“Nothing?” Melissa said that evening. They were traveling to Sudbury to meet three other couples for dinner, in her car, a beige Volvo station wagon that already smelled of musty furniture even though it was only one year old. She had begun to insist that Bill do as little driving as possible. Besides, they were late, and her car was equipped with a radar detector. “How could the neurologist find nothing?”
“Something’s wrong with your cigarette-lighter receptacle,” said Bill as he tried to jam his cell-phone power plug into the receptacle. He leaned toward the dashboard, straining against his seat belts.
“What are you doing?” said Melissa. It was just getting dark, and the streetlights had come on, each giving off a pale golden glow. She switched on the headlights of her car.
Bill struggled with the plug, first twisting it so that it made a metallic scraping noise, then pushing it with his shoe. The green power light of the telephone refused to go on. “I can’t believe this,” he said and muttered about certain expected calls. Grunting, he yanked the plug out and tried to examine its prongs and connections in the dim light. “Can we use your phone?”
“I left mine at home. How could your neurologist not find anything? I don’t understand. You’re numb. Isn’t that what neurologists do? Who is he?”
“A Dr. Kendry. He was highly recommended by Petrov.” Bill stuck a pen into the receptacle.
“Bill,” Melissa said, tears coming into her eyes. “What are we going to do? Please let me ask Henry for help. I don’t understand anything. I’m so worried.”
“I’ll go to another neurologist.”
“I can’t drive anymore.” She pulled to the side of the road and cried and squeezed his hand while headlights flew past.
At dinner at the Wayside Inn, in the old room with the warped floorboards, she had three glasses of wine in rapid succession. Then, understanding that she was drunk, she went silently to the restroom, where she remained for an hour, until the other couples had gone.
On the following Friday, Bill returned to the Massachusetts General Hospital to review the results of his tests. When he entered Dr. Petrov’s private office, three young interns greeted him wordlessly at the door. “I hope you won’t mind,” said Petrov. “This is Dr. Sang, Dr. Hartunian, and Dr. Ewald.” One by one, the interns smiled and nodded their heads. They were all properly dressed in blue scrub suits and hovered about Petrov like bridesmaids, waiting for his instructions. Into the little room had been squeezed five chairs, surrounded on all sides by steep cliffs of reports. Petrov nodded and the interns took their seats, their antiseptic rubber booties squeaking on the linoleum floor.
“The results of the CAT scans,” said Dr. Petrov. He took a folder from atop one of the white cliffs and handed it to Dr. Hartunian, a young man with unkempt blond hair who studied the folder for a few moments, whispered into his tape recorder, then passed it on to Dr. Sang. Dr. Sang made her own observations to her recorder. After the folder had circled through the interns, Dr. Petrov offered it to Bill, who stared at it without comprehension.
“Take your time, Mr. Chalmers,” said the senior physician. After a few moments he said, “I believe I can confidently say that the CAT scans show no tumors of the brain. There are other tests which can be done for confirmation, but we also have the MRI.” He paused, and the three interns began muttering into their machines. “However,” continued Petrov, “section thirteen of the third set of films does show a slight ambiguity. I have sent this section to Dr. Millard Latanison, a specialist. He informs me that all features of the section fall within normal range.” Immediately, Dr. Hartunian leaned over Bill’s shoulder and peered again at the film in question. Dr. Petrov passed around another folder, then the blood results.
“What are you saying?” said Bill. The interns stopped their recording and studied him carefully.
“What am I saying? I believe, Mr. Chalmers, that for the most part we have succeeded in ruling out brain tumors, spinal tumors, multiple sclerosis, most vitamin deficiencies, and obvious neurological damage. I have seen Dr. Kendry’s report from July 21.” At this point, Petrov passed around a fourth folder to his students. “We are making progress. I’ll order a new round of tests.” The interns nodded approvingly.
Petrov stood up, immediately followed by the three interns. Bill remained in his chair, gaping at the various films and reports.
“You look as if you don’t believe me, Mr. Chalmers,” said Petrov, scratching his small red beard.
“But I am numb,” shouted Bill. “My hands are numb, my arms are numb, my feet are numb.” Now the three interns were staring at him sharply, like young crows. “There’s something wrong with me.”
“I’m not denying that,” said the doctor. “It is just that we cannot yet say what it is. We must be patient, Mr. Chalmers. Patience. We have much more information about your condition than we did one month ago. I am in constant contact with specialists. I am quite satisfied that we are making good progress.”
The doctor hesitated and let his hand rest on one of the tall stacks of reports. “Mr. Chalmers,” he said, “before the next round of tests, I would like you to see a psychiatrist.”
“A psychiatrist,” exploded Bill. “For what? Do you think I’m imagining all this?”
“I would not be able to say that at this point in time. But we have to be as thorough as possible. I’m sure you understand.”
“I will not see a psychiatrist.”
“That is not a constructive attitude, Mr. Chalmers. I know you’re upset. Illnesses are upsetting. But we are making progress. There are many more tests we can do, and will do, but you will first have to visit a psychiatrist. We are ruling things out. Please call my office tomorrow for a referral.” He turned to his students. “Do you have anything to add, Dr. Sang? Dr. Ewald? Dr. Hartunian?”
THE PSYCHIATRIST
Petrov’s office called to tell Bill that his appointment wit
h the psychiatrist, a Dr. Pasternak, was scheduled for Monday, August 4, at 8:45 a.m.
On the day before the appointment, Bill stood in his walk-in closet. He would wear his best suit, look this Dr. Pasternak straight in the eye, and answer his questions calmly and rationally. Bill’s gaze slid along the row of jackets and trousers. On second thought, he decided that what he wanted was not his best suit, which might convey the idea that he was trying to make an impression, but a moderately priced suit, solid and unassailable. There were five choices, and he tried each of them on before the mirror, judging his appearance from different angles. The first of the candidates was a dark cotton-wool blend with a soft gray stripe. He examined the stripe and concluded that it was too subtle. All should be out in the open, he had nothing to hide. A second suit was cut too aggressively with that tapered European look, projecting an extravagance even though he had paid only $250 for it. These shrinks were probably drowning in rich Boston Brahmins who threw money at their little neuroses. The third, a solid cotton, slightly wrinkled but not too wrinkled, hung from his body in a comfortable and modest manner. Yes, that was it. He had long since picked out a smart, button-down white shirt, but he spent another ten minutes selecting the tie, which should have a small splash of color. There were over fifty ties to choose from in his closet. Eventually, suit, shirt, and tie were laid out on the cushioned divan, with Gerty strictly forbidden in the room.
Early the next morning Bill was informed that the appointment with Dr. Pasternak was canceled. Some emergency had come up, a woman’s voice on the telephone explained. However, an appointment with another psychiatrist, a colleague of Dr. Pasternak named Dr. Kripke, had been arranged as a substitute, at the same hour and day so as to offer the least inconvenience. In Somerville.
Bill hurled down his toast and flew shouting up the stairs. What was this? Who was this Kripke? He’d never heard of Kripke. How could they pressure him like this at the last minute? He looked at his watch. It was 7:36. He couldn’t possibly make an 8:45 appointment, driving to some unfamiliar location in rush-hour traffic. Wasn’t Somerville a rat’s nest of one-way streets and cul-de-sacs? He ran into his bedroom and began throwing on clothes. From inside the closet, Melissa interrupted her telephone conversation to say that she could study a map and call him en route with directions. What time was it now? Seven-forty.
Alex stumbled into the hall, wearing his jockey shorts. “What’s all the noise?” he shouted. “You’ve woken me up. I was planning on sleeping in. Dad.” He stood outside his parents’ bedroom door. “Dad, why are you doing this? I don’t want you to go.”
“It’s just another doctor,” Bill shouted through the closed door.
“No it isn’t,” Alex shouted back. “I don’t want you to go. You don’t need to go to a shrink.”
Bill dashed into the bathroom and ran a comb through his hair, then flew out of his room, past Alex, and down the stairs. At 7:43, he was behind the wheel of his car and turned onto Waltham Street.
The long snake of traffic on Waltham Street stretched for two miles from Mass Ave. to Route 2 and crept along at an average speed of five miles per hour, stopping and starting, winding slowly around turns and over hills, honking at smaller snakes that attempted to intrude from side streets, shedding pieces of itself on the side of the road, excreting clouds of thin bluish exhaust. At least once a week, a car plowed into a telephone pole, its driver having been preoccupied on his phone, and to the poisonous gases and shouts were added the screams of ambulances and fire trucks pushing their way to the accident. Overheated cars died and were shoved to the side of the road and the snake pulled itself together and wiggled around and continued its slow journey to Route 2.
As soon as he’d entered the traffic, Bill’s head began pounding and his stomach twisting, all so familiar that he scarcely noticed. Without thinking, he pressed buttons to raise his windows, recycle his air, and periodically spray cleaning fluid on his windshield. Then he opened the glove compartment and swallowed an aspirin and another pill for indigestion and picked up his cellular phone. Even with his windows up, the radios and horns of other cars were so loud that he had to press his telephone tightly against his ear to properly hear his voicemail messages: “Good morning. This is Peter Trangulo calling on behalf of Grant Twomey of Twomey, Davis, and Regina. Mr. Twomey is not fully satisfied with the correspondence of July 22. He says you will know what that refers to. He would like to arrange a conference call with you and Mr. Anthony Tobias on Wednesday at 8:30. Please let us know at your earliest convenience. Thank you.” Bill winced as he remembered that he had sent only two sentences of report to Mr. Twomey, far below his usual standards. But when did he have time to do more? The car several feet in front of him stopped suddenly, and Bill slammed down on his brake, throwing his body against the dashboard. No damage done. Next message. “Ronald Heeschen here. 212707-9825. H-E-E-S-C-H at Bluebay dot com.” Bill scrambled to copy down the man’s number before deleting the message. Next message. “Hello, Mr. Chalmers, this is Jason Toothaker at Greenway. You haven’t replied to my e-mail, so I am leaving this telephone message. I will be sending you a new document today, between 10:30 and 10:45. As before, you should treat the material with extreme confidentiality, and we will need a definite and complete reply before noon on Tuesday. I apologize for the short time frame, but you will understand our pressures.”
To hell with Jason Toothaker, Bill thought to himself as the snake of traffic finally forced itself out onto Route 2 and melded with another line of cars, five miles long. It was 8:06. They were now creeping up a hill, bumper to bumper. He began calculating. If he finished with Somerville by 10:00, he might arrive at the Porter Square station by 10:15 or 10:20. Assuming he could find a place for his car, he might be sitting at his desk by 10:55 or 11:00, in time for the meeting with Jasper Olswanger at 11:00. He passed under a bridge, beaded with cars. It was 8:09. Over the next hill, the buildings of Boston came into view, a child’s toys in the distance, the Prudential Building, the Hancock, the stubby fingers of the financial center. At the Alewife rotary, the traffic came to a complete stop. A truck coughed up dark clouds of smoke, prompting Bill to turn up the fan on his air conditioner to a dangerous level. He had already spotted two cars that had exceeded their cooling capacity, hissing and heaving steam, slumped on the side of the road like spent animals. Poor devils, he thought to himself and stared with fascination. But why was he gawking? He didn’t have time to gawk. He must call back the man from New York. As he reached for his telephone, Bill looked at the scrap of paper with Mr. Heeschen’s telephone number and recalled his impressively concise dispatch: “Ronald Heeschen here. 212-707-9825. H-E-E-S-C-H at Bluebay dot com.” The message was deceptively simple, Bill thought to himself, not unlike other messages he frequently received. No explanations, no purpose, no times or dates. In all likelihood, Mr. Heeschen considered himself and his business so important that he didn’t need to provide any additional information. He might have said, for example, “Hello, Mr. Chalmers, I’m Ronald Heeschen of the Bluebay Corporation in Manhattan. I read about your participation in the X, Y, or Z transaction and would like to discuss a similar enterprise with you.” But no, simply “Ronald Heeschen here,” as if “here” were the hub of the universe. Who was this Ronald Heeschen, anyway? And did he assume that Bill would call him back immediately? Evidently, human affairs would need to come to a screeching halt and the planet would need to stop rotating on its axis while Ronald Heeschen’s urgent business was attended to this instant. Well, Bill was not playing. He had other things to do. For instance, he might prefer at this moment simply to look out the window. This Mr. Heeschen and his urgencies could wait until later today, or even tomorrow. Maybe Bill would elect not to call him back at all. What an astonishing thought. In a swift movement that startled even himself, Bill rolled down his window and tossed Mr. Heeschen out. The scrap of paper fluttered to the pavement and was shredded by the wheels of the next car in line.
It was 8:38 when Bill finally reac
hed Planton Street, the address he was given for the psychiatrist. He lowered his windows and peered into the street. Expecting to find a modest office building that would instantly announce itself, with perhaps a garage for his car, Bill saw only a string of rickety and drab two-family houses, jammed close together on both sides of the road. Clotheslines crisscrossed each of the tiny lots, and more clothes and bedsheets were being tossed from the porches to half-naked children, who flung the wet garments up on the lines to dry. The ground-floor windows were wide open, so that Bill could smell bacon and coffee, as well as see into the cramped kitchens and rooms, women feeding their babies and packing lunchboxes for their husbands, elderly men in their undershirts smoking and shaving at the kitchen sink, the flickering of TVs. Every few moments, someone burst from a front door, shouting and cursing, apparently off to a job or some disagreeable assignment. Could there be another Planton Street? Bill wondered. He began searching for a parking place, but the little street was completely clogged with automobiles and trucks, most appearing as if they hadn’t budged for a year. The one empty space was cordoned off with two chairs and a table. In the adjoining space, a shirtless young man drinking a Pepsi leaned over an open hood with his tools. He threw Bill a quizzical, defiant look. It was now 8:41.
The Diagnosis Page 17
