Blood Test

2

The big black and gold koi was the first to surface, but the other fish soon followed his lead and within seconds all fourteen of them were sticking whiskered snouts out of the water and gobbling down food pellets as fast as I tossed them in. I knelt by a large smooth rock fringed with creeping juniper and lavender azaleas and held three pellets in my fingers just beneath the surface of the water. The big one caught the scent and hesitated, but gluttony got the better of him and his glistening muscular body snaked its way over. He stopped inches from my hand and looked up at me. I tried to appear trustworthy.

The sun was on its way down but enough light lingered over the foothills to catch the metallic glint of the gold scales, dramatizing the contrast with the velvety black patches on his back. A truly magnificent kin-ki-utsuri.

Suddenly the big carp darted and the pellets were gone from my hand. I replaced them. A red and white kohaku joined in, then a platinum ohgon in a moonlight-colored blur. Soon all the fish were nibbling at my fingers, their mouths soft as baby kisses.

The pond and surrounding garden refuge had been a gift from Robin during the painful months of recuperation from the shattered jaw and all the unwanted publicity. She’d suggested it, sensing the value of something to calm me down during the period of enforced inactivity, and knowing of my fondness for things oriental.

At first I’d thought it unfeasible. My home is one of those creations peculiar to southern California, tucked into a hillside at an improbable angle. It’s an architectural gem with spectacular views from three sides but there’s very little usable flat land and I couldn’t envision room for a pond.

But Robin had done some research, sounding out the idea with several of her craftsmen friends, and had been put in touch with an inarticulate lad from Oxnard — a young man so outwardly stuporous his nickname was Hazy Clifton. He had arrived with cement mixers, wooden forms, and a ton or two of crushed rock, and had created an elegant, meandering, naturalistic pond, complete with waterfall and rock border, that weaved its way in and around the sloping terrain.

An elderly Asian gnome materialized after Hazy Clifton’s departure and proceeded to embroider the young man’s artistry with bonsai, zen grass, juniper, Japanese maple, long-necked lilies, azalea, and bamboo. Strategically placed boulders established meditative spots and patches of snowy gravel suggested serenity. Within a week the garden looked centuries old.

I could stand on the deck that bisected the two levels of the house and look down on the pond, letting my eyes trace patterns etched in the gravel by the wind, watching the koi, jewellike and languid in their movement. Or I could descend to the floor of the garden and sit by the water’s edge feeding the fish, the surface breaking gently in concentric waves.

It became a ritual: each day before sunset I tossed pellets to the koi and reflected on how good life could be. I learned how to banish unwanted images — of death and falsehood and betrayal — from my mind with Pavlovian efficiency.

Now I listened to the gurgling of the waterfall and put aside the memory of Richard Moody’s debasement.

The sky darkened and the peacock-colored fish grayed and finally melted into the blackness of the water. I sat in the dark, content, tension a vanquished enemy.

The first time the phone rang I was in the middle of dinner and I ignored it. Twenty minutes later it rang again and I picked it up.

“Dr. Delaware? This is Kathy from your service. I had an emergency call for you a few minutes ago but nobody answered.”

“What’s the message, Kathy?”

“It’s from a Mr. Moody. He said it was urgent.”

“Shit.”

“Dr. D?”

“Nothing, Kathy. Please give me the number.”

She did and I asked her if Moody had sounded strange.

“He was kind of upset. Talking real fast — I had to ask him to slow down to get the message.”

“Okay. Thanks for calling.”

“I’ve got another one, came in this afternoon. Do you want to take it?”

“Just one? Sure.”

“This one’s from a doctor — let me get the pronunciation right — Melendrez — no Melendez-Lynch. With a hyphen.”

Now that was a blast from the past…

“He gave me this number.” She recited an exchange I recognized as Melendez-Lynch’s office at Western Peds. “Said he’d be there until eleven tonight.”

That figured. Raoul was a notable workaholic in a profession famous for them. I recalled seeing his Volvo in the doctors’ lot no matter how early I arrived at the hospital or how late I left.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it, Dr. D. Have a nice one and thanks for the cookies. Me and the other girls finished ’em off in one hour.”

“Glad you enjoyed them.” That was a five-pound box she was talking about. “Munchies?”

“What can I say?” she giggled.

A switchboard staffed by potheads and they never fouled up a message. Someone should be researching it.

I drank a Coors before addressing the question of whether or not to return Moody’s call. The last thing I wanted was to be on the receiving end of a manic tirade. On the other hand, he might be calmer and more receptive to suggestions for treatment. Unlikely, but there’s enough of the therapist left in me to be optimistic past the point of realism. Recalling that afternoon’s scuffle on the parking lot made me feel like a jerk, though I was damned if I knew how it could have been avoided.

I thought it over and then called, because I owed it to the Moody kids to give it my best shot.

The number he’d left had a Sun Valley exchange — a rough neighborhood — and the voice on the other end belonged to the night clerk at the Bedabye Motel. Moody’d found the perfect living quarters if he wanted to feed his depression.

“Mr. Moody, please.”

“Second.”

A series of buzzes and clicks and Moody said, “Yeah.”

“Mr. Moody, it’s Dr. Delaware.”

“’lo, Doc. Don’t know what got into me, jus’ wanted to say sorry, hope I dint shake you up too badly.”

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“Oh fine, jus’ fine. Got plans, gotta get myself together. I can see that. What everyone’s saying, gotta have some sense to it.”

“Good. I’m glad you understand.”

“Oh, yeah, oh yeah. I’m catchin’ on, jus’ takes me a while. Like the firs’ time I used a circular saw, supervisor tol’ me Richard — this was back when I was a kid, jus learning the trade — gotta take your time, take it slow, concentrate, ‘thwise this thing chew you up. And he’d hold up his left hand with a stump where the thumb shoulda been, said, Richard, don’ learn the hard way.”

He laughed hoarsely and cleared his throat.

“Guess sometimes I learn the hard way, huh? Like with Darlene. Mighta listened to her before she got involved with that scumbag.”

The pitch of his voice rose when he talked about Conley so I tried to ease him away from the subject.

“The important thing is that you’re learning now. You’re a young man, Richard. You’ve got a lot ahead of you.”

“Yeah. Well… old as you feel, y’know, and I’m feeling ninety.”

“This is the roughest time, before the final decree. It can get better.”

“They say that — the lawyer tol’ me too — but I don feel it. I feel shit on, y’know, shit on first class.”

He paused and I didn’t fill it in.

“Anyways, thanks for listenin’, and now you can talk to the judge and tell her I can see the kids, take ’em with me fishin’ for a week.”

So much for optimism.

“Richard, I’m glad you’re getting in touch with the situation but you’re not ready to care for your children.”

“Whythefucknot?”

“You need help to stabilize your moods. There are medications that are effective. And get someone to talk to, like you’re talking to me.”

“Yeah?” he sneered, “If they’re assholes like you, goddamn money-chasing fuckers, talkin’ to them ain’t gonna do me no good. I’m telling you I’m gonna take care of the problems now don’t give me any shit, who the fuckareyou to tell me when I can see my kids.”

“This conversation isn’t going anywhere—”

“Hunnerd procent right, Headshrinker. You listen and you listen good, they’ll be hell to pay’f I’m not set up in my rightful place as daddy…”

He emptied a bucket of verbal swill and after listening for several minutes I hung up to avoid being sullied.

In the silence of the kitchen I became aware of the pounding of my heart and the sick feeling at the pit of my stomach. Maybe I’d lost the touch — the therapist’s ability to put distance between himself and the ones who suffered so as to avoid being battered by a psychological hailstorm.

I looked down at the message pad. Raoul Melendez-Lynch. He probably wanted me to give a seminar to the residents on the psychological aspects of chronic disease or behavioral approaches to pain control. Something nice and academic that would let me hide behind slides and videotape and play professor again.

At that moment it seemed an especially attractive prospect and I dialed his number.

A young woman answered the phone, breathless.

“Carcinogenesis lab.”

“Dr. Melendez-Lynch, please.”

“He’s not here.”

“This is Dr. Delaware returning his call.”

“I think he’s over at the hospital,” she said, sounding preoccupied.

“Could you connect me to the page operator, please.”

“I’m not sure how to do that — I’m not his secretary, Dr. Delray. I’m in the middle of an experiment and I really have to run. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I broke the connection, dialed the message desk at Western Peds, and had him paged. Five minutes later the operator came and told me he hadn’t answered. I left my name and number and hung up, thinking how little had changed over the years. Working with Raoul had been stimulating and challenging, but fraught with frustration. Trying to pin him down could be like sculpting with shaving cream.

I went into the library and settled in my soft leather chair with a paperback thriller. Just when I’d decided the plot was forced and the dialogue too cute, the phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Alex!” His accent turned it into Ahleex. “So good of you to return my call.” As usual, he talked at a breakneck pace.

“I tried to reach you at the lab but the girl who answered wasn’t too helpful.”

“Girl? Ah yes, that would be Helen. My new post-doc. Brilliant young lady from Yale. She and I are collaborating on an N.I.H. study aimed at clarifying the metastatic process. She worked with Brewer at New Haven — construction of synthetic cell walls — and we’ve been examining the relative invasiveness of varying tumor forms on specific models.”

“Sounds fascinating.”

“It is.” He paused. “Anyway, how have you been, my friend?”

“Fine. And you?”

He chuckled.

“It’s — nine forty-three and I haven’t yet finished charting. That tells you how I’ve been.”

“Oh come on, Raoul, you love it.”

“Ha! Yes I do. What did you call me years ago — the quintessential type A personality?”

“A plus.”

“I will die of a myocardial infarct but my paperwork will be completed.”

It was only a partial jest. His father, dean of a medical school in pre-Castro Havana, had keeled over on the tennis court and died at forty-eight. Raoul was five years from that age and he’d inherited his sire’s lifestyle as well as some bad genes. I’d once thought him changeable but had long ago given up trying to slow him down. If four failed marriages hadn’t done the trick, nothing would.

“You’ll win the Nobel Prize,” I said.

“And it will all go for alimony!” He thought that tremendously funny. When his laughter died down he said:

“I need a favor, Alex. There’s a family that’s giving us some trouble — noncompliance problems — and I wondered if you could talk to them.”

“I’m flattered but what about the regular staff?”

“The regular staff made a mess of it,” he said, peeved. “Alex, you know the high regard I have for you — why you abandoned a brilliant career I’ll never know, but that’s another issue. The people Social Services are sending me are amateurs, my friend. Rank amateurs. Starry-eyed caseworkers who see themselves as patient advocates — provocateurs. The psych people will have nothing to do with us because Boorstin has a death phobia and is terrified of the word cancer.”

“Progress, huh?”

“Alex, nothing’s changed in the last five years. If anything it’s gotten worse. I’ve even started opening my ears to other offers. Last week I was given the chance to run an entire hospital in Miami. Chief of Staff. More money and a full professorship.”

“Considering it?”

“No. The research facilities were Mickey Mouse and I suspect they want me more for my Spanish than my medical brilliance. Anyway, what do you say about lending the department a hand — you’re still officially listed as our consultant, you know.”

“To be honest, Raoul, I’m not taking on any therapy cases.”

“Yes, yes, I’m aware of that,” he said impatiently, “but this is not therapy. Short term liaison consultation. I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but the life of a very sick little boy is at stake.”

“Exactly what kind of noncompliance are you talking about?”

“It’s too complicated to explain over the phone, Alex. I hate to be rude, but I must get over to the lab and see how Helen is doing. We’re pacing an in vitro hepatoblastoma as it approaches pulmonary tissue. It’s painstaking work and it requires constant vigilance. Let’s talk about it tomorrow — nine, my office? I’ll have breakfast sent up, and voucher forms. We’re prepared to pay for your time.”

“All right, Raoul. I’ll be there.”

“Excellent.” He hung up.

Being released from a conversation with Melendez-Lynch was a jarring experience, a sudden shift into low gear. I put down the receiver, regained my bearings, and reflected on the complexity of the manic syndrome.