Godplayer

Twelve

Cassi became conscious of her surroundings around five o’clock in the morning. She could see the large wall clock over the nurses’ station and thought she was in the recovery room. She had an awful headache, which she attributed to the eye surgery. Indeed, when she tried to look from side to side she got a sharp pain in her left eye. Gingerly she felt the bandage over the operative site.

“Well, Dr. Cassidy!” said a voice on her left. She slowly turned her head and looked into the smiling face of one of the nurses. “Welcome back to the land of the living. You gave us quite a scare.”

Bewildered, Cassi returned the smile. She stared at the nurse’s name tag. Miss Stevens, Medical ICU. That confused Cassi further.

“How do you feel?” asked Miss Stevens.

“Hungry,” said Cassi.

“Could be your blood sugar is a bit low again. It’s been bouncing up and down like a rubber ball.”

Cassi moved slightly and felt an uncomfortable burning sensation between her legs. She realized she’d been catheterized.

“Was there a problem with my diabetes during surgery?”

“Not during surgery,” said Miss Stevens with a smile.

“The night after. As I understand it, you gave yourself a little extra insulin.”

“I did?” said Cassi. “What day is it?”

“Five A.M., Friday morning.”

Cassi felt very confused. Somehow she’d lost an entire day.

“Where am I?” she asked. “Isn’t this the recovery room?”

“No, this is the ICU. You’re here because of your insulin reaction. Don’t you remember yesterday at all?”

“I don’t think so,” said Cassi vaguely. Somewhere in the back of her mind she began to remember a sensation of terror.

“You had your operation yesterday morning and were sent back to your room. Apparently you’d been doing fine. You don’t remember any of that?”

“No,” said Cassi without conviction. Images were beginning to emerge from the haze. She could recall the horrid sensation of being enclosed within her own world, feeling acutely vulnerable. Vulnerable and terrified. But terrified of what?

“Listen,” said Miss Stevens. “I’ll get you some milk. Then you try to go back to sleep.”

The next time Cassi looked at the clock it was after seven. Thomas was standing by the side of her bed, his blue eyes puffy and red.

“She woke up about two hours ago,” said Miss Stevens, standing on the other side. “Her blood sugar is slightly low but seems stable.”

“I’m so glad you’re better,” said Thomas, noticing Cassi had awakened. “I’d visited you in the middle of the night, but you were not completely lucid. How do you feel?”

“Pretty good,” said Cassi. Thomas’s cologne was having a peculiar effect on her. It was as if the smell of Yves St. Laurent had been part of her devastating nightmare. Cassi knew that whenever she’d been unlucky enough to have an insulin reaction, she’d always had wild dreams. But this time she had the sensation that the nightmare wasn’t over.

Cassi’s heart beat faster, accentuating her pounding headache. She could not tell the difference between dream or reality. She was relieved a few minutes later when Thomas left, saying, “I’ve got surgery. I’ll be back as soon as I’m done.”

By noon, Cassi had been visited by Dr. Obermeyer and her internist, and released from the unit. She was taken back to her private room at the end of the corridor, but she raised such a fuss about being alone that they finally moved her to a multibed unit across from the nurse’s station. She had three roommates. Two had had multiple broken bones and were in traction; the other, a mountain of a woman, had had gallbladder surgery and was not doing too well.

Cassi had had one other insistent request. She wanted her IV out. Dr. McInery tried to reason with her, arguing that she’d just had a severe insulin reaction. He told her that had she not had the IV originally and gotten the sugar when she had, she might have slipped into irreversible coma. Cassi had listened politely but remained adamant. The IV was removed.

In the middle of the afternoon Cassi felt significantly better. Her headache had settled down to a tolerable level. She was listening to her roommates describe their ordeals when Joan Widiker walked in. “I just heard what happened,” she said with concern. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” said Cassi, happy to see Joan.

“Thank God! Cassi, I heard that you’d given yourself an insulin overdose.”

“If I did, I can’t remember it,” said Cassi.

“You’re sure?” asked Joan. “I know you were very upset about Robert…” Her voice trailed off.

“What about Robert?” asked Cassi anxiously. Before Joan could respond, something clicked in Cassi’s mind. It was as if some missing block fell into place. Cassi remembered that Robert had died the night after his surgery.

“You don’t remember?” asked Joan.

Cassi let her body go limp, sliding down into her bed. “I remember now. Robert died.” Cassi looked up into Joan’s face, pleading that it wasn’t true, that it was part of the insulin-induced nightmare.

“Robert died,” agreed Joan solemnly. “Cassi, have you been dealing with your sorrow by trying to deny the fact?”

“I don’t think so,” said Cassi, “but I don’t know.” It seemed doubly cruel to have to learn such news twice. Could she have suppressed it or did the insulin reaction just remove it from her disturbed memory?

“Tell me,” said Joan, pulling over a chair so she could talk privately. The other three women pretended not to be listening. “If you didn’t give yourself the extra insulin, how did it get in your bloodstream?”

Cassi shook her head. “I’m not suicidal, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“It’s important you tell me the truth,” said Joan.

“I am,” snapped Cassi. “I don’t think I gave myself the extra insulin even in my sleep. I think it was given to me.”

“By accident? An accidental overdose?”

“No. I think it was deliberate.”

Joan regarded her friend with clinical detachment. Thinking that someone in the hospital was trying to do you harm was a delusion that Joan had heard before. But she had not expected it from Cassi. “Are you sure?” Joan asked finally.

Cassi shook her head. “After what I’ve been through it’s hard to be sure about anything.”

“Who do you think could have done it?” asked Joan.

Cupping her hand over her mouth, Cassi whispered. “I think it might have been Thomas.”

Joan was shocked. She was not a fan of Thomas’s, but this statement smacked of pure paranoia. She wasn’t sure how to react. It was becoming obvious that Cassi needed professional help, not just advice from a friend. “What makes you think it was Thomas?” Joan finally asked.

“I awoke in the middle of the night and smelled his cologne.”

If Joan had had the slightest concern that Cassi was schizophrenic, she would not have challenged her. But she knew Cassi was an essentially normal person who’d been placed under extreme stress. Joan felt it was advisable not to let Cassi build on her delusional thought patterns. “I think, Cassi, that smelling Thomas’s cologne in the middle of the night is awfully weak evidence.”

Cassi tried to interrupt, but Joan told her to let her finish.

“I think that under the circumstances, you are confusing a dream state with reality.”

“Joan, I’ve already considered that.”

“Furthermore,” said Joan, ignoring Cassi, “insulin reactions include nighmares. I’m sure you know that better than I. I think you experienced an acute delusional psychosis. After all, you’ve been under enormous stress, what with your own surgery and Robert’s unfortunate death. I think in that state it’s entirely possible you gave yourself the injection and then afterward suffered all sorts of nightmares you now think may be real.”

Cassi listened hopefully. She’d had trouble sorting out the real from insulin-induced dreams in the past.

“But it is still very difficult for me to believe that I could have given myself an overdose of insulin,” she said.

“It might not have been an overdose. You could have just given yourself your usual dose. You may have thought it was time for your evening shot.”

It was an attractive explanation. Certainly an easier one to accept than that Thomas wanted her to die.

“My real concern,” Joan went on, “is whether you are depressed now.”

“I guess a little, mostly about Robert. I suppose I should be happy about the results of the surgery, but under the circumstances, it’s difficult. But I can assure you, I don’t feel self-destructive. Anyway, they’ve taken away all my insulin.”

“It’s just as well,” said Joan, standing up. She was convinced Cassi was not suicidal. “Unfortunately I’ve got two legitimate consultations to do. I’ve got to get a move on. You take care and call if you need me, promise?”

“I promise,” said Cassi. She smiled at Joan. She was a good friend and a good doctor. She trusted her opinion.

“Was that lady a psychiatrist?” asked one of Cassi’s roommates after Joan left.

“Yes,” said Cassi. “She’s a resident like I am, but further along in her training. She’ll be finishing this spring.”

“Does she think you’re crazy?” the woman asked.

Cassi thought about the question. It wasn’t as stupid as it sounded. In a way Joan did think she was temporarily crazy. “She thought I was very upset,” said Cassi. Euphemisms seemed easier. “She thought that I might have tried to hurt myself in my sleep. If I start doing anything weird, you’ll call the nurses, won’t you?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll scream my bloody head off.”

Cassi’s other roommates, who had been listening, enthusiastically concurred.

Cassi hoped she hadn’t scared the three women, but in a way it made her feel more comfortable that they would be watching her. If it were true that she had given herself an overdose without knowing it, she could use a little nervous concern.

She closed her eyes and wondered when Robert’s funeral was. She hoped she’d be released in time to go. Then she thought of the SSD project and wondered what would happen to it. Remembering the printouts she’d taken from his room, she decided to see if someone could locate them for her.

She rang for the nurse, who promised to check Cassi’s former room. A half-hour later, the nurse returned and said that the two LPNs who had helped move Cassi had not seen the computer printout. The nurse added that she’d checked all the drawers herself without success.

Maybe the SSD data had been a hallucination, too, thought Cassi. She seemed to recall going into Robert’s room, picking up the material, and then bumping into Thomas. But perhaps it was all a dream. Cassi wondered how she could check. The easiest way would be to ask Thomas, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to do that.

Glancing around the room, Cassi was glad to see her three roommates getting ready for dinner. Just having them there made her feel safe.

Thomas stopped short of the bridge over the marsh inlet. He switched off the engine and checked for any traffic before opening the door. Getting out of the car, he walked out onto the arched wooden bridge, his shoes making a hollow noise on the old planks. The tide was on its way out and the current rushed beneath the small bridge, swirling in frenetic eddies about the support pilings.

Thomas needed a breath of air. The two Talwin he’d taken before leaving the office had had disappointingly little effect on his mood. He’d never felt such anxiety before. The Friday afternoon conference had been a disaster. And on top of that were the mushrooming problems with Cassi.

Thomas stood on the deserted bridge for almost half an hour, letting the damp breeze chill him to the bone. The discomfort was therapeutic, making it possible for him to think. He had to do something. Ballantine and his cohorts were intent on destroying everything Thomas had carefully built. In his hand he gripped a drug vial, intending to throw it into the water. But he didn’t. Instead he returned it to his coat.

Slowly Thomas felt better. He had an idea, and as the idea took form, he began to smile. Then he laughed, wondering why he hadn’t thought of it before. With a new surge of energy he returned to his car and warmed his fingers by holding them over the defroster vent.

After pulling into the garage, he crossed the courtyard to the house at a run. He moved the drug container to his suit pocket when he took off his coat and, feeling better than he had all day, went in to greet his mother.

“I’m so glad you’re on time,” she said. “Harriet is just putting dinner on the table.” She took his arm and led him into the dining room. He knew she was in a good mood because she had him to herself, but she managed to inquire politely about Cassi before serving herself from the platter of Yankee pot roast.

When Harriet had gone back into the kitchen, she began asking about Thomas’s day.

“Are things going better at the hospital?”

“Hardly,” said Thomas, not eager to discuss the worsening hospital situation.

“Have you spoken with George Sherman?” asked Patricia with disgust.

“Mother, I don’t want to talk about hospital politics.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes, but Patricia could not contain herself and again spoke up. “You’ll know what to do with the man when you become chief.”

Thomas put down his fork.

“Mother, can’t we talk about something else?”

“It’s hard to avoid the issue when I can see how much it is bothering you.”

Thomas tried to calm himself with a series of deep breaths. Patricia could see him tremble.

“Look at you, Thomas, you’re like a spring wound too tightly.” Patricia reached over to stroke her son’s arm, but Thomas evaded her touch by pushing back his chair and standing up.

“The situation is driving me crazy,” admitted Thomas.

“When do you think you’ll be chief?” asked Patricia, watching her son begin to pace back and forth like a caged lion.

“God, I wish I knew,” said Thomas through clenched teeth. “But it better be soon. If not, the department will be in shambles. Everyone seems to be going out of their way to destroy the cardiac vascular program I set up. Boston Memorial is famous because my operating team made it so. Yet instead of letting me expand, they are constantly cutting down my time in the OR. Today I learned that my surgical time is being reduced again. And you know why? Because Ballantine made arrangements for the Memorial Teaching Service to have free access to a large state mental institution out in the western part of the state. Sherman went out there and said the place was a cardiac surgical gold mine. What he didn’t say was that the average mental age of the patients was less than two years. Some of them are actually deformed monsters. It makes me furious!”

“Well, won’t you be backing the house staff on those cases?” asked Patricia, trying to think of the positive side of the issue.

“Mother, they are mentally defective pediatric cases, and Ballantine plans to recruit a full-time pediatric cardiac surgeon.”

“Well, then, that won’t affect you.”

“But it will,” shouted Thomas. “It will put more pressure on me to cut back my OR time.” Thomas felt his temper rising. “My patients will either have dangerous delays before surgery or will have to go elsewhere.”

“But surely your patients will be scheduled first, dear.”

“Mother, you don’t understand,” said Thomas, making an effort to speak slowly. “The hospital doesn’t care that I only take on patients who not only have a good chance of survival but are worth saving. To build the reputation of the teaching school, Ballantine would rather sacrifice valuable OR time for a bunch of imbeciles and defectives. Unless I become chief I won’t be able to stop them.”

“Well, Thomas,” said Patricia. “if they don’t give you the position, you’ll just have to go to another hospital. Why don’t you sit down and finish your dinner?”

“I can’t just go to another hospital,” shouted Thomas.

“Thomas, calm down.”

“Cardiac surgery requires a team. Don’t you understand that?” Thomas threw his napkin into his half eaten food.

“You’ve upset me!” he shouted irrationally. “I come home for once expecting a little peace and you upset me!” He stormed out of the room, leaving his mother wondering what on earth she had done.

Walking down the upstairs corridor, Thomas could hear the surf breaking on the distant beach. The waves must be four to six feet high. He loved the sound. It reminded him of his childhood.

Snapping on the light in the morning room, he looked around. The white furniture had a harsh, cold appearance. He hated the way Cassi had insisted on redecorating the room. There was something brazen about it despite the lace curtains and flowered cushions.

He stayed for only a short time before going back to his study. With trembling hands he found his Percodan. For a while he entertained the idea of returning to town to see Doris. But soon the Percodan began to make him feel calmer. Instead of going out into the frigid night, he poured himself a Scotch.