By My Hands

by Alton Gansky

  Five

  Wednesday, March 4, 1992; 3:10 P.M.

  “YOU’RE NOT GOING TO like this.” Irwin Baker set his coffee cup on his desk.

  “I’ve been disappointed before,” Priscilla stated. “Whatever it is, let’s get to it. I have calls to make.”

  Irwin stared at Priscilla for a moment. There was no doubt that he was attracted to her, but not like most men. It was true that he found her beauty captivating, but he was also attracted to her for reasons he had trouble defining. At times he felt fatherly toward her, even though he was only three years her senior; but most of the time he just felt a longing for her that made him ache. It puzzled him. She could be an irritating person and easily gave offense. She could be short-tempered, curt, and even rude. But she was quick, and she laughed easily. Irwin Baker wondered if he loved her. He would like to take her in his arms and—

  “Earth to Irwin.”

  Her words snapped him back to reality. “I’m sorry, I let myself get distracted.”

  “So what’s this news I’m not supposed to like?”

  “Dr. Evan Morgan has called a news conference; that’s the good news.” Irwin paused for effect. “The bad news is that it’s scheduled right in the middle of tonight’s broadcast.”

  Priscilla sat silently for a moment and then slowly smiled. “I must admit, you’re taking it well.” Irwin picked up a piece of paper and glanced over a list of names. “I think we can send Bob Parker. He has no live reports tonight and—”

  “I’m going.” Priscilla stood as if to leave.

  “Oh no you don’t. You’ve got a program to anchor.”

  “Get Judy Moore to do it.”

  “You don’t like Judy Moore. Remember?” Irwin stood. “You said she read like a third-grader.”

  “I know. This way I’ll know that my job is safe.” Priscilla quickly exited the office.

  “Priscilla!” Irwin shouted and jumped to his feet. He considered chasing her into the open office area but decided that the effort was useless and would only embarrass him before the reporters and writers. She was a good reporter, the best Irwin had ever worked with. She was also pompous and bullheaded. He ought to fire her; none of his supervisors would blame him; she was as obnoxious with them as she was with him. He would fire her—someday; but right now she was too hot a property to lose. The station would drop several rating points the minute the news was out that she was gone. There was nothing to do now but tolerate her behavior and wish that things— many things—were different.

  Wednesday, March 4, 1992; 6:30 P.M.

  THE HOSPITAL CONFERENCE ROOM was filled with cables, lights on stands, and microphones. Thirty members of the press were seated on metal folding chairs. Cameramen with their instacams fixed to their shoulders were situated behind the seating area. Newspaper photographers stood near the white walls.

  Dr. Morgan entered the room through a side door, followed closely by Rachel. Morgan was dressed in a dark blue Caraceni suit and a yellow silk tie and looked as if he’d just stepped from the pages of Fortune. His white hair dazzled under the camera’s lights as he took his place behind the podium. Rachel took a seat just to his right. Morgan stood silently until he was sure he had the full attention of those gathered. “I wish to thank the members of the press for their courteous response to our invitation. I will make a short statement and then allow a few moments for questions.

  “As you know,” Morgan continued, “certain anomalies have occurred in this hospital. Much of what you have heard has been exaggerated. It is our hope that those of you whose responsibility it is to keep the public informed will exercise discretion in reporting these events. We have no secrets from you; however, we are obligated by certain professional restraints and ethics not to divulge information that will disrupt or disturb our patients. Being professionals yourselves, I’m sure you understand our concerns.”

  Morgan’s glibness and easy delivery impressed Rachel. He could hold his own with any politician. He had an ease and confident charisma that most found endearing. Rachel felt drawn to him. Yet, despite the attraction, she was still furious at him for presuming to volunteer her for such a ridiculous task. She was here because she was commanded to be and for no other reason. Morgan had insisted that the press be introduced to the “investigating physician.”

  Morgan’s speech continued for another ten minutes. He gave a brief account of Bill Langford’s unexpected recovery from cancer and Lisa Hailey’s remarkable change. The gathered crowd sat in disciplined silence, perhaps a little intimidated by Morgan’s strong projection of self-assurance.

  “Before we take a moment or two for questions, I would like to introduce Dr. Rachel Tremaine, a surgeon on staff here. She will be heading up our in-house evaluation of the recent events. Dr. Tremaine, please come and stand with me.”

  Rachel shuddered inside. As a rule she was self-confident, but speaking to a large group of people terrified her. Even her high school speech class had proved a living hell. As a doctor she dealt only with a few people at a time—never a gathering. Swallowing hard, she rose and stood on Morgan’s right. With any luck the questions would be asked of Morgan.

  “All right, ladies and gentlemen, who has the first question?” Several hands went up at once. Morgan recognized a man in a red vested sweater. “Dr. Morgan, Bill Challee from the Daily Report. To what or to whom do you attribute these miraculous healings?”

  Morgan stood silently for a moment sizing up the reporter. “As individuals involved in scientific pursuits,” Rachel noticed that Morgan was now using plural pronouns, “we are most careful in the use of terms such as miraculous and healings. To answer your question, however, it is too early for us to attribute the recent events to any single agent. That is why we have asked Dr. Tremaine to pursue a detailed inquiry.”

  “Dr. Morgan.” A woman whom Rachel judged to be in her fifties had leaped to her feet and had begun speaking before he could call on another. “Dr. Morgan, Judith Lew of KSST radio news. Could you tell us if any other ‘anomalies,’ as you call them, have occurred?”

  “No, madam, there have been no other occurrences. Also . . .”

  “Do you expect any more occurrences?” she interjected.

  “That, madam,” Morgan said condescendingly, “would depend on the still undetermined cause.”

  The woman began to interject another question when Morgan quickly turned and pointed at a dapper man with dark hair and graying temples. “Mr. Lynol Jefferies of PBS news hour has a question. We are honored, sir. Please ask your question.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Morgan.” Jefferies was a celebrity of sorts in San Diego. As anchor of the hour-long Public Broadcasting News, he had elevated viewership by nearly 30 percent in two years. Although highly intelligent with impressive degrees from notable universities, he was received by television audiences as the man next door. Doctors and dock workers turned to him daily for the news. One television critic wrote, “Lynol Jefferies is to broadcast news what Willie Nelson is to country music.”

  “Dr. Morgan,” he began. “I think we can all appreciate your delicate situation here, just as I’m sure you can appreciate our desire to report this matter to our patrons who depend on us for information. Sir, to pick up the previously unanswered question; do you expect any further occurrences? Also, it is known to all that the lobby of this hospital is rapidly filling with the sick and dying. How do you plan to deal with those increasing crowds?”

  “Well, Mr. Jeffries, I am not a prognosticator by any means; my expertise is in medicine and hospital administration. But I can say that I would be very much surprised should another event of this sort occur. As to the crowds attempting to check into our hospital, they will be dealt with courteously. We are referring them to their personal physicians. If their doctors wish to admit them, then we will take as many as we can properly handle.”

  Before Morgan had finished his sentence, Priscilla Simms was on her feet calling his name. He stared at her for a moment. Rachel didn’t have t
o be a mind reader to know what thoughts percolated in Morgan’s brain: Why wasn’t she doing her evening broadcast? She was the one who had caused all the trouble. Because of her sensationalized broadcast, hundreds of the ill were camping on the hospital’s doorstep. He couldn’t ignore her; all the other reporters had relinquished this moment to her. Even though he had not called on her, the rest of the press had ceased vying for his attention. He had to call on her, but perhaps he could have a little fun.

  “Yes, Mrs. Primm, you have a question,” Morgan said with an affable smile.

  “Simms, Dr. Morgan, Priscilla Simms of KGOT-TV.” Priscilla was unshaken.

  “My apologies. I’m afraid I never catch your show.” Snickers rippled through the room.

  Priscilla ignored Morgan’s comments.

  “Dr. Morgan, how do you account for a patient who is terminally ill with cancer, and not expected to live through the night, suddenly finding himself completely free of cancer? And how do you account for a burn victim who awakens one morning without scars and scorched flesh? Is your hospital doing some hidden research of which the public should be aware?”

  “We are conducting no special research,” Morgan said with a disarming smile. “We are not a research hospital; we are a privately owned health maintenance organization. We hire our own physicians to maintain the highest quality of health care. Our reputation is spotless and national in scope. We do not conduct experiments on the patients who have placed their unwavering trust in us.

  “As to how I account for these recent events, I can only refer you to the previous answers. I do not account for them. That is why Dr. Tremaine is investigating. Unlike many professions, we in the medical field prefer facts, not sensational speculation.”

  There wasn’t a person in the meeting who missed the verbal jab.

  “You acknowledge then, Doctor, that you have events happening in your hospital over which you lack both knowledge and control?”

  “Your phrasing of the question is obviously meant to cast aspersions on—”

  “A simple yes or no answer would be most helpful, Doctor.”

  She was trying to manipulate him. Morgan’s voice barely concealed his wrath. “May I remind you, Ms. Simms, that this is a news conference and not a court of law; that you are a reporter and not a trial lawyer; and further, that I am not on trial.” Morgan’s voice elevated in volume. “I will answer as briefly or copiously as I choose. If that is not agreeable with you, you are perfectly free to leave.”

  Silence covered the room. Priscilla sat grinning. She had accomplished what she wanted. She had made Dr. Morgan pay for attempting to shut her out of the news conference.

  Morgan looked embarrassed. Rachel saw him deftly slip his hand to his side and flick the test button on his pager. A shrill beep echoed through the room. Morgan feigned surprise and frustration.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Morgan continued, his voice returning to its previous pleasant tone, “I must excuse myself to attend to some other important matters, but Dr. Tremaine will be glad to answer any further questions.” Morgan turned and quickly exited the room.

  Rachel’s stomach tighten as she watched, what seemed to her, a hundred pairs of eyes staring, prying and piercing her soul. Why do I have to be so insecure before crowds? I can cut open a human body without a second thought; why do I feel like running from the room? Rachel took her place behind the lectern.

  “Who will be next?” she said softly. Her throat was dry. She had a classic case of stage fright. Morgan had abandoned her without proper preparation. She had nothing to offer these people. She had received the assignment only a few hours before. All she had time to do was read the medical charts of the two patients involved, and she had been warned by Morgan not to disclose any details contained in them. “It might cause certain legal complications,” he had said.

  The next thirty minutes were filled with a repeat of the questions asked of Morgan and inquiries about her task. “Why were you selected? What do you think happened? How long before any information will be released? Do you believe in miracles?” Rachel fielded the questions as best she could, telling the reporters that they would have to be patient, that it was too early to make definitive statements. She then thanked them for their attentiveness and dismissed herself.

  Six

  Wednesday, March 4, 1992; 7:45 P.M.

  PRISCILLA DID NOT RETURN DIRECTLY to the station. Before attending the news conference, Irwin had handed her the addresses of Bill and Lois Langford and Lisa Hailey. The Haileys lived on Charger Boulevard in the community of East Clairemont. The Langfords lived in Linda Vista. Since the East Clairemont address was closer, Priscilla decided to make that her first stop.

  It took less than ten minutes for Priscilla to navigate her red BMW through traffic on Interstate 805 to Clairemont Mesa Boulevard and over the surface streets to the Haileys’ home. The house was a relatively new two-story home with a wood and stucco exterior. With the increasing cost of housing in San Diego, this house could easily sell for over a quarter million dollars.

  Priscilla parked her car curbside and walked up to the front door. She listened carefully for a moment for any indication that the occupants were at home. Hearing nothing, she rang the bell. No one answered. Turning to what she assumed was the window to the front room, Priscilla looked in. It seemed to be a formal living room; perhaps the house had a family room in the back. If so, it was possible that the Haileys had not heard the bell. Stepping back to the front door she again rang the bell and waited. Again nothing. She was glad that she hadn’t brought the camera crew.

  Looking at her watch, Priscilla saw that it was almost 7:45. Maybe the neighbors would know where the Haileys were. She walked across the lawn to the next house. When she rang the doorbell, she was greeted with noise. A small girl answered the door accompanied by two Pomeranians that yapped constantly. The girl was no more than three years old, with tangled blond hair and two dirty fingers placed firmly in her mouth.

  “Is your mother home,” Priscilla asked, raising her voice over the barking of the dogs.

  “Yes,” the child responded, but remained stationed by the door.

  “May I speak with her, please?”

  “I don’t care.” The little girl was now hanging from the doorknob with one hand like a tiny chimpanzee.

  “Would you go and tell her I’m here, please?”

  “Okay.” With that the toddler ran to the back of the house screaming loudly, “Mommy, mommy, some lady wants to talk to you.” The dogs remained behind, barking incessantly. Priscilla wished she had gone to another house.

  A few moments later a perspiration-soaked woman appeared dressed in a bright red jogging suit. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I was doing aerobics in the den.” She turned quickly and addressed the child who was now in front of the television set. “Ashley, turn that down. Mommy can’t hear herself think.” Ashley ignored her. The mother repeated the command with the same effect. Excusing herself she walked over and turned the volume down. This brought tears to the eyes of the child and then a wailing cry. The little girl jumped up and disappeared into the back of the house. Priscilla heard a door slam.

  “Kids!” The woman returned to the door. “This maternal instinct isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Now, what can I do for—” The woman paused mid-sentence. “Wait. Aren’t you that newswoman on television?”

  “Yes.” Priscilla still enjoyed the notoriety that went with her job. At times it was a nuisance, but for the most part she reveled in it.

  “I wonder if you could answer a few questions.”

  “Wait, let me get a pen and paper. I must have your autograph.” The woman disappeared and returned in a moment. “You don’t mind, do you? If I don’t have your autograph, my husband won’t believe that I’ve met you. He’s in sales, travels a lot.”

  She opened the screen door and handed the paper and ballpoint pen to Priscilla. Then suddenly realizing her faux pas she said, “Oh, where are my manners? Won’t you c
ome in please?”

  Priscilla stepped into the house.

  “Just have a seat anywhere.”

  “I wonder if I might ask you some questions.” Priscilla signing her autograph.

  “I guess so.”

  “Well, Mrs. . . .”

  “Mifflin.” The woman interjected. “Judith Mifflin. Everyone calls me Judy.”

  “All right, Judy it is then. And please, call me Priscilla.” The woman smiled, feeling special about being on a first-name basis with a television personality. “I’m trying to get in touch with your neighbors, the Haileys. Do you know when they might be home?”

  Judy paused and eyed Priscilla suspiciously. “Are they in some kind of trouble?”

  “No, nothing like that.” Priscilla had to phrase this so as not to appear to be prying. “As you may know, something special has happened in their lives, and I wanted to talk with them about it.”

  “Special?”

  “Yes. I tried to get hold of them yesterday but never made contact. I really would like to speak to them.” Judy looked puzzled. “Did you see my evening broadcast last night?”

  Judy’s puzzled expression was replaced with an embarrassed one. “Well, actually no,” she said softly. “I don’t watch much news on television. I find it depressing. I recognized you because my husband watches your show when he’s home.”

  “So you are unaware of what happened to them yesterday?”

  “Yesterday?” The puzzled look returned.

  “Yes. At the hospital.”

  “I know their daughter is in the hospital. Is that what you mean?” Judy’s eyes widened as a thought occurred to her. “She didn’t . . . I mean, she’s not . . .

  “Dead? No. On the contrary, she’s very much alive. That’s why I must speak to them.” Priscilla spent the next ten minutes explaining the events in the burn ward. Judy sat speechless, spellbound by Priscilla’s rehearsal of the unexplained events.