The Proteus Cure

by Wilson, F. Paul

  Tanesha sobbed again. Couldn’t help it.

  “Oh, Lordy, I sure hope you right. ’Cause if you ain’t, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m so sick of them strange looks people give me, I don’t want to go out. And even little Jamal’s starting to look at me like I ain’t his mother no more. He don’t understand—shit, I don’t understand—and I think he’s as scared as me. Maybe more.”

  Dr. Takamura touched her arm again. “I’m not promising a solution, Tanesha. I want to be clear on that. But I’ll use everything modern medicine has to offer to find an answer for you.”

  “Can’t ask for more than that, I guess.” She paused. “You think this was caused by my cancer medicine?”

  Dr. Takamura blinked. “What makes you think that?”

  “The doctor I saw yesterday—”

  “Who?”

  “At the Penner clinic. Real piece of work. All the personality of a collard green. Maybe less. Anyway, he’s looking me over, and as soon as he hears I had cancer therapy, he gets all shook up and says I gots to get back to Tethys.”

  “He probably wasn’t familiar with the therapy and thought your immune system might be compromised.”

  “You wanna say that in English?”

  She smiled. “What’s important is that he sent you to the right place.”

  Tanesha sensed something bothering Dr. Takamura.

  “But you didn’t answer my question, doc: Could this be from the treatment?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. But that’s one of the things I’ll be looking into.”

  “This other patient—she get the same cancer treatment as me?”

  Another head shake. “I can’t discuss other patients—privacy, you know.”

  Dr. Takamura seemed to be plenty worried, about more than privacy, but Tanesha let it go. She trusted this lady. Had to. She had no one else.

  SHEILA

  Sheila wished she’d seen Tanesha before lunch so she could have told Abra. She’d told her all about the bug and Paul, but this was big. Exciting. Abra would have to wait, but not Bill. As soon as she finished her round of appointments, Sheila headed for Bill’s office, walking at top speed. It took all her reserve to keep from running.

  Two patients with pigment changes—radical, pervasive changes. Hair too—not only color but texture as well. And both treated with VG723. There had to be a connection.

  She pulled open the door to the clinic building and found herself facing a wall of rain. What had begun as a light mid-morning drizzle had graduated to a full-scale deluge. And her umbrella was in her car.

  Damn.

  Well, she’d just have to get wet. This couldn’t wait. She had to tell Bill. And a phone call wasn’t going to do it. This was face-to-face stuff.

  Wait—the tunnels.

  She passed the elevator and pushed through the stairwell door to its right. Two flights down, through another door, and she was in the tunnel system.

  The underground network that crisscrossed the campus had been dug back in the nineteenth century when this had been Bradfield College. The granite blocks forming the walls, floors, and arched ceilings gave the tunnels a chill, dungeony feel.

  Sheila wondered what it had been like down here before electricity. What had folks used to see? Torches? Kerosene lamps? Must have been dark and foreboding. Now, with fluorescent light boxes strung along the ceilings, they were anything but.

  Light alone couldn’t dissipate the damp chill, however. Nor keep out the trickles that seeped through from above.

  Sheila rarely came down here, so she had to pause to orient herself. The Admin building was to her right, and then left. They needed signs down here. Take a wrong turn and you could wind up in one of the unrefurbished dead-ends.

  She maintained a hurried walk, nodding and smiling to other Tethys staff members taking advantage of the shelter.

  She was glad to see them. After last night, the last place she wanted to be alone was in these eerie tunnels.

  Reaching the Admin stairs, she ran up to the first floor, down the hall, and pushed through a door emblazoned with William P. Gilchrist, Jr. MD.

  “Is he in?”

  Marge, his secretary, looked startled by Sheila’s precipitous entrance.

  “Yes, but he’s on a call.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sheila stepped through the inner door into Bill’s sanctum without waiting to be announced. He had the phone to his ear but smiled and gestured to the settee. Sheila felt too wired to sit, so she wandered the room.

  She loved this office and hoped to have one just like it someday. The big windows with their diamond-shaped panes of leaded glass, the richly paneled walls, the hardwood floor, the stone fireplace that had been converted to gas. It used to belong to the dean of Bradfield.

  She’d been here numerous times but never tired of inspecting the photo-bedizened walls. Bill had been everywhere and seemed to know everybody. He had framed photos of himself with politicos—President Bush, Senator Kerry, Kofi Annan, among others—and celebrities—everyone from Bono to Arnold Schwarzenegger. Salted among the photos were award plaques from the American Society of Clinical Oncology, the American Society of Pediatric Hematology / Oncology, the Massachusetts Society of Clinical Oncology, plus a host of cancer advocacy groups.

  She studied his smiling face under a ten-gallon Stetson as he shook hands with Imus at his ranch for kids with cancer. The same smile that had pulled her back into the light from the darkest moment of her life.

  She remembered that time … she’d never forget.

  Her mother had recently died, only a year after Da. Sheila’s pregnancy had helped her deal with her grief and she’d begun applying for positions at cancer centers. Then the call came that Dek was DOA after his accident. She’d miscarried the very next day. She’d had the D&C and then gone to pick out Dek’s casket.

  The back-to-back losses were more than she could handle and she’d begun to sleepwalk through life. Job interviews but no one called back. Why would they? Who’d want to hire a zombie?

  Bill was the only one who’d asked her what was wrong. She remembered his words to the letter.

  “I look at you and I look at your record and I see two different people. Am I missing something?”

  First she’d been amazed that someone in his position not only met with her personally, but then had the insight to see how emotionally raw she was. It was as if he knew all of her sorrows and cared enough to ask about them. She’d trusted him instantly; breaking down, she told him everything.

  He’d listened patiently, then shocked her by offering a one-year trial on the spot. She’d also have free access to the psychiatrists and psychotherapists on staff to help her get back on track. A dream come true. If she proved herself, she’d be offered a long-range contract; if not, well, then …

  Sheila had planned to make full use of the shrinks, but then she’d met Abra. The seemingly debilitated woman’s indefatigable drive and courage motivated Sheila to pour out her heart. Losing Dek was a near mortal blow, but the miscarriage had all but put her over the edge. And she’d never told anyone, so had no one to console her. But Abra had listened. She always listened.

  And when Abra talked, it was never about herself. The fertility clinic was everything. Most of the women they saw there, Abra told her, either couldn’t conceive or had miscarried several times. One in five pregnancies ended in miscarriage she’d said, but that didn’t make it less emotionally devastating. There’s no greater disappointment, Abra had said as she patted her hand. Just like Mum used to do.

  Abra now let her come into the clinic and hold the newborns whenever she wanted. And she assured Sheila if and when the time came, Abra would make sure Sheila had a successful pregnancy.

  Sheila knew she filled a void in Abra’s life too. Abra had never had a lover, much less a daughter. Theirs became the perfect symbiotic relationship.

  Her companionship and Sheila’s work proved to be all the therapy she needed. The patients on the
oncology unit, whose problems were so much worse than hers, healed her perspective. She became fully functioning.

  And she owed that to Bill. In so many ways he had saved her life. God knew what would have happened if he hadn’t thrown her a lifeline. She would always revere him for that.

  A handsome, brilliant man with a heart. You didn’t find one of those very often. If he weren’t married … but he was.

  She still felt an aching void where Dek had lived. If the child had survived, at least something of him would remain. But she’d learned to compartmentalize it. At least during the day. Nights were the worst. When the lights went out and she lay alone, thoughts of Dek and what their child would have been hovered around the bed like ghosts.

  She turned as she heard Bill hang up. He leaned back in his green leather chair and looked at her from the far side of his huge mahogany desk.

  “What’s up, Sheila?”

  She stepped to the edge of the desk, trying to rein in her excitement and sound professional.

  “You’ll never guess who walked into my exam room today.”

  He smiled. “Brad Pitt?”

  “No! Remember Kelly Slade? We talked about her yesterday—the woman with the hair and pigment changes?”

  Bill’s smile faded a bit. “Of course. But I thought she—had an accident.”

  “She did, but I’ve just found another one.”

  He frowned. “Another …?”

  “Another patient with pervasive pigment changes.”

  “Who is she?”

  She couldn’t contain her excitement.

  “Name’s Tanesha Green, only she’s the exact opposite of Kelly. Instead of a white woman turning brown, this lady’s a thirty-nine-year-old African-American who looks like she’s turning Caucasian!”

  Bill shook his head. “How can that …?”

  “That’s what I want to know. And here’s the kicker: Just like Kelly, she was treated with VG-seven-twenty-three. There’s got to be a connection!”

  She grinned but it faltered when she saw Bill’s mood change.

  “Wait a sec, wait a sec,” he said, raising his hands. “Don’t go off half cocked. Sit down please.” His voice shifted to a disappointed tone. “Post hoc ergo propter hoc? Not what I’d expect from someone scientifically trained.”

  He was right of course. Just because Event A preceded Event B didn’t mean that A had caused B. But …

  “Seven-twenty-three is something these two have in common.”

  “Okay, I understand the thrill of finding something new, but step back for a wider perspective. These two women may have many things in common that you don’t know about—exposure to toxins, for one. You’ll have to background that. But from where I sit, I see something very important that they don’t have in common.”

  “What?”

  “A syndrome: One is losing pigment while the other is—or rather, was—gaining it. You’ve got two different problems here, Sheila.”

  Okay, on the surface, she had to agree.

  “But still, I sense a connection.”

  He shrugged. “Instinct is wonderful, and shouldn’t be ignored. But instinct isn’t enough. You need a pattern, you need evidence of replication. I shouldn’t have to explain the scientific method to you. What you have is an observation of pigment changes in two seven-twenty-three patients. So you’ve come up with a hypothesis: VG-seven-twenty-three caused those pigment changes. But all hypotheses need to be tested. How can you do that?”

  The answer was obvious.

  “Find more cases.”

  “Exactly.” He tapped a few buttons on his keyboard, then rose from his chair and swiveled it toward her. “Sit here.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re going to see if we can find more pigment changes.”

  After hesitating a heartbeat, she walked around the desk and sat in his chair. The seat was still warm. On any other chair that would have put her off, but this was Bill Gilchrist’s seat.

  He moved behind to hover over her right shoulder.

  “Click the Global Search button.”

  Sheila frowned. “Global Search? I don’t have anything like that.”

  “Only two people do: Abra and yours truly. It allows access to the entire system—the records of every patient who’s ever been treated at Tethys.”

  Sheila was impressed. “Super. An all-access pass.”

  “You could call it that.”

  “Some research tool.”

  “One that could easily be misused. I’ve already entered my password. Go ahead.”

  Sheila clicked and up popped a dialog box.

  “Now what?”

  “Type in ‘vg723’ plus ‘pigment’ plus ‘change’ and let’s see what we get.”

  She did. “552 VG723 files found” popped onto the screen.

  “Five-fifty-two?” she said. “I had no idea.”

  “The trial was well underway when you joined us.”

  She watched a blinking magnifying-glass icon meander about the screen until a dozen or so names popped up, Kelly Slade’s among them.

  “Aha!”

  Bill leaned closer over her shoulder, close enough to identify his aftershave—Woods. She found the aroma almost intoxicating.

  “Okay. Start going through them and see what we’ve got.”

  The search engine impressed her, bold-facing the key words wherever they appeared. As she scanned the files one at a time, her disappointment grew. The incidences of pigment changes in VG723 patients appeared limited to nevi, scar tissue, and nail beds. Nothing but Kelly’s mentioned a pervasive change.

  “Damn.”

  He rested a hand on her shoulder. She liked the sensation.

  “Looks like you’ll need a new hypothesis.”

  “But—”

  “But what? Hundreds of seven-twenty-three patients, and only one match.”

  “Two if you count Tanesha. I haven’t entered her data yet.”

  “What’s her last name again?”

  “Green. Tanesha Green.”

  “Whatever. Do you see how important it is not to jump to conclusions? Implicating seven-twenty-three in these two rare syndromes could harm the clinical trial. I hope you haven’t mentioned this to anyone.”

  “Me? No. But Tanesha brought it up to me.”

  She felt Bill’s grip tighten on her shoulder, then relax. He released her and moved away.

  “Did she now?” he said in a low voice.

  Sheila rotated the chair and saw him staring out the window, his back to her.

  “Something wrong?” She rubbed her shoulders, doubting he realized how hard he had squeezed.

  “Not yet.” He turned to face her, his expression grim. “But there could be. How convinced was this Tanesha Green that seven-twenty-three was at the root of her problem?”

  “Not convinced at all. She just asked the question. And I think it’s a natural question. I mean, the major event in her life these past few years was a miracle therapy. Now there’s another major change in her body and she’s wondering if the two are related.”

  Bill’s gaze locked onto her. “Sheila, I’m making it your job to put an end to such wondering.”

  Shocked, she blurted, “B-but why?”

  “Because it’s groundless—you’ve seen that for yourself.” His face reddened and a vein bulged on his forehead. “But that doesn’t mean it can’t harm the clinical trial. If she starts blathering to the world that seven-twenty-three is turning her Caucasian or some such nonsense, God knows what damage she could do.”

  Sheila was baffled.

  “How?”

  “By making other seven-twenty-three patients paranoid. Soon they’ll start questioning every mole, every splotch of color—Was that there before? I never noticed it. I wonder if it’s that medication they gave me. As soon as that starts, the lawyers will come sniffing around. Before you know it, VecGen and Tethys will be chin deep in a host of frivolous suits. We’re on the brink of a cure for cancer, Sheila
. A cure.”

  Though it was cold in his office, Bill was sweating. He wiped his brow with his cuff.

  “But it’s VecGen’s product, not ours.” Unease made her voice barely audible. “Anyway, what if it’s a delayed reaction? What if the other patients simply haven’t shown symptoms yet, or theirs aren’t as severe as these two? If nothing else, we’re obligated to report our findings to VecGen.”

  “God, Sheila. They are not our findings. They’re your findings, and I don’t agree with them. Read my lips. There is no connection. Don’t ruin a good thing here because you’re anxious to get your name in print.”

  She flinched. He may as well have slapped her across the face.

  He paused. “It is VecGen’s product, but we’ve been overseeing the clinical trial—we’re the ones who put it into the folks who become plaintiffs.” He glared at her. “Do you understand now?”

  Sheila felt like crying. How dare he think she was only pursuing this to get published. What a crass, know-it-all, arrogant—

  And all that aside, she didn’t want to believe that formerly terminal patients would sue the very people who’d saved their lives. But who was she kidding? This was twenty-first century America—everyone’s a victim, anything for a buck, devil take the hindmost.

  Then a thought struck her.

  “But wait. As you just proved, there’s no connection. They can’t win.”

  Bill shook his head and threw his hands up.

  “Even if you’re the victor in one of these suits, you lose.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Legal expenses, for one,” he said. “Victorious or not, frivolous suit or not, VecGen and Tethys will have to defend themselves—our overpriced lawyers against their ambulance chasers. But that’s only the most obvious cost. The real damage will be if seven-twenty-three becomes stigmatized. Think of the people who’ll shy away from it, people who could be helped. And here’s an even worse scenario.”

  Sheila couldn’t imagine it.

  “What?”

  “VecGen discontinuing VG-seven-twenty-three because it simply isn’t worth it.”