The Touch

by F. Paul Wilson

  “Why in God’s name haven’t you done or said anything to squelch the ridiculous stories about these miracle cures you supposedly perform?”

  Alan opened his mouth and then closed it. He’d been about to give his usual reply about not dignifying the stories by taking the trouble to deny them, then changed his mind. Why not get it out in the open? He was tired of the half-truths, the surreptitious cures, the constant tension. Why not put an end to all that and come clean? He pushed himself to speak quickly before he had a chance to change his mind.

  “I haven’t made any denials because the stories are true.”

  There—I’ve said it.

  A dead hush fell over the room, broken only briefly by Tony’s muttered, “Christ on a crutch!”

  “Let me get this straight, Alan,” Lou said with an incredulous, half-amused, tell-me-I’m-wrong smile on his face. “Do you mean to say that you can actually cure incurable illnesses with a touch?”

  “I know it sounds nuts,” Alan said with a nod, “but yes—it’s been happening for…” How long had it been? He couldn’t remember when it had begun. “For months.”

  The board members exchanged worried glances. As they began to bend their heads together to confer, Bud Reardon said:

  “Alan, do you realize what you’re saying?”

  “Believe me, I do. And if I were in your shoes, I know I’d be looking at me just the way you are.”

  Alan’s statement seemed to have a disarming effect on the board, but only for a moment. The consternation on their faces remained, and they all seemed to be urging an opinion from the two medical members. Alan looked over at Tony and found him glaring his way in frustration. The lawyer made a punching motion with his fist. He wasn’t encouraging Alan—he was angry.

  Finally Lou broke the silence. “We simply can’t accept what you’ve said, Alan. You’ve put us in a dreadful position with this. We thought maybe you were simply ignoring the wild stories in the hope they would go away; some of us even thought you might be letting the stories continue because of the tremendous boost the publicity gave your practice. But none of us ever even considered the possibility that you would stoop to propagate such nonsense—”

  “Now just a minute!” Tony said, leaping to his feet. “Just a goddamn minute! Nobody’s going to call this man a liar while I’m around. This isn’t a court and I don’t have to be constrained by court decorum. Anybody who calls him a liar will answer to me!”

  “Now, now,” said the car dealer. “There’s no call for that sort of—”

  “Bullshit, there ain’t! When this man tells you something is so, it’s so!”

  Bud Reardon cleared his throat again. “I would tend to agree, Mr. DeMarco. I’ve known Dr. Bulmer since he first came to this community—interviewed him when he applied here to the staff, in fact. And having observed him over the years, I can say that his level of care and sense of medical ethics are beyond reproach. Which leaves us with a critical and most uncomfortable question: What if Dr. Bulmer is indeed telling the truth, but only as he sees it?”

  There were puzzled expressions all around Dr. Reardon, but Alan knew exactly where he was going.

  “He means,” Alan said to the group, “that although I may be telling the truth, I might be having delusions which lead me to honestly believe that I can cure with a touch, even though I can’t.”

  Reardon nodded. “Exactly. Which would classify you as a psychotic.”

  “I can show you documentation if you—”

  “I was thinking of something a little more immediate and concrete,” Reardon said. He pushed back his seat, pulled off his left loafer and sock, and placed his bare foot on the table. “This has been killing me since about three a.m.”

  Alan saw the angry, reddened, slightly swollen area at the base of his great toe. Gout. No doubt about it.

  Bud Reardon looked him in the eye. “Let’s see what you can do about this.”

  Alan froze. He hadn’t expected this. Not now. He’d been certain he would be called upon eventually to prove his fantastic claim, but he’d never dreamed it would be here in the conference room.

  The Hour of Power—when was it scheduled to begin today? He’d been out of the office for a few days so he’d lost track. Damn! If only he could remember! He made some rapid calculations. Monday it had been…when? Late afternoon, about 4:00. His mind raced through a series of calculations. He would have to depend solely on those calculations, because the Hour of Power never announced itself.

  If his calculations were correct, he could count on about thirty minutes of the Touch right now.

  But were his calculations correct? It all depended on Monday’s Hour of Power occurring at 4:00 p.m. Had it? Had it really? His memory had been so haphazard lately, he didn’t know if he could trust it on this. He strained to remember. Yes. On Monday he remembered using the Touch on his last patient. That had been late afternoon. Right. It had been 4:00 p.m., he was sure of it.

  Tony’s low voice stirred him back to the here-and-now.

  “You don’t have to do this, Al. You can tell them you don’t put on exhibitions and you’d prefer—”

  “It’s all right, Tony,” he told his worried-looking friend. “I can handle this.”

  Alan stood up and approached the board’s end of the table. The silent members swiveled in their seats as he passed behind them, as if afraid to lose sight of him for a fraction of a second. Lou Albert’s jaw hung slack and open as he watched from the far side. Bud Reardon’s smile became hesitant as Alan approached. He was clearly astonished that Alan had accepted his challenge.

  Alan paused before the spot where Reardon’s foot rested on the table. He was taking a terrible risk here. If his calculations were off by a single hour, he would be branded a quack or worse by these men. But it was going to work, he was sure of it. And that would wipe the frank disbelief off these smug faces in the blink of an eye.

  He reached forward and touched the toe, wanting to heal it, praying that it would be healed.

  Nothing happened.

  With his blood congealing in his veins, he held on, although he knew in his very core that he was going to fail. The Touch never delayed; if it was working, it worked right away or not at all. Still, he hung on and gripped the angry-looking joint with increasing pressure until Bud Reardon winced in pain and pulled his foot away.

  “You’re supposed to make it better, Alan, not make it hurt worse!”

  Alan was speechless. He’d been wrong. His calculations had been off. Damn his sieve of a memory! He could feel their eyes boring into him. He could hear their thoughts—Charlatan! Phony! Liar! Madman! He wanted to crawl under the table.

  Dr. Reardon cleared his throat once more. “Assuming we were in your office and you tried what you just tried with similar results, what would be your next move?”

  Alan opened his mouth to speak and then closed it. He’d prescribed the medication thousands of times, yet its name crouched over the far edge of his memory, just beyond his reach. He felt like a castaway on a desert isle watching the smoke from the stacks of a passing ship that was just over the horizon.

  Reardon mistook Alan’s hesitation for uncertainty about what was being asked of him and tried to clarify.

  “What I’m saying is, what tests would you order now? What medication?”

  Alan’s mind was completely blank. He stabbed at an answer. “An X-ray and a blood test.”

  “Oh, I hardly think an X-ray would be necessary,” Reardon said in a jovial tone, but his smile quickly faded as he stared at Alan. “‘Blood test’ is a little vague, don’t you think? What, specifically, would you order?”

  Alan racked his brain. God, if he could only think! He played for time.

  “A profile. You know—a SMAC-20.”

  Alan saw the concern and suspicion growing in Reardon’s face. It was reflected in the other faces around him.

  “Not very specific, Alan. Look. I know this is very elementary, but for the record, tell me the eti
ology of gout.”

  Tony jumped in then. “First of all, there is no record. And secondly, Dr. Bulmer is not here to be examined on gout or whatever’s wrong with Dr. Reardon’s foot!”

  “It was not intended as such,” Reardon said, “but we seem to be faced with an incredible situation here. I’ve asked Dr. Bulmer a question any first-year medical student could answer, and I’m still waiting for a reply.”

  Alan felt the room constrict around him as he sank into a fog of humiliation. Why couldn’t he think? What was wrong with him?

  “Well, don’t hold your breath!” Tony said as Alan felt himself grabbed by the arm and pulled toward the door. “Dr. Bulmer didn’t have to come here and he sure as hell doesn’t have to stay here!”

  Alan allowed himself to be led to the door. He heard Reardon’s voice behind him.

  “It would be better if he stayed. From what I’ve seen this morning, Dr. Bulmer appears mentally impaired and the board will have to take appropriate action.”

  And then they were out in the hall and heading for the parking lot.

  “Shit, Alan! Shit, shit, shit!”

  That was all Tony had said since they’d reached the car.

  “And the worst part of this whole thing is that you didn’t even have to be there! Christ! What happened in there?”

  Alan shook his head as he drove. He felt absolutely miserable, and Tony’s rantings weren’t helping.

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t come up with the answer. I’ve diagnosed and treated gout countless times, but it just wasn’t there. It was as if part of my memory had been blocked off, like it was there but it was hiding, or hidden. It still is.”

  “If they decide you’re impaired, they can suspend your privileges—I remember seeing that in the bylaws. They can put you on suspension until you’ve been evaluated by a shrink or a drug-rehabilitation guy—”

  “Drugs? You think I’m on drugs?”

  “No. I know you better than that. But, Al, you haven’t been yourself lately. And you looked spaced this morning when he started quizzing you. I’m sure the board thinks you’re either on something or you’ve cracked.”

  Alan couldn’t argue with him. He’d seen their expressions. One face lingered in the front of his mind. As Tony had propelled him from the room, Alan had glanced back and seen Lou Alberts staring after him. It was as if all their years of ill-feeling and competition had been washed away; Lou’s face was a study of shock, dismay, and—worst of all—pity.

  “And there’s worse coming, let me tell you. The hospital is required by law to notify the State Board of Medical Examiners if any staff member is suspended because of suspected impairment or any other form of incompetence.”

  Impairment…incompetence…the terms rankled in Alan’s brain. After fighting constantly to stay on top of clinical medicine, to be judged incompetent while so many other doctors coasted along with outdated knowledge and practices…

  He slowed to a stop at an intersection and sat there, staring at the road ahead as a crystalline ball of fear formed and grew in his chest.

  “Maybe they’re right,” he said. “Maybe I do need help.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m lost, Tony. I don’t know which way to go.”

  “Don’t worry, Al. I’m with you all the way. We’ll sit down and—”

  “No!” Alan heard his voice rise in pitch as the fear spread down his arms and legs, encompassing him. “I mean now. Here. This road! I know I’ve been here thousands of times, but I’m lost!”

  He turned and stared into Tony’s shocked eyes.

  “How do I get home from here?”

  24

  Sylvia

  “You didn’t have to come along,” Alan said as he got into the rear seat and sat beside her.

  “I wanted to,” Sylvia said and forced a smile. He looked so haggard and tired, his eyes haunted.

  As Ba put the Graham in gear and began to drive, Alan said, “I’m glad you did, though. That was why I asked if I could borrow Ba instead of hiring a cab. I need a friend along, and you’re it.”

  His words warmed her. She was glad he considered her someone he could turn to in time of need.

  “But what about…?” She didn’t finish the question.

  “Ginny?” He sighed. “We’re barely speaking. She wants me to see a psychiatrist. Even Tony wants me to see one.”

  “Is that who you’re seeing at Downstate? A psychiatrist?” She wanted to tell him that he was the sanest man she knew, but thought better of it. Her opinion was purely personal.

  “No. No psychiatrist—at least not yet. There’s something I’ve got to rule out first.”

  “Going to tell me about it?” she asked after a lengthy pause during which he seemed to go into a trance. But when he spoke, the words froze her blood.

  “Got to rule out a brain tumor.”

  “Oh, God! You can’t—”

  “I can’t bury my head in the sand any longer, Sylvia. My memory has gone to hell. Why do you think I’m not driving myself? Because I could get lost. Or forget where I’m going. Hell, I got lost on the way back from the hospital the other day.”

  “Couldn’t that just be stress?” she asked, praying for a simple answer.

  “It could, but that’s a wastebasket diagnosis. It could be directly related to the Dat-tay-vao, for all I know. But I have to face the possibility that a tumor could be behind it all. I had a patient a few years back with exactly the same symptoms, but he was older so I laid it off to an organic brain syndrome—Alzheimer’s or the like. But the progression of his symptoms was too rapid for my comfort—as rapid as mine—so I ordered a brain scan. Guess what? He had a big midline frontal meningioma. Benign. They shelled it out and his memory was back to normal in a couple of months. So before I do anything else”—he tapped his forehead with a finger—“I’ve got to make sure there’s nothing growing in here.”

  The thought of Alan with a brain tumor made her almost physically ill. “I can see why you wouldn’t want it done in Monroe Community.”

  “Right. Too close to home. Too many nosy trustees.”

  “Those trustees!” she said. “I can’t believe the rotten way they’ve treated you! Suspending your privileges and then releasing the news immediately to the Express!”

  “Yeah,” he said softly. She sensed his hurt and humiliation. “I didn’t expect the public execution before a hearing. Anyway, I went to school with one of the radiologists at Downstate. He fitted me in for an MRI this morning.”

  “Have you seen another doctor about any of this?”

  Alan smiled. “‘The physician who treats himself has a fool for a patient.’ Is that what you mean? I’m not treating myself, just doing a little diagnostic work.”

  “But if you had to see someone, who would you choose?”

  “Oh, there’s any number of men I’d trust. A bunch of us in the area have this unofficial network of cross-referrals and cross-coverage. After awhile you learn to sense which consultants give a damn about patients as people and which don’t. Considering that competence is pretty much equal, those are the ones who get my referrals. Vic O’Leary would probably be my first choice for a consultation. I trust him to cover my practice when I’m away, and I’d trust him with my own health. But at the moment I don’t want to put him in the hot seat.”

  Sylvia sat in silence, stewing in the fear that Alan might have something seriously wrong with him. Then she realized that if she was terrified, how must he feel?

  She found his hand and squeezed it.

  “Scared?”

  “A little.” He shrugged, then he looked at her and smiled. “Okay—a lot.”

  “Then I’m glad I’m along. No one should have to face this alone.”

  Her hand rested in his for the rest of the trip.

  As she waited on the top floor of the multilevel garage near University Hospital, Sylvia tried to read the newspaper, tried the Times crossword puzzle, tried a novel—nothing w
orked to take her mind off Alan. Except thinking about Jeffy’s continued regression, and that was hardly a relief.

  Please, God. You can’t let there be anything wrong with Alan. He’s one of the good guys. Let one of the bad guys have a brain tumor. Not Alan.

  She leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes, as much to shut out the world as to rest them. Why? Why did death and disease and misfortune swallow up everyone she cared for? First Greg’s senseless death, then Jeffy’s regression, and now Alan. Was there some sort of black cloud hanging over her? Maybe everyone would be better off if she just threw an iron gate across the driveway entrance and never left Toad Hall.

  Ninety minutes crawled by. Sylvia was getting a headache from the tension, and muscle aches in every part of her body from sitting in the back seat for so long. She was about to suggest to Ba that they get out and stretch their legs when it started to drizzle. Then she saw Alan threading his way through the parked cars in their direction. He opened the door on the other side and hopped in.

  “Well?” she said, holding her breath.

  “I’ve got one.”

  She gasped. “A tumor?”

  “No. A brain—a perfect one. No problem.”

  Without thinking, she threw her arms around him and clutched him.

  “Oh! I’m so glad!”

  Alan returned the hug. “You’re glad! Let’s celebrate!” He pulled a CD from his coat pocket and handed it forward to Ba. The interior of the car soon filled with falsetto “Oooohs” and basso “Bowms.”

  “Good lord!” Sylvia laughed. “What is that?”

  “‘I Laughed’ by the Jesters. Great, huh?”

  “It’s awful! I can’t believe you listen to doo-wop!”

  His face fell. “You don’t like oldies? They’re not all doo wop, you know.” He leaned forward. “I’ll tell Ba to turn it off.”

  “No,” she said, laying a hand on his shoulder. She had such an urge to touch him. “I like some of the old stuff, but listening to it all the time seems like such a dead end.”