analogy—when had guns and death entered his deepest thought patterns?

  For some reason, his prayer kept falling on deaf ears. Or maybe the universe had no ears and he was praying to the cold blackness of space with no real hope of an answer. God, where are you? This much was clear—something would have to give soon. The situation was too unstable to hang together for long.

  Weariness finally overtook him and dragged him down to the fitful, trance-like realm that passed for sleep these days.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 2, 4:00 P.M.

  “I feel sick, Bart.”

  “What’s wrong, honey?” Bart asked, feigning concern. He knew exactly what the problem was. Mimi was sick because of the stuff in the little vial he had poured into her afternoon martini. That was fast, he thought.

  Mimi grimaced and doubled over in pain.

  “Maybe you’ve got a touch of the flu or that GI bug that’s going around,” Bart offered.

  “I’m going to be sick,” she said, and ran to the bathroom, one hand clutching her abdomen and the other covering her mouth.

  He could hear her pitiful retching over the television and it turned his own stomach. The local female newscaster with the funny hair was saying there were three hours to go before the polls closed tonight. She encouraged everyone to go out and vote.

  “Bart, help me,” Mimi wailed from the bathroom.

  “I’m sure it will pass,” Bart said, glancing at his watch.

  “Something’s horribly wrong,” she said. The flushing of the toilet obscured what she said next.

  “What?”

  “I have such pain.” She staggered out of the bathroom, grasping the doorjamb for support, her face pale and drawn. “I think I need to go to the hospital.”

  “Seriously? The hospital?” Bart stood and clicked off the TV with the remote. So, he thought, the plan is playing out exactly as prescribed.

  “Yes, right away.”

  “Okay, whatever you say, dear.” He glanced at his watch again, concerned that rush-hour traffic would be a bear at this time of day.

  “Bart, I’m scared,” she said and started to cry.

  “Just need to draw a little blood, Mrs. Hinkle,” the lab tech said as he cinched the rubber tourniquet tightly around her flabby arm.

  “Ow,” Mimi screeched, and gave the tech a withering glare.

  Bart loosened his tie and directed his question to the ER physician hovering over his wife. “What’s wrong with her, Doctor?” Bart hadn’t quite caught his name—Dr. Najaf, or something like that.

  “We won’t know for sure until we get the lab results,” he replied. He had an accent—Indian for sure, but with British overtones. “Then we will have a much better idea of what we are dealing with.” The man had very dark skin and gleaming black hair and seemed to be in an awful goddamn hurry. He spoke rapidly, running his words together. “Did you eat any questionable foods that you can think of, Mrs. Hinkle?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Mimi managed between moans.

  “What’re you thinking, Doctor?” Bart prodded.

  “Well, it could be viral gastroenteritis or food poisoning or appendicitis. We’ll just have to wait and see.” Dr. Najaf turned to go.

  Bart recoiled a bit from the word poisoning. “How will you tell?”

  Dr. Najaf halted and sighed loudly. His tone as he addressed Bart was a mixture of irritation and condescension. “The white count and differential will be very helpful.” He promptly left the room.

  Arrogant prick, Bart thought. Typical doctor.

  A tall, lanky man in his forties with intense hazel eyes strode into the exam room. “Mr. and Mrs. Hinkle, I’m Dr. Howard, the general surgeon on call.” He shook Bart’s hand. “Dr. Najaf informs me we might have an appendicitis on our hands. Mrs. Hinkle, I need to examine your abdomen. I’ll try to be gentle.” He probed her briefly with his big hands, eliciting more moans from Mimi. “Is this tender here?”

  Mimi practically jumped off the stretcher. “Yes,” she shrieked.

  “Well, folks,” Dr. Howard said, “this certainly looks like appendicitis. However, the lab values will be telling.”

  An orderly came in with a computer printout in his hand. “I haf lab results,” he said in a thick Russian accent as he handed the paper to Dr. Howard.

  “Thanks, Nikolai. Perfect timing.” Dr. Howard studied the labs for a few seconds. “Well, the white count is 19.6 thousand with a pronounced left shift.” He turned to the orderly. “Nikolai, tell the OR I have a case.”

  “Yes, Doctor.” Nikolai took the lab sheet and left.

  “Left shift, what’s that?” Bart asked.

  “A higher than normal neutrophil count in the differential, indicating we’re dealing with a bacterial process such as appendicitis.”

  “I see.” Bart turned to Mimi. “They think you may have appendicitis,
dear.”

  “I’m going to need your permission to operate,” Dr. Howard said. The rest sounded like a canned talk that had been recited too many times. “Anything that looks strongly like appendicitis must be operated on. Missing an appendicitis can lead to a ruptured appendix and peritonitis, which can be life-threatening—so we always err on the conservative side. The most common risks are bleeding and infection; death can result, but these are really remote possibilities that I’m forced to mention for the lawyers.”

  “I’m a lawyer, Dr. Howard,” Bart said evenly, studying the man.

  “Oh, I see,” Dr. Howard replied, barely missing a beat. “Well, we won’t hold that against you.” He gave Bart a thin smile.

  “I’ll be okay, won’t I, Bart?” Mimi looked up at him with fear in her bloodshot eyes.

  “Yeah, sure, dear.” Mimi looked so helpless and in pain. Death? Did Howard say death? Isn’t that what I wanted? He tried to recall the sound of the man’s voice on the phone. Was it Howard? A vague queasiness began to settle over Bart.

  He thought about their two children and how Mimi had done a decent job raising them—before the alcohol. Sure, they had their differences and she had a drinking problem, but that’s what counseling and rehab were for, right? Maybe this didn’t really call for drastic measures. Bart suddenly began to sweat and he felt light-headed. What the hell was I thinking?

  “You okay, Mr. Hinkle?” the surgeon asked.

  “I don’t feel so well. All this medical talk makes my stomach turn, that’s all.”

  Dr. Howard gave Bart a brief once-over. Apparently satisfied, he whirled to exit. “You’ll meet the anesthesiologist upstairs,” he said as he left the room.

  Bart steadied himself on Mimi’s bedrail. He couldn’t believe what was happening—but he couldn’t deny it, either. Was this possible, after dropping ten Gs? Could he actually have developed cold fucking feet? “Look, Mimi,” he said, “maybe we should just leave. I’ll take you home, we’ll let this thing run its course.” He was sweating profusely now. “Besides, everyone here is so rude.”

  She looked up at him with a look of pure exasperation. “Bart, you heard him say my appendix is crawling with bacteria! It needs to come out.”

  “He doesn’t know that for sure,” Bart offered weakly. “It could just be a virus, or…” His voice trailed off.

  “You go if you need to,” she said, and started to cry. “I’m staying,” she got out between sobs.

  What else could he say? That he had paid some unknown bastards to murder her while she was on the operating table? He ran his fingers through what little hair he had and tried to think. What could he do? His head began to pound. He’d just have to let them know the deal was off. It was all a big mistake. He’d even forfeit the money. The only problem was, he didn’t exactly know who they were.

  Upstairs, in the holding room outside the operating room, Mimi lay moaning on the stretcher while Bart fidgeted at her bedside, taking in his surroundings. The room was way too cramped, he thought, and privacy was nonexistent. He could probably sue the hospital’s ass off for some HIPAA violation.

  They didn’t have to wait long for the anesthesiologist to arrive. An older, sturdy-looking guy walked up to them, confident in his manner. “My name is Dr. Katz,” he said in a deep voice, “from the anesthesia department.” He shook Bart’s hand firmly, then turned to Mimi. “Sounds like you’re tired of your appendix, or it’s tired of you.” He chuckled at his own humor. “How’re you doing?” He paused, then answered himself in what sounded like a well-worn line. “Silly question, huh? I know—you could be better.” He picked up the chart and began to leaf through it.

  “Look, what are the risks to this whole thing?” Bart said, trying to catch his eye, but Katz was busy with the chart. Bart loosened his tie further, then decided to take it off completely. He took a step closer to the anesthesiologist and lowered his voice. “I don’t want anything to happen to her. Do you understand? She means a lot to me.”

  Dr. Katz paused in his chart review and made eye contact with Bart. “Look, Mr. Hinkle, we don’t want anything to happen to her, either. We’ll take good care of her. Now, I just need you to sign here, please, to give me permission to put her to sleep for the surgery.” He held out a clipboard and indicated where Bart should sign.

  Bart didn’t really want to sign, but he felt as if he had no choice. He needed to communicate to them not to kill her. But who? There were more people taking care of Mimi than he would have thought possible. He’d have to make it clear to all of them.

  He signed the paper and Katz walked away.

  A few moments later the surgeon, Dr. Howard, returned. He was no longer wearing his fancy suit, but had changed into green scrubs. “All ready to go, Mr. and Mrs. Hinkle?” he asked cheerfully, as if they were going to ride the Great Bear roller coaster at Hershey Park.

  “Can I speak to you alone?” Bart said, clutching Dr. Howard’s elbow. He led him around the corner.

  Dr. Howard’s cheerfulness evaporated. “What is it, Mr. Hinkle?”

  “Listen, I just wanted to let you know that I don’t want anything to happen to her. Anything.” Bart stared at him. “She’s special to me. You got that?”

  “Yeah, I got it, Mr. Hinkle,” Dr. Howard said frostily. “Like I told you before, this is a minor procedure and she’s relatively healthy, other than the cigarettes and alcohol. She shouldn’t have any problem. Now, let me do my job.”

  Bart returned to the holding area in time to see a young man kneeling down at Mimi’s bedside, taping something in her arm. He looked like he was fresh out of med school. Christ, how many people can be involved in her care? Before Bart could say anything, two OR nurses and Dr. Katz rounded the far corner into the room, apparently ready to take Mimi away.

  Katz surprised Bart by shouting at the young man. “Daulton!” Katz hurried over to Mimi’s litter. “What’re you doing?”

  The young man stood up, a grin spreading across his boyish features. “I just started her IV for you, Dr. Katz.”

  “This is my case, Luke,” Katz said, his tone already softening. “I’ll take complete care of Mrs. Hinkle.” He reached down and patted Mimi on the head, throwing her a broad smile. “I see you’ve met Dr. Daulton. He’s one of our newest associates.”

  Mimi nodded and Bart just stood there, trying to figure out what to do.

  Katz turned to Luke. “I’ll take it from here, Luke. I’ve got everything covered.” He smiled again. “Why don’t you call it quits and go home. I’ll beep you if I need you. Okay?”

  “Sure,” Luke said, and walked away.

  The two OR nurses came over and unlocked the brakes on Mimi’s litter. “Time to say your goodbyes,” the taller one said.

  Bart searched the faces of the nurses. The short, plumper one had a kind face and a warm smile. The tall, skinny one looked cranky and impatient. “Please take good care of her,” Bart said to them, “and don’t let anything happen to her.” He bent over and kissed Mimi on the lips, tears welling up in his eyes. Some deeper portion of his brain registered the fact that neither of these things had happened in years. “I love you. See you in a little bit.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Their hands were clasped. The skinny nurse began to roll the stretcher away, breaking the link. Bart hoped he had communicated what he needed to. He had never felt more helpless in his life. He reached up with both hands and clutched his aching head.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 2, 4:30 P.M.

  Rob Gentry walked his last patient of the day to the door. “Take care, Mrs. Janeski. Everything will be fine, don’t worry. I’ll see you next week.” He held the door for the full-term pregnant woman and patted her arm as she squeezed by.

  “Thanks for listening, Dr. Gentry,” Mrs. Janeski said, her face lighting up with a warm smile. “See you next week.” Midway down the hallway, she turned and gave him a little wave.

  Rob shut the door and tossed Mrs. Janeski’s
file down on his desk. He sat down and buried his face in his hands. God, what a mess. He tried some deep breathing yoga exercises to relax, but felt himself tightening up anyway. He stared off into space while drumming his fingers on the desktop blotter, trying to collect his thoughts.

  His office schedule was unusually light today, although it wasn’t by coincidence. He had planned to get done early to meet up with Gwen when she finished up in the billing office. However, after the weekend, his original plans had changed. He got up and started pacing around his small office.

  The weekend had been an emotional roller coaster. Saturday he had gone to the high school football game and watched Steven play his trumpet in the band. The fall weather had been lovely—enough sun to keep you warm, but nippy enough to feel like football. Cindy had gone to a garden club meeting at the Hershey Country Club, so he was there by himself. But Rob didn’t mind. He always enjoyed a good football game, and the home team actually won.

  Later that evening, Cindy met them at the high school for Jessica’s play—the second night of the play; he had of course missed opening night. A senior now, Jessica played one of the leads in Music Man and sang beautifully. Her acting was not too shabby, either. Afterward, they all went home for a late meal. The dinner conversation was burned into his brain:

  “Mmm, good chili,” Rob said between generous mouthfuls.

  “Thanks,” Cindy said. “Not too spicy?”

  “Naw—I like it with some kick to it.”

  “I made it with you in mind.” She favored him with a warm smile.

  Rob looked down and concentrated on his food.

  “Daddy,” Jessica said, slipping gracefully out of her chair. She came around behind him and gave him a big hug around his neck. “Thanks for coming to see my play. I knew you’d come.”

  “Sure, wouldn’t miss it for the world, sweet pea.”

  She took a step back and regarded him with her light blue eyes. “Did you really like it? Did I do okay? What about the high notes?”