“Come on, then, move your cute little butt. We need to get these eyes to the lab and harvest the tissue.” Walter picked up a cooler filled with ice into which he set the smaller container holding the eyes. “The transportation guys didn’t get the stiff down to the refrigerator very fast. Cellular degeneration speeds up at room temp. I need to get the corneas off while the eyes are still half way fresh.”
Jeanette struggled to keep up with him as he strode away from the morgue. “Doesn’t Silver River provide Dr. Rutherford with most of his tissue?”
She was sure she’d heard a SRP sales representative say so at the convention. She recalled wandering around the convention exhibits, her goal to obtain an abstract from the Epi Study Booth, when a booming voice had captured her attention, side-tracking her.
“Yes sir, doctor. Silver River Pharmaceutical provides all sorts of tissue for research — in fact, we provide all the corneas for Dr. Rutherford’s research on the living lens.”
She could hear Stu Thomas’s voice as if it were only yesterday. Yes, he had definitely said all the corneas.
“Nah.” Walter started down the stairs at the end of the hall. “We’ve got a deal with the Eye Bank. We get fifty percent of the donated corneas during the course of the Epi study. Doc pays them monthly for the use of the lab and my services.”
“Oh.”
More vivid images of the convention flashed through her mind. She recalled a persistent doctor in the crowd, asking questions. Questions that had made Stu Thomas, a consummate salesman, uncomfortable. So uncomfortable he avoided the side of the crowd where the overly inquisitive doctor stood.
Behind her a man had snickered and whispered loudly to someone, “Guess old Stu wants to change the subject. Wonder why?”
Another man replied in a deep monotone, “One of Rutherford’s clinic partners told me they had to throw out one whole shipment of SRP corneas, because…” The reasons were lost in the noise of the crowd.
A third voice chimed. “Yeah. I heard that. I also heard Rutherford may be stuck using SRP tissue. He and the Eye Bank have been flaming each other over donor corneas. What’s up with that? You’re on the Eye Bank Board, Fred. You going to clue us in?”
“Not here.” The deep monotone presumably belonging to Fred murmured, “Later, over drinks at Chez Paul’s. I’ll tell you all about…”
Confused, Jeanette blurted, “I heard the Eye Bank and Doctor Rutherford don’t always see eye-to-eye.”
“Funny lady.” Walter stopped on the landing and looked at her. “The Eye Bank and the Doc get along just fine. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. It’s all politics and ole Doc knows how to play the game in this town. Now come on, we ain’t got all day.”
“Why are we going this way?” Jeanette stopped at the bottom of the stairs. A long, very dimly lit and fetid hallway stretched out in front of her. This had to be the sub-basement. “Isn’t the Eye Bank lab in the Clinical Building on the first floor?”
“Yeah, but the first floors in the two buildings don’t connect,” Walter threw over his shoulder as he started down the hall. “It’s faster to take the tunnel. Are you going to stand around and ask questions all day or are you going to move?”
“I’m coming.”
Jeanette followed Walter into the Stygian darkness. The smell of sewer gas and the sound of steam hissing from the pipes overhead added to the hellish atmosphere. Puddles of water dotted the cement walkway — whether from dripping pipes or leaks in the walls of the tunnel, Jeanette didn’t know, and if the truth be told, didn’t want to find out. Just the idea that she was underground in a city whose water table was above her head gave her the willies.
The tunnel seemed to go on forever. At several points, other hallways fed into it. Walter seemed to know exactly where he was going, so she stayed close enough to follow, but not so close to be within grabbing distance. She still didn’t trust the man — especially alone in a dark tunnel.
Finally, at one of the tunnel junctures, other people started to appear. She and Walter must be getting close to the Clinical Building. This part of the tunnel was brighter with flourescent lighting and white walls. The steam pipes, used to power the generators providing electricity to the hospital complex, were now hidden away in a false ceiling. Civilization was near. Jeanette sighed. Walter snickered at her audible relief, but she didn’t care. The tension of the last few minutes had to escape or she’d burst.
“Don’t like tunnels?” Walter pushed open the door to the Clinical Building and allowed her to pass in front of him. “I’ll remember that — for the next time.”
Like hell there would be a next time. She’d walk outside in a hurricane before she would go into that hole in the ground again.
“It was fine.” Another white lie to confess. At this rate, she would have lots of “Hail Marys” come Saturday evening mass.
“Sure, whatever you say.” Walter led the way once more to the service elevator. “We’ve got to take this one. The administrators don’t like us to carry body parts through the public areas. Sort of upsets the visitors and such. Once, one of the pathology assistants dropped a leg in the lobby. That’s when the rule was created.”
As Jeanette stepped onto the elevator, she wondered about Dr. Rutherford’s connections to the Eye Bank. The conference had been four months ago. Obviously, Dr. Rutherford had smoothed things over with them. According to Walter, all tissue came from the Eye Bank. As it should. The patients participating in the research project paid nothing but a processing fee for the corneas. If Dr. Rutherford had to purchase corneas from SRP, the cost would be prohibitive for the project budget, since they could not pass the cost of the lenses to the patient. In fact, the project would have to shut down. Research was always woefully under-funded.
“You awake there, Flower?” Walter snapped his fingers in front of her face.
“My name isn’t Flower.” Jeanette pushed past him and left the elevator. She stood and waited for Walter to follow. “You can call me Jeanette, not Jean and not Jeannie.” Only Scott was allowed to call her Jeannie, and she barely tolerated Jean.
“Well, Jeanette, the lab is to your left.” Walter thrust the cooler with the eyes into her hands. “Take this and go on in. I need to take a leak.”
“Uncouth jerk,” she muttered.
She opened the door, then entered the well-lit, sparkling clean lab. Begrudgingly, her opinion of Walter rose a notch. At least he was professional in how he kept his work space. Other than that and his efficiency in harvesting eyes, he was too rough, too uncivilized. Which is why he probably worked in this area of medicine and not in patient contact. Jeanette shuddered. Imagining Walter dealing with the public was a gruesome picture.
Setting the cooler on a work bench, Jeanette moved around the lab and checked out the equipment. All of it was familiar from her training days. Seeing extra lab coats hanging on the wall, Jeanette found a fairly small one and put it on. She swam in it and had to roll the sleeves up several times. She wanted to be ready to assist if Walter ever decided to return.
Glancing around the efficient lab, she pinched herself. She still couldn’t believe she was part of one of the most prestigious eye research projects in the country, maybe even the world. Dr. Rutherford’s Epikeratophakia procedure, known generically as the “living lens” procedure or Epi study, had been the sole reason the national organization had chosen to come to New Orleans. The rumors were this study would revolutionize the treatment of myopia, substituting a living lens made from donor corneal tissue for that of the plastic lenses traditionally used. Her former research project concerning the efficacy of contact lens wetting solutions would be moot. The living lens needed nothing to help it float since it became part of the eye. This project was the focus of the entire profession, an awesome responsibility for Dr. Rutherford and his staff.
“I’m back.”
Walter’s words startled Jeanette. How had he entered the room without her hearing him? The man moved like a large cat.
“You ready?” Walter took the lid off the cooler, then removed the container. “There’s a pad over there if you want to take notes.”
“Why would I want to do that?” Jeanette followed him to a work bench, upon which he spread a sterile drape.
“You’re here to learn, ain’t ya?” Walter sighed at the look she threw him. “In case you ever have to do this part of the job.” Walter picked one of the eyes out of the container and laid it on the clean cloth. “Doc likes his people to be multi-taskers.”
“Oh.” What could she say? Nothing had ever been said to her about this aspect of her job. Not that she minded, she was always willing to learn new things. But the fact that she had to hear it from Walter made Jeanette feel — stupid.
“The S.O.B. didn’t tell ya, did he?” Walter chuckled. “Well, besides coordinating the patient studies and doing follow-up, you’ll be assisting in surgery, too. Yep, he likes to get the most bang for his buck out of the help.” Walter winked. “I could tell you all the stuff he’s had me do since he borrowed me, so-to-speak, from the Eye Bank, but it might gross you out. My advice, just take it as it comes.”
Jeanette picked up the pad of paper and found a pen in the pocket of the lab coat. Assuming a calm expression, and resolutely suppressing wild speculations about what other tasks Walter might have done for the Epi Study, she said, “I’m ready when you are.”
“Oh, Flower, I’m always ready.”
Walter cleanly removed the cornea from the first eye. As in the eye harvesting, he was deft with the scalpel, removing the cornea with a minimum of effort. He discarded the eyeball in a red-bagged container next to the workbench.
Setting the removed cornea in a small glass dish, he proceeded to the next eye and again quickly removed the cornea, placing it next to the other.
“Okay, listen up.” Walter picked up a small stainless steel instrument that looked like a minuscule cookie cutter. “This is a trephine.”
“I know that.”
Walter shrugged. “Well, you never know these days. Some of the people coming through here can’t tell a scalpel from a suture.”
Jeanette didn’t believe that, but she nodded. The sooner he explained the procedure, the sooner she could get away from him.
“Anyhow — I’ll use this to remove a central portion of the cornea.”
Forceps held one of the corneas in place as Walter placed the trephine in the center of the small piece of tissue and applied a small amount of pressure. In a movement almost too fast for Jeanette to see, he flicked the excess cornea into the red bag, then used a second trephine to cut the other.
“We now have two corneal disks called buttons, the size of most gas permeable contact lenses.” Walter swung around to the microscope at the work station. “Now, I’ll remove the top layer and bottom layer of the cornea using an alcohol wipe. We do this…”
“You remove the epithelial and endothelial layers to lower the antigen reaction and to allow for new growth on the recipient eye.” Jeanette was tired of Walter’s condescending tone. She knew what the top and bottom layers were called, after all she had a degree, dammit. And she’d read Dr. Rutherford’s research papers thoroughly before reporting for work, so she knew the basic whys and wherefores.
“Well, go to the head of the class, Flower.” Walter smirked, unfazed by the heat in her response. “You’d be surprised at some of the bimbos the Doc has hired in the past.”
Again, Jeanette resisted comment. She refused to believe that an esteemed physician like Dr. Rutherford hired any less than the best technicians.
“Okie-dokie, then. You probably know this, but I’ll explain it for the record.” Walter took the two small corneal disks and placed them in a small wire basket. “We next place the buttons in liquid nitrogen to make them rigid, so we can lathe the lens to mimic the curve and lens power of a basic contact lens.”
After removing the basket from the container of liquid nitrogen, he placed one of the disks on the cryolathe and added small amounts of liquid nitrogen during the process to keep the disk rigid until the exact measurements he desired were reached.
“There!” Walter removed the lathed lens. “We have the Living Lens. Now, all I have to do is vacuum the moisture out of the lens to return it back to its original supple state…”
“Lyophilization.”
“Yeah, what you said.” Walter pulled a small oddly shaped jar from the cupboard and filled it with a blue-tinged solution. “After we suck out the moisture, we place it in this blue stuff and store it until the surgery. If we don’t use it within three to four weeks, we throw it out.”
“Do you store them here? What keeps the Eye Bank from using them for other hospitals?”
“Nah, we ship them over to the Doc’s lab at the med center, but it wouldn’t make any difference if we did store them here.” Walter held up the container. “See, these containers are for the Epi Study and only the Doc uses this blue solution. He patented it for this project. So, no one else uses either of these. No way are they gonna make a mistake and take the wrong corneas.”
Jeanette nodded. She’d never seen containers like these before, so it made sense.
“Well, that’s it. Any questions?” Walter quickly cleaned up his area.
“No.” Jeanette gathered up the instruments, cleaned them with alcohol rinsing with sterile water, then placing them in the autoclave for complete sterilization.
“Okay, Flower. You’re free to go. Doc is expecting you for lunch, I believe.” Walter smiled the sly smile Jeanette was beginning to associate with him. “Going to learn the rest of your duties.“
“Yes, that’s what he told me.”
“Well, good luck, little Flower.” Walter winked at her. “You ever dump that boyfriend, let me know. I could show you a real good time, if you know what I mean.”
Pig! Only when New Orleans rises to above sea level.
Jeanette stalked from the room, followed by the sound of Walter’s laughter.
CHAPTER TWO
Sounds of jazz and happy tourists wended their way from the public French Quarter to the darkened streets of the residential section. Jeanette swore the warm, moist, evening air contained scents of spicy “takee-outee” gumbo and jambalaya and chicory coffee. Logically, she knew the smells couldn’t make it all the way to her balcony overlooking the courtyard of her Chartres Street apartment building, but she wasn’t thinking rationally tonight.
Elation competed with unease after her first day on the job, yet she’d gone ahead and celebrated with Charles and Scott and her eight-year-old daughter, Brigitte. If she could avoid the disturbing Walter Monnier, she was sure the Clinical Coordinator position would be perfect for her. After the project ended, as they all did, it would look good on her resume, and the salary allowed her to stop dipping into the money she’d inherited from her parents and Paul’s grandmother.
“Jean?” Charles Carter’s New York accent jarred her from her reverie. “You with us? Brigitte is yawning. Isn’t it her bedtime?”
“Mommy, do I have to go to bed?”
Brigitte climbed onto her lap. After a couple more years and a lot more growth, her dainty daughter wouldn’t be caught dead climbing on her mother’s lap. But for now she did, and Jeanette savored the blatant showing of love.
“Cher, you have school tomorrow.” She kissed her daughter’s dark curls, so like her deceased husband’s that a stab of pain sliced through her heart. “Off with you now. Brush your teeth, then I’ll read you a story.”
“Okay, mama.” Brigitte kissed her mother’s lips loudly and giggled when Jeanette tickled her ribs — a nightly routine.
“You spoil the child, Jean.”
Charles looked at her sternly, his voice filled with displeasure. She hated being called “Jean,” but never had the nerve to tell him. Charles didn’t take criticism well. Though, he had no problem taking her to task.
“She’s eight going on nine,” Charles continued. “She’s not a baby any longer.”
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“She’s my baby…” Jeanette took a breath and stopped the defensive, harsh words before they took life. “She’ll always be my baby, Charles. Trust me. She’s not spoiled. All children need to know love and security.”
“You’re a good mother, Jeannie,” said Scott Fontenot.
Warmth and bittersweet memories washed over her at his use of her dead husband’s favorite pet name for her. Always the mediator, Scott, her husband’s best friend and constant companion, even to the end in Desert Storm, had always been there for her and Brigitte. Just as he was now, helping her to celebrate her new job and smoothing Charles’s ruffled feathers.
“Charles just isn’t used to the way Southerners raise their children,” she said. “He’ll learn.”
She turned all her attention toward Charles, her first “boyfriend” since Paul died. She smiled at the handsome and aristocratic fair-haired Easterner, who’d chosen Tulane as his law school and decided to stay and practice in the city after graduation. Again, she wondered why he’d picked her from all the females who’d set their sights on him. They had met in the Eye Clinic when he’d come in to get new contact lenses fitted. Area residents could volunteer for Dr. Shriver’s project and get free eye care. Something about the brash, outspoken New Yorker attracted her. Maybe it was because he didn’t remind her of dark-haired, dark-eyed Paul. Maybe it was the hint of neediness underneath the strong exterior which appealed to her mothering instincts. Whatever it was, she and Charles had dated steadily ever since, but had managed to avoid talking seriously about a future, agreeing to take the relationship one day at a time.
“Mama, I’m ready for my story.” Brigitte’s clear childish tones carried out to the adults from her bedroom off the far end of the balcony.
Charles started to say something, then stopped and blew a breath audibly through pursed lips. Something was going on here; he wasn’t usually so… so… rude. Jeanette wanted to get to the bottom of it. From past experience, if she allowed it to fester, she’d hear about it later in a burst of pent up anger and resentment. Charles tended to stew.
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