Critical

by Robin Cook

  Angela suppressed a laugh.

  “So, suddenly I wanted to be a doctor,” Chet continued. “And it worked. Two weeks later, I took Stacey to the Saturday-night dance.”

  “But was the motivation enough to make you actually study medicine?”

  “It was for me. I’d always liked biology, so medicine wasn’t generally contrary to my interests. And having a real sense of direction at that age was somehow reassuring. And my parents and sisters were wild about me being a doctor, because in a small midwestern town, the doctor is still considered a rather respectable individual.”

  “Okay,” Angela said. “But why forensics?”

  “I suppose because I like puzzles and I like to learn new things. For me, that’s what forensics is all about. Also, in medical school I sensed I wasn’t all that good with patients, especially when they were alive.”

  Angela smiled and nodded. She could understand to a degree philosophically what he was saying, but not the part about having to do the autopsy itself.

  “Okay, it’s your turn,” Chet said. “Why did you choose business?”

  Angela hesitated for a moment, thinking how she cared to answer. Her first inclination was to brush the question off by offering some pat answer, but a combination of Chet’s forthrightness, her recent misgivings about her motivations, and even perhaps the wine made her want to be frank. “I guess I should ask you the same question you asked me,” she said. “Do you want the stereotypical version or the honest one?”

  “The honest one for sure.”

  “Actually, I never wanted to be a businesswoman, at least not until about five years ago.”

  “What did you want to be?”

  “I wanted to be a doctor.”

  “No shit?” Chet questioned, as a wry, uncertain smile appeared on his face.

  “No shit,” Angela echoed. “And I was part of the herd. I was part of the ninety-eight percent you mentioned. I truly wanted to take care of and hopefully cure people. It might sound overly sappy, but I even had it in mind to bring medicine into the inner city like a kind of modern-day Dr. Livingstone.”

  “How come you didn’t do it?”

  “I did do it,” Angela said. “I went the whole nine yards. I did a residency in internal medicine, got my boards, and opened a practice in Harlem.”

  Chet sat back and put his fork down. He was momentarily at a loss for words. He’d sensed from the moment he’d begun talking with Angela at the health club that there was something special about her, but he never would have guessed she was a doctor. The shocking news challenged his self-esteem, since being an M.D. and a high-level businesswoman certainly trumped his being only a doctor. But at the same time, the news fanned his interest in Angela.

  “Are you surprised?” Angela asked. Chet looked as if a cannon had gone off next to him.

  “I’m flabbergasted.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t really know,” Chet stammered.

  “I’m surprised myself,” Angela admitted. “But perhaps my motivations for medicine weren’t quite as altruistic as I’ve always believed.”

  “Oh?” Chet voiced. He leaned forward. “Why not?”

  “Part of the reason I wanted to go to medical school, and I suppose to take care of people, because that’s generally what you do after you graduate, was to get back at my father.”

  “Really?”

  “Really!” Angela repeated. In truth of fact, she was as surprised by her statement about her father as Chet was. It wasn’t that the idea hadn’t vaguely occurred to her in rare moments over the years, but rather because she’d never truly visited the issue.

  “Forgive me if I’m being too personal,” Chet said, readjusting himself in his seat. “Why would you want to get back at your father? For some reason, I guess I just assumed you experienced an idyllic childhood.”

  “In all outward appearances, it was,” Angela said. She was again surprised at herself. As a private person, she was admitting things she’d admitted only to a few close girlfriends while in college. “And it was important for my father that it appeared that way. But our perfect little family had its secrets.” Angela paused, unsure if she wanted to go on. “I hope I’m not boring you. Are you sure you want to hear this?”

  “Oh, come on!” Chet complained. “I’m fascinated. And if it is a concern for you, I give you my word that whatever you feel comfortable telling me will go no further.”

  “I appreciate that,” Angela said. She took a sip of wine, thought for a moment, and then said, “Regrettably, my father abused me, not in any sexual sense but rather in an emotional sense. Of course, I had no idea of this as a child. It was only after I’d matured to whatever degree I have. When I was very young, I was the apple of my father’s eye. I remember it very well, and I was crazy about him. But with my father’s guarded emotions and reliance on appearances, the cost for me, and for my mother, for that matter, was absolute, petlike allegiance. As long as I was his little automaton darling doll, everything was picture-perfect. The problem was that I was slowly growing up, and the moment I expressed any autonomy by being my own person, he turned away from me and dropped small comments about me abandoning him, which made me feel horribly guilty. For a time, I tried desperately to please him, but invariably I’d disappoint him as my interests turned progressively away from home and more toward my friends and school. My poor mom, who had remained entirely allegiant, perhaps suffered the most, because he seemed to become bored with her and had the stereotypic midlife crisis, complete with affairs and alcohol. Of course, he never took responsibility. He blamed both my mother and myself for his need to act out, claiming no one cared about him. For some reason, which I’ll never understand, my poor mom stayed with him until he divorced her for a younger woman.”

  “I’m sorry for you,” Chet said. “It’s tragic that people like your father can be their own worst enemies. Obviously, your father should have been proud of your accomplishments, not feel threatened by them. But how did this influence your wanting to go to medical school?”

  “My father was a dentist, quite a successful and good one, actually, but he had in one of his rare flashes of honesty admitted he’d wanted to be a doctor but had been unable to get into medical school. To please him, back when I was only ten or eleven I told him I would go to medical school, which wasn’t entirely a surprise, since one of my favorite child games was being a nurse or a doctor, which at the time I thought was the same thing.”

  “You were just being clairvoyant. Year by year, the two fields are coming closer and closer. The major difference now is nurses work harder and doctors are paid more.”

  Angela smiled but was preoccupied by her own story. She had never before expressed it even to herself quite so succinctly.

  “So part of your motivation to go to medical school was to spite your father?” Chet asked.

  “I think it was a part. It was like a personally rewarding way to get a kind of revenge. My getting an M.D. challenged him to the extent he skipped my graduation.”

  “I don’t know if I can quite buy this theory in its entirety,” Chet remarked.

  “Why?”

  “The fact that you subsequently did an internal-medicine residency, one of the most demanding, took a lot of commitment.”

  “I’m still not practicing.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Actually, because my practice literally went bankrupt. I ran up a considerable debt because the Medicaid reimbursement was either slow or nonexistent, and the Medicare too low to cover the shortfall.”

  “Wow,” Chet said. “My life in comparison with yours has been a walk in the park. As a child growing up, my most emotionally draining moment was when some older kids kicked in the face of my Halloween pumpkin. My folks are still together, my father came to every athletic event and graduation I ever had from kindergarten on up.”

  “With that kind of stable background, how come you’re such a Casanova? I hope you don’t mind me asking, especi
ally since I don’t know it’s true. You seemed so at ease when you approached me last night, and your repartee seems so polished.”

  Chet laughed. “It’s all an act. I’m always nervous on the inside and worried about being rejected. Calling me Casanova gives me more credit than I deserve. Casanova was successful; I’m usually not, although once I do go out with a woman a half a dozen times or so, I find myself yearning for the chase. Whether it represents a problem or not, I don’t know. It started in medical school, when I had to work as well as go to school. I didn’t have time for a real relationship, because a real relationship takes time.” Chet shrugged. “So the seeds were planted back then.”

  “Well, that sounds honest.”

  “Honest, yes; admirable, probably not. I’d like to say I just haven’t met the right woman, but I can’t because I usually don’t hang around long enough to find out.”

  “Have you ever had a long-term relationship?”

  “Oh, yeah! Practically all the way through college. My girlfriend and I had plans for her to follow me to Chicago where I went to medical school, but at the last minute she ditched me for somebody here in New York.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “All’s fair in love and war.”

  “Maybe that episode affected you more than you give it credit for.”

  “Maybe,” Chet said. Then, to change the subject back to her, he said, “You mentioned you were divorced. Do you want to talk about that?”

  Angela hesitated. Normally, she avoided talking about her divorce, not only because she was by nature a private person but because the whole sad affair could still infuriate her even after six years. Yet, since Chet had been so open and she herself had already related even more private matters, she suppressed her usual reticence and said, “At the very end of medical school I was, like a teenage girl, swept off my feet by a man who I thought was the antithesis of my father. Sadly, that was not the case. He too was ultimately threatened by my medical degree. He also had affairs and, worst of all, developed a penchant for hitting me.”

  “Ouch,” Chet said with a wince. “Domestic violence is intolerable and inexcusable. Unfortunately, we see more of it in the morgue than people realize.”

  The waiter suddenly appeared and whisked away their plates, then asked if they cared for dessert. Chet looked across at Angela.

  “I’m not a big dessert person,” she confessed.

  “Nor I,” said Chet. “But a cappuccino would hit the spot.”

  “I’ll finish the wine,” Angela said, pointing to the bottle. The waiter happily poured it and took the empty bottle away.

  “Okay,” Chet said, sitting back in his chair. “Your inner-city practice went bankrupt. When was that?”

  “Two thousand one,” Angela said. “Hopefully, that year will be my nadir. I mean, it couldn’t get much worse. My medical practice went bankrupt and I got divorced, two ugly experiences that I don’t recommend for anyone. It’s the one year I would not like to live over again.”

  “I can well imagine. So, how did you make the transition from private medical practice to a company executive? By the way, what is your position, some sort of medical adviser?”

  “I’m the founder and the CEO.”

  Chet’s wry smile reappeared, and he shook his head in disbelief. “You are a trip! Founder and CEO! I’m awestruck. How did that happen?”

  “The bankruptcy was a humiliating disaster, but it did have one saving grace. It impressed upon me the detrimental power that economics plays in medicine. I mean, I was somewhat aware before my bankruptcy, but not the extent I was after. Anyway, I had an idea to try to do something about it, but medical school taught me nothing about medical economics. In fact, I knew nothing about economics or business, which medical care has unfortunately become a slave to, so I went back to school and got an MBA at Columbia.”

  Chet put his head back and slapped a hand to his forehead. “That’s enough,” he pleaded. “I can’t take any more. You’re making me feel too blasted inadequate.”

  “You’re kidding, of course?”

  “I suppose,” he admitted. “But, lady, you have one hell of a CV.”

  The waiter came and served Chet’s cappuccino.

  “I have a question for you,” Angela said, suddenly realizing she’d been so engrossed in their conversation that she’d not yet touched on the issue that had brought her out to dine.

  “Shoot,” Chet responded.

  “I wanted to ask you about Dr. Laurie Montgomery.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Would you characterize her as a persistent, get-the-job-done person, or would you think of her as laid-back?”

  “The former for sure. In fact, I’d characterize her as one of the most persistent people I know, both she and her husband. A few of the other MEs think of them as such compulsive workers that they make the rest of us look like slackers.”

  Angela felt the muscles in her gut tighten. She had hoped and expected Chet would say something to mitigate her worries, not fan them. “I actually met her today. It wasn’t under the best of circumstances. We have had an outbreak of postoperative methicillin-resistant staph that has bedeviled us for a month or so and which has required us to go to extraordinary effort to control, even to the point of hiring a full-time epidemiologist and infection-control specialist.”

  “Laurie mentioned the problem,” Chet said. “She also reminded me that I had posted one of your cases.”

  “Oh, she did?”

  “Yes. She came by my office to pick up the case, which I’d done a number of weeks ago, and was still waiting for some lab results. She had just done a similar one this morning. I guess both cases came from one of your hospitals.”

  “Did she say what she was going to do about it, if anything? I mean, we are already doing everything in our power. I personally have authorized our infection-control person free rein.”

  “Well, you can relax, because Laurie specifically said she was going to solve your problem if it kills her.”

  Angela’s throat went dry. She took a sip of wine. “Did she use those exact words?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Suddenly, Angela wanted the evening to be over. Although she had enjoyed herself more than she would have imagined prior to talking about Laurie Montgomery, she now had a problem that could not wait. Without concern of its precipitousness, she put down her glass, folded her napkin, and placed it on the table. She then made a show of looking at her watch.

  “How is it I sense our most delightful evening is over?” Chet said, with a touch of melancholy. “I was hoping you’d be willing to walk one block north for a drink at the elegant Saint Regis King Cole Bar.”

  “Not tonight. Duty calls,” Angela said. “Let’s get the check, and how about we split it?”

  “Oh, no!” Chet said. “This is my treat. I made that clear at the beginning.”

  “Okay, if you insist, and if you’ll pardon me, I have to get back to the office. There’s a call I must make.” Angela pushed back her chair and stood. Chet did the same. The unexpectedly precipitous end to such an enjoyable evening flummoxed him.

  “We’ll talk soon,” Angela said, extending her hand, which Chet shook.

  “I hope so,” Chet said.

  With a final smile, Angela threaded her way across the room, got her coat from the coat check, and after casting a final glance and wave toward Chet, hurried out of the restaurant.

  Chet slowly sat down. His eyes caught those of the waiter, who shrugged in sympathy.

  13

  APRIL 3, 2007

  9:05 P.M.

  Michael flipped his cell phone closed and gritted his teeth. He was in the lavatory on the mezzanine floor of Downtown Cipriani in SoHo. Before he’d fled to the restroom from the intimate private club on the second floor to escape the pounding disco music, he’d been with two of his buddies, entertaining three chicks from New Jersey. His phone had buzzed, and since it was Angela, he’d taken the call but, u
nable to hear, he’d fled to the john. Now he wished he hadn’t.

  With great restraint, Michael resisted the temptation to pound the graffiti-covered wall, which was smart, since the wall was lath and plaster, not plasterboard.

  “Fuck!” Michael shouted as loud as he could. Within the confines of the small room, the expletive careened around the walls in an explosion of acoustical energy, making Michael’s ears ring in protest. He gripped the sides of the only sink and tensed his muscles as if he were about to rip it off the wall. Slowly, he let his eyes rise up and stare at himself in the mirror. He looked terrible. His product-coated hair was standing on end as if ten thousand volts of electricity had gripped his body, and his eyes looked like those of Dracula.

  He then breathed out. He was furious but under control. His bitch of an ex had just thrown another problem at him, as if he were some pissant lackey. If he weren’t already in up to his eyeballs, he would have simply told her with glee to go screw herself, but that was not possible. He had to handle it, and the only way was to go out to Queens and again grovel at Vinnie’s highly polished, wingtipped feet.

  Suddenly giving in to his urges, he pounded the wall, but he was smart enough to use his palm, not his fist, so that the force of the blow was delivered over a wider area. Still, his hand tingled when he pulled it away.

  Even calmer after the blow, he opened his phone. With trembling fingers, he punched in Vinnie’s private cell phone number. It was the phone Vinnie carried with him night and day.

  “Tell me you are calling me with some good news for a change,” Vinnie said, in the overly calm voice Michael feared. Michael remembered a time that Vinnie had used that very same voice when he dismissed a guy. Then, as soon as the fellow was out of sight, Vinnie merely nodded to Franco, who also left. And that was the end of the guy, who was never seen again.

  “I got to talk to you,” Michael said, with as much equanimity as he could muster.

  “Tonight?” Vinnie questioned serenely. In the background, Michael could hear festive chatter and the sound of Frank Sinatra crooning, a sure indication that Vinnie was still at the Neapolitan.