Stress Test

by Richard Mabry

  Rick shrugged. “Some, but until a jury says you’re guilty, I say you’ve got a job.”

  Matt took a deep breath, and somehow felt that it contained more oxygen than before. “Thanks. I won’t let you down.” He sipped his Coke. “But if this isn’t about work, what’s the occasion for the meeting?”

  Rick seemed to be looking everywhere but into Matt’s eyes. “I guess you know that Judy and I are separated.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Matt said. “I’d heard rumors but didn’t pay any attention to them.”

  “Part of the problem was my hours. That’s why I switched over to emergency medicine. I make a little less money, but the hours are predictable.”

  “I was headed in the same direction myself. But I take it that wasn’t enough for Judy,” Matt said.

  “It helped, but she said the real sticking point was my refusal to discuss religion. She’s pretty staunch in her faith, and I’m—well, I’m lukewarm at best. Not an atheist, mind you. I realize there’s a God out there somewhere. I just don’t know how He fits into my plans . . . or I into His, for that matter.”

  Uh-oh. Matt shifted in his seat and stretched his neck. If Joe were here now, he’d be able to jump in with Scripture, quoting chapter and verse from memory. He’d know what to say, how to respond to where Rick was leading. Matt, on the other hand, felt at a loss.

  “I . . . I’m not sure what I can do to help,” Matt finally said.

  “I’ve paid attention to things you say,” Rick said. “Even last night you said something about God being in control. And with your brother being a missionary and all . . . Anyway, I figured you’d know more about religion than I do.” He spread his hands. “When I was growing up, the only time you’d hear the word ‘God’ around our house was when my father was cussing. Right now I’d like to believe that I can put my problems in His hands, but frankly, I don’t know how.”

  “I’m not sure I’m the best authority for you,” Matt said.

  “I was hoping you could at least tell me about it. This whole faith thing—what it means to be a Christian.”

  The years rolled back and Matt was once again a teenager, sitting on the edge of his bed while his brother explained the same thing Rick was asking. Some of it didn’t make a lot of sense to him, but Joe kept coming back to one central truth—freedom from the consequences of our sins was a free gift, purchased by Christ, and available to everyone. It seemed too easy simply repeating what Joe called “the sinner’s prayer.”

  “I prayed that sinner’s prayer with my brother, and honestly, I didn’t feel much different. But he said it was okay. That I’d grow and mature in time.” Matt shrugged. “He said we never reach perfection, but we don’t have to sweat it. Because Christ is. Perfection, I mean.”

  Matt pulled into the parking lot at Metropolitan Hospital, still turning over in his mind his time with Rick. He’d already thought of a dozen things he could have said better, a number of Scriptures he could have quoted if he’d had a Bible or, better still, had memorized them. But what was done was done, and he thought the end result was good. At least, he hoped it was.

  He killed the engine, unbuckled his seat belt, and was about to open the car door when his cell phone buzzed against his thigh. He dug into his pocket and looked at the display. The call was from Jennifer.

  The continued buzz of his phone was a counterpoint to the rapid beat of Matt’s heart. Why was Jennifer calling? Hadn’t she made it clear she wanted nothing more to do with him once he’d come under suspicion by the police? Then again, he’d tried to return her last call and hung up without talking with her. Surely she deserved better than that. Besides, was there still a spark of feeling in the relationship? Maybe she wanted to apologize. Maybe she’d changed. Maybe.

  What if that were the case? Did Matt want the relationship back? Or was he past her? And could that be because of his feelings toward Sandra?

  Answer the call, Matt. Get it over with. Before the call could roll over to voicemail, he answered. “Hello, Jennifer.”

  Her voice—carefully neutral—gave him no clue about her reason for calling. “Matt, I’m glad I finally caught you.”

  “I have a few moments now,” Matt said, striving to be equally noncommittal. “What’s on your mind?”

  She took a deep breath and let it out in Matt’s ear. “Matt, we had some great times together. I really thought we were going to . . .”

  What? Get married? Ride off into the sunset together? Matt wished she’d get on with it, but he was determined not to help her. He kept silent.

  “I don’t know how to put this,” she said.

  She wants to get back together. I can feel it. Now the wrestling match started again. Part of Matt wanted to say, “Yes, yes. Let’s recapture what we had.” But another part, a quieter voice, but one that spoke with the weight of reason behind it, whispered, “Does she really love you? Can you depend on her? Would the two of you really be happy?”

  As it turned out, Jennifer’s next words rendered Matt’s internal debate fruitless. “I’ve been seeing someone else. It’s only been a few weeks, but it’s getting serious in a hurry. He’s even hinted there might be a ring in my future. If he asks, I’m going to say yes.” She paused. “I thought you ought to hear it from me,” she said.

  Matt was stunned. There were so many things he wanted to say—You’re rebounding into this relationship . . . Give me one more chance . . . We can make things work out. But as each thought crossed his mind, he dismissed it. The truth of the matter was that Jennifer wasn’t the woman God had for him. He thought he knew who it was, but it was too soon to pursue her.

  “Thanks for letting me know, Jennifer,” Matt managed to say. “I wish you all the best.”

  He had the phone a foot away from his ear, his finger poised to end the call, when he realized Jennifer was still talking. “Sorry. Say that again, please.”

  “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I think I owe it to you. I hear things here at the DA’s office. You should stay in close touch with your lawyer, especially tomorrow.”

  There was a sharp click. Jennifer was gone—in more ways than one.

  Matt pondered her words, and a chill ran up his spine as he thought about what might be going on now. Was he about to be arrested again? Should he call Sandra? No, not yet. He was supposed to have a working lunch with her tomorrow. They could discuss it then. For now, it was time to go to work.

  There were people in the ER waiting for him to help them, people who were sick, or injured, or in some cases, hovering on the brink of death. If this was to be his last night practicing medicine, he could at least leave behind a legacy of healing.

  He stepped out of his car and strode purposefully toward the glass doors into a world where what he did counted.

  The infant screamed. The mother sobbed. Matt, with medical student Randy Harrison behind him, worked to project an air of calm in the midst of the sea of emotion that roiled in the small cubicle.

  “Tell me again what happened,” Matt said. The noise and activity of the emergency room waxed and waned outside the cubicle’s curtains, but never fully ceased. Matt struggled to keep his voice level, his words reasonable. Never let parents see you flinch. They’re depending on you.

  “I was changing her diaper when she . . . she had a fit.” The harried mother swept her hair away from her face with the back of one hand and tightened her grip on the crying baby. “Her eyes rolled back in her head. She shook all over. She tinkled and . . . and then she went limp.”

  A faint beep was almost lost in the noise. The ER nurse, tonight a motherly African-American named Ruth, put down the electronic thermometer and said, “Forty-point-five Celsius.” Matt made the automatic conversion to the more conventional Fahrenheit number: one-oh-five.

  “Thank you,” Matt said. He turned his attention back to the mother. “Why don’t you hold Kaylee while I examine her? What you’re describing is what we call a febrile convulsion. I need to find out why she has s
uch a high fever so I can treat the cause.”

  “She had a fit. Aren’t you going to give Kaylee something before it happens again?”

  As Ruth moved gently to the mother’s side to help hold the struggling infant, Matt rubbed the end of his stethoscope against his palm to warm it, then placed it on the child’s chest. He listened carefully before he replied. “Febrile seizures are a sign, not a disease. Kaylee’s unlikely to have another one, and if she does, we’ll handle it. The main thing now is to see what kind of infection is causing the fever and get her started on treatment for that.”

  He flexed the child’s head forward and allowed himself to relax a bit when he felt no resistance, saw no drawing up of the legs. Good, not likely to be meningitis. A few more minutes and Matt was certain of the diagnosis. “Kaylee has a pretty severe ear and throat infection. Has she had a cold recently? Been around any other sick children? Maybe in day care?”

  “I have to work—single mom—and I can’t really afford day care. So she stays with my sister, and her kids have bad sore throats. Why? Did they cause this? Is it my fault?”

  Matt made a palms down gesture. “No, just gathering information to help me decide what kind of antibiotic would work best.” He glanced down at the ER record. “She’s not allergic to any medicine?”

  The mother tossed her head and blew to reposition a strand of hair, apparently no longer willing to take even one hand off her crying child. “She’s never had much. She has had all her shots, though.”

  Matt looked at the birth date and did a rapid calculation. The child would be almost two years of age. “But no shots recently?”

  “No. Is that wrong?”

  “Not at all. But I need to make sure there’s nothing else that might contribute to the fever.” He unclipped a pen from his pocket and wrote on the ER form. “I’m going to start her on an antibiotic. She should get better within a day or two. Ruth will talk with you about things you can do and medicines you can give Kaylee to keep her fever down. If she’s not better in three days, she needs to be seen again. Ruth will give you the names of two pediatricians you can call.”

  “I . . . I can’t afford . . .”

  Matt could almost feel the cold stares of the bean counters who hated the way uninsured patients used the ER as their family doctor. But what can I do? “Or you can bring her back here. We’ll be happy to look at her again.”

  Matt went on to assure the mother that the odds of Kaylee having another seizure were small, and there was no need to start anticonvulsants at this point. As he spoke, Matt thought through his treatment decisions to make sure he hadn’t missed anything along the way.

  “Do you have any questions?” Matt asked.

  When the mother shook her head, Ruth said, “Wait here. We’ll give Kaylee the first dose of her antibiotic, and something to help bring her fever down.” Matt’s last vision of the scene was a far cry from what had greeted him when he first parted the curtains. The mother seemed calmer, and Kaylee now rested quietly in her arms.

  As they walked away, Randy, in a short white coat over hospital scrubs, turned to Matt. “You handled that really smoothly.”

  “Thanks. I haven’t taken care of a child with a febrile seizure in years, but this crash course as an ER doc brings it all back. With the right training, you could do the same.” Matt studied the face of the medical student. “Think that might be what you want to do?”

  “I thought so. But my ‘almost father-in-law’ is a plastic surgeon in town. He has pretty much a high-end practice, and he and my girlfriend are pressing me to go into that specialty, maybe even join his practice. They think I’m crazy to even consider emergency medicine.”

  Matt could see the scenario as clearly as though someone had diagrammed it for him. A prospective father-in-law wanted to be sure his daughter enjoyed the prestige of a doctor husband, along with the comforts provided by a good income. He guessed that wasn’t unlike what Jennifer had pushed for—a comfortable life. She wanted Matt to be successful and make a lot of money, yet always be available for her. Matt had been unable to convince her that she couldn’t have it both ways. He hoped Randy would be smart enough to make his own decision.

  “What antibiotic did you choose?” Randy asked. “And why did you give an antibiotic anyway? Aren’t a lot of those infections viral? Why didn’t you wait to see if the child got better on her own?”

  Matt was ready for that one. He’d heard it before, usually from physicians in academia. “Yes, I chose to give her an antibiotic: amoxicillin,” he said. “And in case you’re wondering, I read the journals and attend the lectures. I know about the argument you have in mind, but I don’t practice in an ivory tower. To my mind, the studies are inconclusive.”

  “But—” Randy said.

  Matt plunged on. “Even though there’s a school of thought that antibiotics aren’t needed for otitis media, I defy those doctors to defend their position while standing in an ER late at night with a crying child and a distraught mother who’s just seen her baby convulse.”

  Ruth stopped beside them. “Got her settled.” She turned to Randy. “I almost forgot you were there, you were so quiet.”

  Randy grinned. “I remember what I was told on my first night in the ER—keep my eyes open and my mouth shut.”

  Ruth handed Matt a chart but addressed Randy with a matching smile. “You’ll never get in trouble that way.”

  Matt glanced up at the clock on the wall. He’d stopped wearing a watch because it continually snagged on the exam gloves he pulled on and off dozens of times a night. “Ruth, how’s it look out there?”

  “About average. It’ll quiet down later, though.” She turned to Randy. “Here’s something you may not know. There’s nothing in the books about this, but you can mark it down. Four a.m. will be when things hit bottom. The ER is slower. The staff is sagging. But the patients that come in are either really sick—heart attacks, traffic accidents, that kind of thing—or suicides.” She grimaced.

  “And I’ll bet the docs love it when they get awakened at that time,” Randy said.

  “Absolutely right,” Matt said. “I’ve been on both sides of those phone calls. Even if the doctor can handle the problem over the phone, most of the time they can’t get back to sleep, but it’s too early to get up.”

  Randy shrugged. “Leslie’s dad says that’s another reason to go into plastic surgery. He keeps telling me that for a while I may have to take care of the drunks who come in with lacerations, but pretty soon I can slough those off to a general surgeon or an ER doctor and plan on sleeping through the night.”

  “What do you think about that?” Matt said.

  “I don’t really know. Dr. Stokes thinks he’s got my life planned out for me . . . Maybe I should be grateful for it.”

  “Or maybe you should make your own decisions instead of letting someone else make them for you,” Ruth said in a quiet voice.

  Matt wondered if he hadn’t been guilty of the same thing, giving in to Jennifer’s subtle pressure. He surprised himself with the next words out of his mouth. “Just pray about it, Randy. Turn the decision over to God.” I wish I’ d learned that lesson a little earlier myself.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “I’ve got a lunch appointment with Matt Newman.” Sandra put Elaine’s morning coffee on her desk. “Remind me about a quarter to twelve.”

  Elaine waved her boss to a chair. “I had dinner last night with Charlie Greaver.”

  Sandra didn’t expect a long conversation. She ignored the chair. Instead she leaned a hip on Elaine’s desk and sipped her coffee. “And what did you find out?”

  “About Dr. Newman? Not really anything. But it was an interesting evening.”

  “Are you going to tell me about it or just sit there and keep me guessing?” Sandra asked.

  “Charlie and I have had occasional dates for the past couple of years. You know—lonely widower, eligible widow. It was mainly a case of having someone to talk to, a companion for the theater or
a party. I probably went out with him once for every two or three times he asked me. But since I’ve begun accepting all his invitations, I think he’s getting more serious.”

  “I’m sorry if I’ve put you in a bad position.”

  Elaine toyed with her coffee cup. “Actually, you haven’t. I’ve always enjoyed Charlie in an offhand sort of way, but since we’re seeing each other more often, I’ve gotten to know him better, and I have to say, I like what I see.”

  “That’s great,” Sandra said.

  “Um, sort of. You see, because both Charlie and I are getting more serious, I worry about trying to pump him for information about your client.”

  Sandra noticed the subtle shift. Previously, Matt had been “our client.” Now he was Sandra’s. “So what I hear you saying is that you don’t want me using you as a pipeline into the DA’s office.”

  Elaine suddenly seemed to find the top of her desk terribly interesting. Without looking up, she said, “If there’s a bombshell, I’d probably pass it on to you. But otherwise, I’d like to concentrate on my relationship with Charlie. I don’t want to be a spy, and that’s what I feel like now.” She met Sandra’s gaze. “I hope that’s okay with you.”

  Okay? Sandra wasn’t sure. She’d counted on information from Charlie Greaver via Elaine as sort of an early warning system. On the other hand, she had to admit that the ethics of the situation had bothered her a bit. She made up her mind. “Elaine, I’m happy for you. You’ve been alone long enough.”

  Matt looked around the coffee shop. If any of the eating places along Elm Street downtown deserved the title “hole in the wall,” this one did. But Sandra said the sandwiches they served were delicious, and it was conveniently near her office, so Matt had agreed to meet her here at noon.

  The clock on the wall behind the lunch counter said five minutes to twelve. The place was full already, but as Matt was about to give up he spotted a couple vacating a small table in the back corner. He hurried over and hovered while a sweating busboy dumped the dirty dishes into a plastic tub and took a few pro forma swipes at the tabletop with a moist rag.