The Doctor's Deadly Affair

by Stephanie Doyle

Camille cleared her throat.

  “Oh. Hi, Dr. Larson. I’m sorry. I was reading this article on the swine flu epidemic. Scary stuff.”

  Camille wished the assistant hadn’t said anything. She had a hard enough time coping with the germs that covered so many of the surfaces in the hospital, she didn’t want to imagine what types of illnesses they led to.

  One mental health condition was surely enough for a person. No need to add hypochondria to her neurosis list.

  Spermatophobia, the accurate term for germaphobia as Wyatt referred to it, was difficult to live with. And given the snicker value of the name, it wasn’t something she walked around discussing with most people. As a scientist, a doctor, she reasoned that her obsession for cleanliness and fear of dirt and germs stemmed from latent childhood insecurities she had yet to overcome.

  She also knew it made her weird. Which she hated. Only there was nothing to be done about that.

  “Hi, Ruby. Is Delia available?”

  “She’s not in a meeting or on the phone. But be prepared. The grant committee meeting is looming and she’s flipping out about it.”

  Camille thanked Ruby for the heads-up then knocked on the executive’s door before entering.

  Delia Marsh sat behind a desk covered in paper, looking the way she always did: harried. Her colored hair was showing roots that had been neglected. Any lipstick she’d started the day with had already been chewed off. And the buttons on her blouse were off by one, if the crookedness at the collar was any indication.

  The chaos of Delia was always startling to Camille. But she understood why. Delia never used to look like a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown. No, it was Camille who had done that to her.

  Ten years ago Physicians’ Memorial Hospital had been a small facility with a solid reputation. Situated in the suburbs of New Jersey across the bridge from Philadelphia, it didn’t try to compete with the hospitals in Philly.

  Camille had chosen it as her place of practice for exactly that reason. She didn’t want to have to deal with doctors’ egos. She didn’t want to have to jostle for position among the staff. She wanted to do the work.

  In the years she’d been doing that here, the hospital had gone from small and solid to one of the most renowned hospitals for thoracic surgery and heart transplant on the East Coast. Camille Larson was a hot commodity, making Delia infinitely busier. Running a hospital, in many ways, was like running a company, and reputation was everything. Due to Camille’s success, it was like growing from a Mom-and-Pop shop to a Fortune 500 in the course of only a few years. With that came more pressure and responsibility than Delia could sometimes handle.

  Of course, Camille wasn’t only to blame for the hospital’s success. Wyatt had helped establish the hospital’s reputation before she arrived, before he abandoned surgery and focused on diagnostics.

  And there had been Dr. Logan Dade.

  Dade was everything Camille despised in a doctor. Arrogant, with a God complex, the patients were the very least of his concern. All that mattered to him was the organ that beat inside the body. Good-looking, skilled and rich, the man was a walking cliché. But he’d been a damned fine surgeon.

  Not quite as sought-after as she was, though.

  Camille liked to pretend he’d left Memorial to work at City General because he wanted a bigger stage. But the truth was this stage hadn’t been big enough for the both of them. At least for him and his ego.

  Delia, having almost adjusted to the demands of running what was now a big hospital, and trying to expand it even more, hadn’t been pleased by Dade’s departure. In fact, she’d been downright surly about it for the past month.

  It wasn’t a rational thought, but Camille was almost certain Delia blamed her.

  Not that she would voice her opinion. After all, without Camille the hospital had nothing.

  “Yes, yes. Come in, come in.”

  Camille obeyed and stepped into the maelstrom. Beyond the papers scattered over the desk, there was a credenza behind her that bore the spillover. Then there was the floor which Camille was fairly certain hadn’t been carpeted with paper.

  “I know,” Delia said catching Camille’s stunned expression. “But I had yet another assistant quit.”

  “You don’t pay them enough.”

  “I don’t get paid enough,” Delia retorted. “Anyway, things are a mess. I’ve got the people from the Heart Health Foundation coming in at the end of the month and if I don’t have everything ready for them, I might have to jump off the roof.”

  “Please don’t.”

  Delia looked at her as though she was crazy. Oh, she thought, that was hyperbole on Delia’s part. Camille never did well understanding or expressing humor.

  “Anyway, everything has to be in order. This is it. The big one. If we can get that grant money, we’ll finally have enough to add that new wing we spoke about. State-of-the-art technology, brand-new and all yours. Sound good?”

  Camille didn’t need much more than an operating room and scalpel to do her work, but she knew Delia was excited by the prospect of expanding the hospital.

  “You said those foundations are more reluctant to give grants to smaller hospitals.”

  “They are. They assume we’re all about delivering babies and handing out bandages, but you changed that. This paperwork is to prove how we are getting it done with smoke and mirrors. This is the chance of a lifetime. Everything I’ve been working toward…”

  Delia trailed off and Camille could see that, for a moment, she was completely overwhelmed. Lost in thought over the potential for success or failure. Camille wasn’t sure which.

  “I’m sure it will all work out.”

  Delia met her gaze and Camille could see that she was not pleased by her words. Delia opened her mouth to say something. Something that wasn’t going to be pleasant but she stopped herself and ran her hand through her hair instead. “What do you want?”

  “I wanted to let you know I’m having Wy— Dr. Holladay review my last two fatalities.”

  “Why? You told the medical examiner and me nothing went wrong in those surgeries.”

  “Nothing did. That’s why I want Dr. Holladay to review. I don’t know why those men died.”

  “Because they had bad hearts. There was an autopsy, there was a conclusion. Drop it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Jesus, Camille, you can’t save everyone.”

  No, but she had saved both those patients. Until they died. “He’s going to take another look. You know how he is…sometimes he sees what others miss.”

  Delia pulled her hand through her hair again, coming away with strands that she had to shake off her fingers. “Is he going to contact the families? Because we’ve heard nothing from them. If I get a call from a lawyer because of his poking around and making them think you did something wrong, so help me, Camille, I don’t care how good you are, I will come down on you like a ton of bricks.”

  “He will be discreet. And I didn’t do anything wrong. I need a better explanation for why two patients in recovery suddenly died.”

  “Fine. Let him look. But if he finds nothing, then it ends. You understand?”

  “I do.”

  Delia’s eyes stayed focused on her. “I don’t need to be worried about you, do I? Maybe some time with Dr. Rosen might help.”

  Dr. Rosen was a psychiatrist on staff who often helped with grief counseling for families.

  Camille definitely didn’t need time with him. She’d done the counseling route with him a few years ago to treat her condition. It had proved ineffective. Mostly because she didn’t believe in the science as a whole any more than she believed that a person could read another person’s aura. Talking about her issues didn’t translate to solving her problems. At least not in her mind.

  Besides, Dr. Rosen liked to ask her questions she didn’t want to answer. Often they were intrusive and annoying.

  A pragmatist, Camille recognized that in many ways her thinking was restrict
ed when it came to the edges of science. Unfortunately, she had no desire or urgency to expand her mind. She was locked in. It made her a perfect surgeon and a most fallible human being.

  “What is Wyatt’s plan?”

  The question startled Camille. “Uh…I assume he’ll review the case files, my notes. He’ll do a general background medical history and if he contacts the family, it will simply be as a follow-up call. They shouldn’t suspect anything.”

  “Because there is nothing to suspect, right?” Delia’s voice rose to a dangerously high octave. “I’m serious, Camille. I can’t have this right now. It’s bad enough you had two patients die right before I’m about to go before the Foundation asking for money for a new damn heart wing. If you know of anything that might have caused—”

  “I don’t. This is for my curiosity.”

  “Your curiosity,” Delia said, clearly disgusted. “I hope that helps you sleep at night. Because if you jeopardize this—”

  “I know. A ton of bricks.”

  “And then some. It’s bad enough you pushed Logan out of here, I can’t have you thinking you run this place now because of that.”

  There it was. The source of Delia’s recent behavior toward Camille. She’d known it on some level, she just hadn’t wanted to accept it. She should have felt better now that the truth was out, but she didn’t. Dr. Logan Dade had made her life hell for a brief time while he was here, and it seemed he was going to be responsible for more trouble now that he was gone.

  “You think I made him leave.”

  Delia tensed. “And if I do?”

  “Then you would be wrong.”

  “Look, I know he was an ass who couldn’t handle second place behind you, but still. Two amazing heart surgeons are better than one when asking for money for a new wing. His leaving was bad timing. I—I needed him. If you only could have respected him more.”

  “Respected him? You mean placated him, don’t you? Pretend I couldn’t handle surgeries he could? Not take the lead role on transplant teams? Had sex with him? He claimed to want that as well. Maybe I should have given in.”

  Delia’s lips pressed together.

  Camille was satisfied she had the last word. “Exactly. I could have done none of those things, so his leaving was not my fault.”

  “Fine, fine. Just make sure you don’t stir up any needless trouble now. I’m putting all my eggs in your basket. I’m counting on you. This hospital is counting on you.”

  Camille nodded. She turned and had made it to the door when Delia stopped her.

  “So what does he want in exchange?” Hand on the doorknob, Camille didn’t turn around, certain the flush in her cheeks would give her away.

  “Come on, give. I know Wyatt and he didn’t agree to do a favor for you without asking for something in exchange. Is his ratty old Jeep going to be taking up space in the parking lot next to my Beemer?”

  “Give up my parking space? Never.”

  With that Camille left quickly, shutting the door behind her before Delia could ask a follow-up question.

  No, Camille wasn’t going to have to give up her parking space. What Wyatt was asking for was much, much worse.

  “Say ahhhh.”

  “Marcus, do as the doctor says.”

  The little boy in front of Wyatt pressed his lips together and shook his head authoritatively. Under no circumstances was he conceding. According to his mother, this was the second case of strep he’d had in a year and his pediatrician had been considering a tonsillectomy.

  Wyatt wouldn’t comment that he didn’t necessarily see the correlation between the two, other than when the kid got strep his tonsils swelled and must be painful. But the fact that the strep was recurring…that was an issue.

  The pediatrician, however, was now out of the picture since the mother had lost her health insurance. This had brought her and her son to the health clinic at Memorial. The clinic wasn’t free. But Wyatt did everything he could to make care affordable. This visit would cost the woman forty dollars.

  The antibiotics—the ones she’d probably been skimping on, giving her son maybe half the prescribed amount until he felt better in order to save money—was where the clinic would kick in.

  A knock on the door had Wyatt turning on his swivel seat. He was hoping for a nurse who would have ideas about how to get a kid to open his mouth.

  What he got was a masked invader.

  Shaking his head at Camille’s somewhat dramatic entrance, he tried not to smile as he faced the boy.

  “Come on, Marcus. You can do this. All you have to do is open your mouth.”

  “Dr. Holladay.”

  He could hear the impatience in her voice through the white surgical mask she wore.

  “In a second, Camille. I’m with a patient.” Wyatt jerked his chin over his shoulder. “See that crazy lady behind me with the mask. You don’t want to be like her, do you? Never showing your mouth to anyone.”

  The boy looked over Wyatt’s shoulder and studied Camille standing there with her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes narrowed and the rest of her face covered.

  The boy seemed undecided.

  “No, you definitely don’t want to be like her. She’s a scaredy-cat. A germaphobe. You want to end up like that? Walking around with a mask over your face…for life?”

  He could hear Camille huff behind her protection. “I believe sharing my medical condition with patients is a violation of the Private Health Information act.”

  “I’m not disclosing private health information if the conditions aren’t real.” Wyatt said to the kid, “One little word, Marcus. Otherwise I’m going to have to find you a white mask.”

  “Ahhhhh.” Wyatt had the tongue depressor in the kid’s mouth before he could blink. He easily saw the infection and did note that the tonsils were extremely swollen. “It looks like strep.”

  The boy’s shoulders dropped as did his mother’s.

  “And the tonsils are really swollen.”

  This, he could see, alarmed the boy. The pediatrician must have used the word surgery or perhaps an even scarier word like tonsillectomy in the kid’s presence. “There is only one course of treatment I can think of…ice cream.”

  “Ice cream?” the boy rasped.

  “Lots and lots of ice cream. Maybe some milk shakes or sherbet thrown in to mix things up.”

  The kid’s jaw dropped open, his eyes wide. “But I love ice cream.”

  “Then it’s lucky for you that’s the cure.”

  “This is ridiculous. Ice cream is not the cure for strep throat,” Camille chimed in.

  “Don’t listen to her, Marcus. Who trusts anyone in a mask like that? Can you do me a favor? Wait out in the hall by the reception desk and I’m going to talk to your mom. I’ve got to let her know what flavors work best.”

  “I like vanilla the best, but I’ll even eat strawberry if I have to. It’s got fruit in it.”

  Wyatt patted him on the shoulder. “Good man.”

  The kid left and Wyatt swiveled to the mother.

  “I know what you’re going to say,” she said. “But I don’t have… I mean, I brought him here, but a prescription for antibiotics…even generic…is going to be a lot and I don’t have—”

  She stopped herself and Wyatt’s heart broke. As it did every time a patient came in and had to decide between their health and the rent, or their children’s health and food for that month.

  “Mrs. Langdon, the clinic will help you out with the prescription. We use a discount pharmacy and can work out a payment plan that can bring the cost down to a couple of dollars a week.”

  The relief in her was palpable.

  “But here is the thing. You need to finish the entire prescription. You can’t stop giving him the meds when he feels better. By doing that you’re not killing the strep, which is why it keeps recurring. And each time it does, the infection gets worse and the necessary antibiotics need to get stronger. You don’t want that.”

  She nodded. �
��Last time he seemed fine and there was almost half a bottle left. Then he got sick again and I used the rest, but then that was gone and a few weeks later here I am.”

  “I understand. Promise me. The whole prescription. Don’t stop until it’s gone.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “Okay, Margaret at the desk—who is probably giving your son a grape lollipop if I had to guess—will help you with the financial paperwork for the prescription.” Wyatt scratched out the order and signed his name on the pad.

  Illegibly. Because that’s how the cool doctors rolled.

  The mother took the script and with a watery smile left the treatment room.

  Satisfied, Wyatt faced what he hoped was a woman impressed with his bedside manner. Especially because he planned to give her a large dose of his bedside manner in the very near future.

  But he couldn’t tell much behind the mask.

  “Dr. Larson, what can I do for you? A mysterious ailment? An urgent need to see the doctor? I understand…take off your clothes and I’ll see what I can do for you.”

  “You’re a child.”

  “I don’t think so. If I were, I wouldn’t necessarily want to see you with your clothes off.”

  She stamped her foot a little bit and he felt the corresponding hit to his heart.

  She was nuts. Filled with insecurities and control issues. More often than not she was condescending to his practice. Her sense of humor on her best day was nonexistent. Except, for whatever reason, he found her hysterically funny.

  She was nothing his first wife had been and nothing he ever imagined for himself in the future. He preferred blondes for one and her hair was un-enhanced brown. Long, she forever wore it back and clipped up. He never understood why women who had long hair chose to wear it tucked away. Beyond that, Wyatt liked women with a big smile and an easy attitude to match his own, and Camille Larson was as buttoned-up as a woman could be.

  He couldn’t remember the last time she smiled. Maybe that’s why she wore the mask.

  “I want to know if you’ve made any progress with the case reports.”

  “I have not. Haven’t even looked at them.”

  Her eyes, which were a normal hazel—nothing to write home about—glared at him.