Noble Vision

by LaGreca, Gen

  “The Phantom found out where I live,” she remarked to David when she received the jasmine.

  “So it seems.”

  “I wonder when he’ll come to see me. He doesn’t seem in any hurry,” she complained.

  “Why don’t you give him a break?”

  “Why do you take his side over your patient’s? And why are you laughing? My affairs seem to amuse you.”

  “I’m sorry, really I am.”

  “But you’re still laughing! The Phantom’s probably waiting to see if I’ll ever be normal again, and I don’t blame him.”

  “Nicole,” he said, the amusement tapering off, “maybe he has a pressing matter on his mind and can’t step forward. When he does appear, you might give him a chance to explain. Maybe he would be thrilled to have you just as you are. Maybe you’re absolutely perfect for him right now and you don’t even know it.”

  * * * * *

  David arrived at Nicole’s apartment one afternoon to hear a thump as he entered. He found her on the floor of her studio, in a leotard, her hands covering her face. She felt his comforting hand touch her shoulder.

  “Are you okay, Nicole?”

  “Yes,” she mumbled through her hands, her voice heavy with despair.

  “No one said it would be easy,” he said sympathetically.

  After he helped her to her feet, they stood still, holding hands, her bent head brushing his shoulder, a few tears dropping onto his shirt.

  “I tried to turn and lost my balance.”

  “You’ll get it. But right now you’re supposed to be at the barre,” he gently admonished. “You were nowhere near it.”

  “I know I disregarded your instructions. But I just wanted to dance one simple routine, free of any crutches. I almost had it! It was the first dance I do as Pandora, after the gods create me.”

  “That dance is too dangerous! I don’t want you flying through the air now. If you fall—”

  “I modified it to— Hey, do you know the number? Have you . . . seen . . . my show?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked astonished, her tears drying. “How come you never mentioned that you saw my show?”

  “It didn’t seem . . . relevant.”

  “It’s very relevant, David! What did you think of it?”

  “I think the Phantom has good taste.”

  “That means you liked my show? Did you really?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  The solemnity in his words made her forget her discouragement. They were still holding hands. She squeezed his.

  “I want to try the dance again. And I want you to watch, if you’d like to.”

  “No! It’s dangerous. I don’t want you to—”

  “Please try not to worry, David. I’ll do what you don’t like anyway when you’re not here. But you are here, so would you like to . . . see me . . . dance . . . for you?”

  She felt a sudden breathless excitement at offering herself to his eyes to watch. Without waiting for his answer, she walked to a sound system in the corner and began the music.

  That was how David received a private showing of Pandora’s first dance, which had held him spellbound since a desperate night the previous winter. He thought of that snowy evening when he had discovered Nicole Hudson. Armed with Pandora’s hope, he had reclaimed his rats and completed the first successful nerve-repair experiments. Now, as she danced exclusively for him, her spirit reawakened. He saw in glorious close-up the qualities he had admired from the audience, the stunning mix of a disciplined, almost ascetic, skill with the exultation that was Nicole. She danced flawlessly, the pride of her achievement glowing on her face. When she finished, he approached her, a rush of afternoon sun from the window beaming across him.

  “You’re lovely, Nicole.”

  She stood facing him with her head lifted and her body pulled back. Although she avoided gestures underscoring her blindness, at that moment she urgently wanted to touch his face. She raised her hand to the features that she had never felt, but she did not complete the movement. She suddenly developed a strange fascination with her arm, shining in the sun’s rays. She waved it from side to side. David stared intensely. He grasped her chin to hold her head still. Then he waved his arm before her. Nicole’s eyes followed the movement from side to side. Then up and down. When his arm stopped waving, her eyes stopped, too.

  “David!” she whispered incredulously. “I can see a dark shadow moving. It’s your arm, isn’t it? I can see your arm waving!”

  * * * * *

  On a cloudless day in September, David and Nicole sat in the park near her apartment, enjoying the delicious nip of the first fall air. Nicole’s sight was improving. She could see light and motion from greater distances. The once-empty canvas of her perception now held shadings of gray masses that moved. The five cats in David’s laboratory mirrored these improvements. The severed optic nerves were growing back. From his past experiments, David expected Nicole’s limited vision to plateau and then to deteriorate as the scar tissue grew to impede the regenerated nerves. His experience with animals indicated that he must perform the second surgery to remove the scar tissue before Nicole lost her newfound vision entirely; otherwise, she would never see again.

  Such were the matters on his mind that day, a week before the hearing, sitting with Nicole on the park bench. Her face was serenely calm as it caught the crisp fall breeze, her swanlike neck accentuated with a turtleneck sweater and short blond hair, her shapely legs outlined by her slacks. She felt contentment in his presence, in the rich baritone voice and warm hands that conveyed the thoughts and feelings of the man whose portrait was missing from her mind’s collection. She also enjoyed the intimacy of their frequent moments of comfortable silence.

  As if an inimical world suddenly asserted itself to choke the peaceful rhythm of their afternoon, a man in the park collapsed. Nicole heard screams for help and felt David spring from the bench to assist. Desperate cries from the man’s frightened companions gave her a start: “He stopped breathing!” “Call an ambulance!” “He’s turning blue!” After interminable minutes trying to revive the stricken man, David finally uttered two words that relieved everyone: “He’s breathing.” Nicole heard an ambulance siren, the wheels of a stretcher rolling along the pavement, her companion’s voice describing the man’s condition to the rescuers, and the scramble to lift the victim into the vehicle. Then the ambulance door slammed shut and the matter was over. Nicole heard voices growing fainter as the crowd that had gathered dispersed.

  When David returned to her side, he described the incident the way another man would relate a boxing match, blow by blow. His words were punctuated by the excitement peculiar to him when he spoke of anything medical.

  “You miss the hospital, don’t you?” she asked when he had finished.

  “Yes,” he admitted.

  For one painful moment, her eyes closed.

  “I was an emergency medical technician when I was fifteen,” he explained. “I lied about my age to get certified, but it was worth it. I got a real thrill from the fieldwork.”

  “And what happened?”

  “I got caught.”

  “Did you get in trouble?”

  “Oh, yes. I was charged with a crime. My father was furious. He grounded me, so I was a prisoner in my room. But later he backed down. You see, I had done good work, and he knew it. He couldn’t punish me for long, so he got the charges against me dropped and gave me back my freedom.”

  “So now we’re wondering if your father will be so kind as to give us back our lives, aren’t we?” Her exquisite mouth frowned. “It’s the thing I always hated most, having others decide for me. Sister Luke said that when I grew up, I would be in charge. Now—” Her voice caught in the tears she tried to contain.

  She felt his hand tighten around hers. “I know,” he said softly.

  “What gives them the right?”

  He had no answer.

  “How can this be happening to us?”

 
“I want you to hang on for another week, until the hearing, and not let this torment you—”

  He realized that Nicole was no longer listening. Her head was turned to a street vendor’s cart next to their bench. She rose slowly from her seat, like a sleepwalker in a trance. Her eyes widened, then squinted, as if straining to . . . perceive something. David followed her, watching intently. Nicole placed her face up against a cluster of balloons that the vendor was selling. Her fingers lightly touched the colorful balls.

  “They’re balloons!” she exclaimed. She pressed one of them against her face. “This one’s red.” Then her fingers found another and pulled it to her face. “This one’s blue.” She repeated the action for another balloon in the cluster. “Yellow.”

  David grabbed her shoulders and stared into the amazing blue pools that were his experiment.

  “I can see color! David, I can see color!”

  They stood like two children, laughing in tribute to the great promise of life within them. David bought the cluster of balloons from the vendor and handed them to the radiant figure beside him. They linked arms in sheer delight, with the sound of their laughter filling the sunlit park.

  “Pretty soon, I’ll see you, David!”

  “That should be interesting.”

  Chapter 21

  On Trial

  The secretary of medicine slept fitfully in his Manhattan penthouse. Although he had taken sleeping pills the night before, Warren Lang lay awake for many hours. At the first light of dawn, tension finally gave way to exhaustion, and he dozed off. He dreamed that he was walking a large, unruly dog. The animal tugged at its leash, barking viciously. Warren struggled to hold the beast, but it broke loose. It moved menacingly toward a boy of about ten years old. The dog leaped up on its hind legs, towering over the frightened child. It jumped on the boy and pushed him to the ground. The terrified child screamed. Warren tried desperately to run to the boy and to cry for help, but his legs were paralyzed and his mouth was unable to utter a sound. With outstretched arms, the boy begged for assistance. Warren could only watch in horror as the salivating beast tore its sharp teeth into one of the small arms and the child screamed in pain. Warren awakened, sitting up in bed, his heart pounding and his body soaked in sweat. He sat trembling, head in hands, overcome by the lingering terror of a dream too real.

  That day marked the seventh week since his elder son had performed the surgery on Nicole Hudson and the seventh week before the gubernatorial election. It was the week when Mack Burrow would announce his running mate. That overcast Wednesday in September was also the day of David’s hearing before CareFree.

  Too upset to eat, Warren skipped breakfast. When he left his apartment, he was dressed like the consummate executive. However, the dark circles under his eyes and the loose-fitting suit revealed the loss of sleep and appetite that had plagued him for the past seven weeks. He saw the sun reduced to a pale backlight on a cluster of clouds, making the sky a translucent, snowy gray. The secretary ignored the passersby who watched him enter a waiting limousine. No smiles, no waves, no drinking in his admirers like a fresh cup of coffee to give Warren a boost that dreary morning.

  Climbing the steps of the Bureau of Medicine’s Manhattan building, he read the inscription on the gold plaque dominating the entrance: To serve the public interest above all other concerns—this is the noble work of medicine. The quotation had his name etched under it.

  He was a distinguished public figure but also a sleepless wreck. His son was a hero but also an outlaw. He was about to perform a noble act by his own quotation, but he felt only misery. As he entered the revolving door to the old brick building, his life was also whirling in an endless loop. He thought of the philosopher he had once read who said that reality consisted of an inherent conflict of opposites. What was right? What was wrong? Warren, the great moral leader, did not know.

  He reached a wood-paneled chamber that was a former courtroom now used by CareFree to conduct hearings. The varnished oak floor and rich mahogany benches were suitable for a grand assembly where statesmen pursued just causes. Warren took his seat at the judge’s bench to face a crowd of people. To his left was a witness stand and jury box. Before him were the defendant’s and prosecutor’s tables. Behind them was a balustrade, and beyond it, a gallery of witnesses and visitors. It was now Warren’s task to explain to the packed room that this was not a trial and he was not a judge. The conflict of opposites.

  His eyes scanned the reporters and onlookers in the gallery and the twelve people whom he had asked to sit in the jury box. He noticed the stunning young patient, Nicole Hudson, and her older female companion in the audience. He glanced to his left at CareFree’s lawyer and, last, to his right at David, sitting with his attorney. CareFree had not announced the administrator for the hearing, and his son looked astonished to see him.

  Warren greeted the gathering and explained the procedure. “This hearing will loosely resemble a trial, but with more flexibility for the free expression of all views. I have asked six distinguished community leaders and six medical professionals to act as my advisory panel.” Warren pointed to the twelve people in the jury box. “This way the government, the community, and the clinicians can decide this case democratically. I will serve as the moderator to ensure the free flow of information, so the truth can be known and justice can be served.”

  He had options, he reminded himself. If the advisors exonerated David, then maybe the governor would relent. If they opted for punishment, then maybe David would relent. If they rendered an unacceptable decision, then he had the power as secretary to overrule them and to be the final authority on the matter. But what was acceptable? He could not decide. If only he could have both of his fervent wishes: the nomination for lieutenant governor and the rescue of David. The conflict of opposites.

  Attorney Brian Harkness, a short, bespectacled man with a shrewd face that made him look older than his thirty-six years, presented CareFree’s case against David. He described how the surgeon had disregarded the hospital rules and broken the law on the evening of Nicole Hudson’s surgery.

  “So that no one will think there were extenuating circumstances to excuse David Lang’s infraction, I will demonstrate that his surgery was based on bogus research, that it represented an unwarranted use of public funds, and that it posed a danger to the patient,” Harkness explained.

  He called on neurosurgeons to describe from the witness stand the formidable problem of nerve regeneration. These experts testified that countless researchers through the centuries had tried unsuccessfully to regrow the tissue of the central nervous system. The unanimous opinion of the state’s experts was that such nerve regeneration was impossible.

  Harkness then asked a public-health spokeswoman to describe the shortage of medical resources and the imperative for doctors to use them prudently. Wasteful tests, unnecessary surgical procedures, and unauthorized hospital stays constituted a misuse of public funds that were urgently needed elsewhere, she testified.

  Harkness produced regulatory officials to describe the laws controlling surgeries and medications. The witnesses stated that the surgical procedure and the drugs that David Lang had employed in his experimental treatment were unapproved by the government for use in humans and were therefore illegal. Harkness charged that the surgeon acted brashly, creating unsafe conditions for his patient.

  David’s lawyer, Russell Green, a tall man in his forties with a gentlemanly manner and intelligent, gunmetal eyes, answered the state’s charges. Regarding the validity of the procedure, Green asked David to explain his research. Using a visual presentation from his laptop computer, the surgeon showed how he had repaired the severed spinal cords of cats. The state’s medical witnesses then argued that the spinal cords of the animals had perhaps not been completely severed at the start of the treatment, thereby invalidating the results. This allegation, which implied carelessness or dishonesty in the experiment, made David bristle.

  Regarding the misuse of public fun
ds, Green displayed three checks written to Riverview Hospital, each sufficient to cover the experimental treatment. The checks were from David Lang, Nicole Hudson, and the producer of the show Triumph, each with an accompanying letter directing the hospital to use the money for the dancer’s care. However, Green explained, the hospital was prohibited from cashing the checks. In the name of protecting the public against profiteers who make money off the sick, a hospital accepting private payment for treatment was automatically dropped as a CareFree provider and consequently forced out of business. This left the patient no choice but to rely on CareFree, which meant to use public funds for her medical care.

  Regarding the issue of Nicole’s safety, Green stressed that the patient was unharmed by the procedure. Indeed, a rudimentary vision was returning to Nicole. The state’s experts countered that the patient could have had that rudimentary vision the entire time, and a technical argument ensued over the interpretation of Nicole’s brain scan and her claim that she could not see anything before the surgery.

  “Could I interrupt this erudite discussion, all of which is irrelevant?” a voice rang from the back of the courtroom. “I’m Randall Lang, the president of Riverview Hospital.” Heads turned to watch the tall blond man whom David had banned from the hearing walk down the gallery to the railing. “I would like to address the court—oh, excuse me—the hearing,” Randy said, bowing slightly to his father. “You know, I almost said ‘Your Honor,’ but then you’re not a judge, are you, and that’s not a jury, is it?” He pointed to Warren’s advisors in the jury box. “And forgive me for mentioning it, but the defendant isn’t exactly presumed innocent, is he?”

  “He can’t speak!” cried David, leaping from his seat to approach Warren’s bench. “This matter doesn’t concern him, and I won’t allow him to speak!”

  “It does, and I will,” said Randy, walking forward to stand next to David.