Harvest

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"I can't believe it," Elaine kept saying. "I just can't believe it." She was not crying, had sat dry-eyed through the burial, a fact which greatly disturbed her mother-in-law Judith, who had wept loudly and unashamedly while the Kaddish was recited over the grave. Judith's pain was as public as the ceremonial slash in her blouse, a symbol of a heart cut by grief. Elaine had not slashed her blouse. Elaine had not shed tears. She now sat in a chair in her living room, a plate of canapes on her lap, and she said, again: '! can't believe he's gone."

"You didn't cover the mirrors," Judith said. "You should cover them. All the mirrors in your house."

"Do what you want," said Elaine.

Judith left the room in search of sheets for the mirrors. A moment later, all the guests gathered in the living room could hear Judith opening and closing closets upstairs.

"It must be a Jewish thing," whispered Marilee Archer as she passed another tray of finger sandwiches to Abby.

Abby took an olive sandwich and passed the tray along. It moved from hand to hand down a succession of guests. No one was really eating. A polite nibble, a sip of soda, was all that anyone seemed to have stomach for. Abby didn't feel much like eating either. Or talking. At least two dozen people were in the room, seated solemnly on couches and chairs or standing around in small groups, but no one was saying much.

Upstairs, a toilet flushed. Judith, of course. Elaine gave a little wince of embarrassment. Here and there, subdued smiles appeared among the guests. Behind the couch where Abby was seated, someone began to talk about how late autumn was this year. It was October already, and the leaves were just beginning to turn. The silence, at last, had been breached. Now new conversations stirred to life, murmurings about fall gardens and how do you like Dartmouth? and wasn't it warm for October? Elaine sat at the centre of it all, not conversing, but obviously relieved that others were.

The sandwich platter had made its round and now came back, empty, to Abby. "I'll refill it," she said to Marllee, and she rose from the couch and went into the kitchen. There she found the marble countertops covered with platters of food. No one would go hungry today. She was unwrapping a tray of shrimp when she looked out the kitchen window and noticed Archer, Rajiv Mohandas, and Frank Zwick standing outside on the flagstone terrace.They were talking, shaking their heads. Leave it to the men to retreat, she thought. Men had no patience for grieving widows or long silences; they left that ordeal to their wives in the house.They'd even brought a bottle of scotch outside with them. It sat on the umbrella table, positioned for easy refills. Zwick reached around for the bottle and poured a splash into his glass. As he recapped the bottle, he caught sight of Abby. He said something to Archer. Now Archer and Mohandas were looking at her as well. They all nodded and gave a quick wave. Then the three men crossed the terrace and walked away, into the garden.

"So much food. I don't know what I'm going to do with all of it," said Elaine. Abby hadn't noticed that she had come into the kitchen. Elaine stood gazing at the countertop and shaking her head. "I told the caterer forty people, and this is what she brings me. It's not like a wedding. Everyone eats at a wedding. But no one eats much after a funeral." Elaine looked down at one of the trays and picked up a radish, carved into a tiny rosette. "Isn't it pretty, how they do it? So much work for something you just put in your mouth." She set it back down again and stood there, not talking, admiring in silence that radish rosette.

"I'm so sorry, Elaine," said Abby. "If only there was something I could say to make it easier."

"I just wish I could understand. He never said anything. Never told me he. ." She swallowed and shook her head. She carried the platter of food to the refrigerator, slid it onto a shelf, and shut the door. Turning, she looked at Abby. "You spoke to him that night. Was there anything you talked about — anything he might have said. ."

"We discussed one of our patients. Aaron wanted to make sure I was doing all the right things."

"That's all you talked about?"

"Just the patient. Aaron didn't seem any different to me. Just concerned. Elaine, I never imagined he would…" Abby fell silent.

Elaine's gaze drifted to another platter. To the garnish of green onions, the leaves slitted and curled into lacy puffs. "Did you ever hear anything about Aaron that… you wouldn't want to tell me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Were there ever rumours about other women?"

"Never." Abby shook her head. And said again, with more emphasis, "Never."

Elaine nodded, but seemed to take little comfort from Abby's reassurance. "I never really thought it was a woman," she said. She picked up another tray and carried it to the refrigerator. When she'd closed the door she said, "My mother-in-law blames me. She thinks it must be something I did. A lot of people must be wondering."

"No one makes another person commit suicide."

"There was no warning. Nothing at all. Oh, I know he wasn't happy about his job. He kept talking about leaving Boston. Or quitting medicine entirely."

"Why was he so unhappy?"

"He wouldn't talk about it. When he had his own practice in Natick, we'd talk about his work all the time. Then the offer came in from Bayside, and it was too good to refuse. But after we moved here, it was as if I didn't know him any more. He'd come home and sit down like a zombie in front of that damn computer. Playing video games all evening. Sometimes, late at night, I'd wake up and hear those weird beeps and clicks. And it was Aaron, sitting up all alone, playing some game." She shook her head and stared down at the countertop. At yet another platter of untouched food. "You're one of the last people who spoke to him. Isn't there anything you remember?"

Abby gazed out the kitchen window, trying to piece together that last conversation with Aaron. She could think of nothing to distinguish it from any other late-night phone call. They all seemed to blur together, a chorus of monotonous voices demanding action from her tired brain.

Outside, the three men were returning from their garden walk. She watched them cross the terrace to the kitchen door. Zwick was carrying the bottle of scotch, now half-empty. They entered the house and nodded to her in greeting.

"Nice little garden," said Archer. "You should go out and take a tour, Abby."

"I'd like to," she said. "Elaine, maybe you'd come out and show me…" She paused.

There was no one standing by the refrigerator. She glanced around the kitchen, saw the platters of food on the counter and an open carton of plastic wrap, a glassy sheet hanging out and fluttering in the air.

Elaine had left the room.

A woman was praying by Mary Allen's bed. She had been sitting there for the last half-hour, head bowed, hands clasped together as she murmured aloud to the good Lord Jesus, imploring him to rain down miracles upon the mortal shell of Mary Allen. Heal her, strengthen her, purify her body and her unclean soul so that she might finally accept His word in all its glory.

"Excuse me," said Abby. "I'm sorry to intrude, but I need to examine Mrs Allen."

The woman kept praying. Perhaps she had not heard her. Abby was about to repeat the request, when the woman at last said, "Amen," and raised her head. She had unsmiling eyes and dull brown hair with the first streaks of grey. She regarded Abby with a look of irritation.

"I'm Dr. DiMatteo," said Abby. "I'm taking care of Mrs Allen."

"So am I," the woman said, rising to her feet. She made no attempt to shake hands with Abby, but stood with arms cradling the Bible to her chest. "I'm Brenda Hainey. Mary's niece."

"I didn't know Mary had a niece. I'm glad you're able to visit."

"I only heard about her illness two days ago. No one bothered to call me." Her tone of voice implied that this oversight was somehow Abby's fault.

"We were under the impression Mary had no close relatives."

"I don't know why. But I'm here now." Brenda looked at her aunt. "And she'll be fine."

Except for the fact she's dying, thought Abby. She moved to the bedside and said softly: "Mrs Allen?"

Mary opened her eyes. "I'm awake, Dr. D. Just resting."

"How are you feeling today?" ' Still nauseated."

"It could be a side effect of the morphine. We'll give you something to settle your stomach."

Brenda interjected: "She's getting morphine?"

"For the pain."

"Aren't there other ways to relieve her pain?"

Abby turned to the niece. "Mrs Hainey, could you leave the room please? I need to examine your aunt."

"It's Miss Hainey," said Brenda. "And I'm sure Aunt Mary would rather have me stay."

"I still have to ask you to leave."

Brenda glanced at her aunt, obviously expecting a protest. Mary Allen stared straight ahead, silent.

Brenda clutched the Bible tighter. "I'll be right outside, Aunt Mary."

"Dear Lord," whispered Mary, as the door shut behind Brenda. "This must be my punishment."

"Are you referring to your niece?"

Mary's tired gaze focused onAbby. "Do you think my soul needs saving?"

"I'd say that's entirely up to you. And no one else." Abby took out her stethoscope. "Can I listen to your lungs?"

Obediently Mary sat up and lifted her hospital gown.

Her breath sounds were muffled. By tapping down Mary's back, Abby could hear the change between liquid and air, could tell that more fluid had accumulated in the chest since the last time she'd examined her.

Abby straightened. "How's your breathing?"

"It's fine."

"We may need to drain some more fluid pretty soon. Or insert another chest tube."

"Why?"

"To make your breathing easier. To keep you comfortable."

"Is that the only reason?"

"Comfort is a very important reason, Mrs Allen."

Mary sank back on the pillows. "Then I'll let you know when I need it," she whispered.

When Abby emerged from the room, she found Brenda Hainey waiting right outside the door. "Your aunt would like to sleep for a while," said Abby. "Maybe you could come back some other time." "There's a matter I need to discuss with you, Doctor."

"Yes?"

"I was just checking with the nurse. About that morphine. Is it really necessary?"

"I think your aunt would say so."

"It's making her drowsy. All she does is sleep."

"We're trying to keep her as pain-free as possible. The cancer's spread everywhere. Her bones, her brain. It's the worst kind of pain imaginable. The kindest thing we can do for her is to help her go with a minimum of discomfort."

"What do you mean, help her go?"

"She's dying. There's nothing we can do to change that."

"You used those words. Help her go. Is that what the morphine's for?"

"It's what she wants and needs right now."

"I've confronted this sort of issue before, Doctor. With other relatives. I happen to know for a fact it's not legal to medically assist a suicide."

Abby felt her face flush with anger. Fighting to control it, she said as calmly as she could manage: "You misunderstand me. All we're trying to do is keep your aunt comfortable."

"There are other ways to do it."

"Such as?"

"Calling on higher sources of help."

"Are you referring to prayer?"

"Why not? It's helped me through difficult times."

"You're certainly welcome to pray for your aunt. But if I recall, there's nothing against morphine in the Bible."

Brenda's face went rigid. Her retort was cut off by the sound of Abby's beeper.

"Excuse me," said Abby coolly, and she walked away, leaving the conversation unfinished. A good thing, too; she'd been on the verge of saying something really sarcastic. Something like: While you're praying to your God, why don't you ask Him for a cure? That would surely have pissed off Brenda. With Joe Terrio's lawsuit lurking on the horizon, and Victor Voss determined to get her fired, the last thing she needed was another complaint lodged against her.

She picked up a phone in the nurses' station and dialled the number on her beeper readout.

A woman's voice answered: "Information Desk."

"This is Dr. DiMatteo. You paged me?"

"Yes, Doctor. There's a Bernard Katzka standing here at the desk. He's wondering if you could meet him here in the lobby."

"I don't know anyone by that name. I'm sort of busy up here. Could you ask him what his business is?"

There was a background murmur of conversation. When the woman came back on, her voice sounded oddly reticent. "Dr. DiMatteo?"

"Yes."

"He's a policeman."

The man in the lobby looked vaguely familiar. He was in his mid forties, medium height, medium build, with the sort of face that was neither handsome nor homely and not particularly memorable.

His hair, a dark brown, was starting to thin at the top, a fact he made no effort to conceal the way some men did with a sideways combing of camouflaging strands. As she approached him, she had the impression that he recognized her as well. His gaze had, in fact, singled her out the moment she stepped off the elevator.

"Dr. DiMatteo," he said. "I'm Detective Bernard Katzka. Homicide."

Just hearing that word startled her.what was this all about?They shook hands. Only then, as she met his gaze, did she remember where she'd seen him. The cemetery. Aaron Levi's funeral. He'd been standing slightly apart from everyone, a silent figure in a dark suit. During the service, their gazes had intersected. She'd understood none of the Hebrew being recited, and her attention had wandered to the other mourners. That's when she'd become aware that someone else was scanning the gathering. They had looked at each other, only for a second, and then he'd looked away. At the time, she'd registered almost no impression of the man. Looking up at his face now, she found herself focusing on his eyes, which were a calm, unflinching grey. If not for the intelligence of those eyes, one might never notice Bernard Katzka. She said, "Are you a friend of the Levi family?"

"No."

"I saw you at the cemetery. Or am I mistaken?"

"I was there."

She paused, waiting for an explanation, but all he said was, "Is there somewhere we can talk?"

"Can I ask what this is all about?"

"Dr. Levi's death."

She glanced at the lobby doors. The sun was shining and she had not been outside all day.

"There's a little courtyard with a few benches," she said. 'why don't we go out there?"

It was warm outside, a perfect October afternoon. The courtyard garden was in its chrysanthemum phase, the circular bed planted with blooms of rust orange and yellow. At the centre a fountain poured out a quietly comforting trickle of water. They sat down on one of the wooden benches. A pair of nurses occupying the other bench rose and walked back towards the building, leaving Abby and the detective alone. For a moment nothing was said. The silence made Abby uneasy, but it did not appear to disturb her companion in the least. He seemed accustomed to long silences.

"Elaine Levi gave me your name," he said. "She suggested I talk to you."

"Why?"

"You spoke to Dr. Levi early Saturday morning. Is that correct?"

"Yes. On the phone."

"Do you remember what time that was?"

"Around 2 a.m., I guess. I was in the hospital."

"He made the call?"

"Well, he called the SICU and asked to speak to the upper level resident. I happened to be it that night."

"Why was he calling?"

"About a patient. She was running a post-op fever, and Aaron wanted to discuss a plan of action. Which labs we should order, which x-rays. Do you mind telling me what this is all about?"

"I'm trying to establish the chronology of events. So Dr. Levi called the SICU at 2 a.m. and you came on the line."

"That's right."

"Did you talk to him again? After that 2 a.m. call?"

"No."

"Did you try to call him?"

"Yes, but he'd already left the house. I spoke to Elaine."

"What time was that?"

"I don't know. Maybe three o' clock, three-fifteen. I wasn't paying a lot of attention to the clock."

"You didn't call his house any other time that morning?"

"No. I tried paging his beeper several times, but he never answered. I knew he was somewhere in the building, because his car was in the parking lot."

"What time did you see it there?"

"I didn't. My boyfriend — Dr. Hodell — he saw it when he drove in around 4 a.m. Look, why is Homicide investigating this?"

He ignored her question. "Elaine Levi says there was a call around two-fifteen. Her husband answered the phone. A few minutes later he got dressed and left the house. Do you know anything about that call?"

"No. It could have been one of the nurses. Doesn't Elaine know?"

"Her husband took the phone into the bathroom. She didn't hear the conversation."

"It wasn't me. I spoke to Aaron only once. Now I'd really like to know why you're asking me these questions. This can't possibly be a routine thing you do."

"No. It's not routine."

Abby's beeper went off. She recognized the number on the readout. It was the Residency Office — not an emergency, but she was getting fed up with this conversation anyway. She rose to her feet. "Detective, I've got work to do. Patients to see. I don't have time to answer a lot of vague questions."

"My questions are quite specific. I'm trying to establish who made calls at what time that morning. And what was said during those calls."

"Why?"

"It may have a bearing on Dr. Levi's death."

"Are you saying someone talked him into hanging himself?."

"I'd just like to know who did talk to him."

"Can't you pull it off the phone company computer or something? Don't they keep records?"

"The two-fifteen call to Dr. Levi was made from Bayside Hospital."

"So it could have been a nurse."

"Or anyone else in the building."

"Is that your theory? That someone from Bayside called Aaron and told him something so upsetting that he killed himself?."

"We're considering possibilities other than suicide."

She stared at him. He had said it so quietly, she wondered if she had understood him correctly. Slowly she sank back down on the bench. Neither one spoke for a moment.

A nurse pushed a woman in a wheelchair across the courtyard. The pair lingered by the flower bed, admiring the chrysanthemums, then moved on. The only sound in the courtyard was the musical splash of the fountain.

"Are you saying he might have been murdered?" said Abby.

He didn't answer immediately. And she couldn't tell, looking at his face, what his answer might be. He sat motionless, revealing nothing by his posture, his hands, his expression.

"Did Aaron hang himself?." she asked.

"The autopsy findings were consistent with asphyxia."

"That's what you'd expect. It sounds like a suicide."

"It very well could be."

"Then why aren't you convinced?"

He hesitated. For the first time she saw uncertainty in his eyes, and she knew he was weighing his next words. This was the sort of man who made no move without considering all the ramifications. The sort of man for whom spontaneity itself was a planned action.

He said, "Two days before he died, Dr. Levi brought home a brand new computer."

"That's all? That's the basis for your questions?"

"He used it to do several things. First, he made plane reservations for two to St Lucia in the Caribbean. Leaving around Christmas time. Also, he sent e-mail to his son at Dartmouth, discussing plans for Thanksgiving break. Think about it, Doctor. Two days before committing suicide, this man is making plans for the future. He has a nice vacation on the beach to look forward to. But at 2.15 a.m., he climbs out of his bed and drives to the hospital. Takes an elevator, then the stairwell, to a deserted floor. Ties a belt to the closet dowel, loops the other end around his neck, and simply lets his legs go limp. Consciousness wouldn't fade at once. There would be five, maybe ten seconds left to change his mind. He has a wife, kids, and a beach on St Lucia to look forward to. But he chooses to die. Alone, and in the dark." Katzka's gaze held hers. "Think about it."

Abby swallowed. "I'm not sure I want to."

"I have."

She looked at his quiet grey eyes and she wondered: what other nightmarish things do you think about?What kind of man chooses a job that requires such terrible visions?

"We know Dr. Levi's car was found in its usual parking spot, here at the hospital. We don't know why he drove here. Or why he left the house at all. Except for that two-fifteen caller, you're the last person we know of who spoke to Dr. Levi. Did he say anything about leaving for the hospital?"

"He was concerned about our patient. He might have decided to come in and see to the problem himself."

"As opposed to letting you deal with it?"

"I'm a second-year resident, Detective Katzka, not the attending physician. Aaron was the transplant team internist."

"I understood he was a cardiologist."

"He was also an internist. When there was a medical problem, like a fever, the nurses would usually contact him. And he'd call in other consultants if he needed them."

"During that phone call, did he say he was coming into the hospital?"

"No. It was just a game plan discussion. I told him what I was going to do. That I'd examine the patient and order some bloodwork and x-rays. He approved."

"That was it?"

"That was the extent of our conversation."

"Did anything he say strike you as not quite right?"

Again she thought about it. And she remembered that initial pause in their phone conversation. And how dismayed Aaron had sounded when she'd first come on the line.

"Dr. DiMatteo?"

She looked up at Katzka. Though he'd said her name quietly, his expression had taken on new alertness.

"Do you remember something?" he asked.

'! remember he didn't sound very happy that I was the resident on duty."

"Why not?"

"Because of the particular patient involved. Her husband and I — we'd had a conflict. A serious one." She looked away, feeling a little queasy at the thought of Victor Voss. "I'm sure Aaron would've preferred that I stay miles away from Mrs Voss." Katzka's silence made her look up again. "Mrs VicwrVoss?" he said. "Yes. You know the name?"

Katzka sat back, exhaling softly. "I know he founded VMI International. What surgery did his wife have?"

"A heart transplant. She's doing much better now. The fever resolved after a few days of antibiotics."

Katzka was staring at the fountain, where sprays of sunlit water sparkled like gold chain. Abruptly he rose to his feet.

"Thank you for your time, Dr. DiMatteo," he said. "I may call you again."

She started to reply: "Any time," but he had already turned and was swiftly walking away. The man had gone from absolute motionlessness to the speed of sound. Amazing.

Her beeper chirped. It was the residency office again. She silenced it. When she looked up, Katzka was nowhere in sight. The magical disappearing cop. Still puzzling over his questions, she returned to the lobby and picked up the house phone. A secretary answered her call. "Residency Office."

"This is Abby DiMatteo. You paged me?"

"Oh, yes. Two things. You had an outside call from Helen Lewis at New England Organ Bank. She wanted to know if you ever got an answer to your question about that transplant.You didn't answer your page, so she hung up."

"If she calls again, let her know my question's already been answered. What was the second thing?"

"You have a registered letter up here. I signed for it. I hope that's OK."

"Registered?"

"It was delivered a few minutes ago. I thought you'd want to know."

"Who sent it?"

There was a sound of shuffling papers. Then, "It's from Hawkes, Craig, and Sussman. Attorneys at law."

Abby's stomach went into free fall. "I'll be right there," she said, and hung up. TheTerrio lawsuit again. The wheels of justice would surely grind her to dust. Her hands were sweating as she rode the elevator to the administrative floor. Dr. DiMatteo, known for her calmness in the OR, is a nervous wreck.

The residency of face secretary was on the telephone. She saw Abby and pointed at the mail cubicles.

There was one envelope in Abby's slot. Hawkes, Craig, and Sussman was printed in the upper left-hand corner. She ripped it open.

At first she didn't understand what she was reading. Then she focused on the plaintiff's name, and the meaning at last sank in. Her stomach had ended its free fall. It had crashed. This letter wasn't about Karen Terrio at all. It was about another patient, a Michael Freeman. An alcoholic, he had unexpectedly ruptured a swollen blood vessel in his oesophagus and bled to death in his hospital room. Abby had been the intern on his case. She remembered it as a shockingly gruesome end. Now Michael Freeman's wife was suing, and she had retained Craig, Hawkes, and Sussman to represent her. Abby was the defendant. The only defendant named in the lawsuit.

"Dr. DiMatteo? Are you all right?"

Abby suddenly realized that she was leaning against the mail cubicles and that the room wasn't quite steady. The secretary was frowning at her.

"I'm… pounds e," said Abby. "I'm OK."

By the time Abby made it out of the room, she was in full retreat. She fled straight to the on-call room, locked herself inside, and sat down on the bed. Then she unfolded the letter and read it again. And again.

Two lawsuits in two weeks. Vivian was right. Abby would be in court for the rest of her natural life.

She knew she should call her attorney, but she couldn't bring herself to deal with that right now. So she remained sitting on the bed, staring at that letter on her lap. Thinking about all the years, all the work it had taken, just to get to this point in her career. She thought about the nights she'd fallen asleep on her books while everyone else in the dorm was out on dates. The weekends she'd worked double shifts as a hospital phlebotomist, drawing tubes and tubes of blood to earn her tuition. She thought about the hundred and twenty thousand dollars in student loans she still had to pay off. The dinners of peanut butter sandwiches. The movies and concerts and plays she had never seen.

And she thought about Pete, who'd been the reason for it all. The brother she'd wanted to save, and hadn't been able to. Most of all, she thought of Pete, eternally ten years old.

Victor Voss was winning. He'd said he would destroy her and that was exactly what he was going to do.

Fight back. It was time to fight back. Only she couldn't think of any way to do it. She wasn't clever enough. The letter burned like acid in her hands. She thought and thought about how to stop him, but she had nothing with which to fight back except that shove he'd given her in the SICU. A charge of assault and battery.

It was not enough, not nearly enough to stop him.

Fight back. You have to think of a way.

The beeper went off. It was a page from the surgical ward. She was in no mood to take any goddamn calls. She reached for the phone and stabbed in the numbers. "DiMatteo," she snapped.

"Doctor, we're having a problem here with Mary Allen's niece."

"What is it?"

"We're trying to give the four o'clock morphine dose, but Brenda won't let us. Maybe you could-'

"I'm on my way." Abby slammed the receiver down. Fuck Brenda, she thought, shoving the attorney's letter in her pocket. She used the stairwell, running the two flights down. By the time she emerged on the ward she was breathing hard, not from exertion, but from rage. She stalked straight into Mary Allen's room.

Two nurses were inside, talking with Brenda. Mary Allen was awake in bed, but she looked too weak and in pain to contribute a word.

"She's doped up enough as it is," Brenda was saying. "Look at her. She can't even talk to me."

"Maybe she doesn't want to talk to you," said Abby.

The nurses turned to Abby with expressions of relief. The voice of authority had arrived.

"Please leave the room, Miss Hainey," said Abby.

"The morphine isn't necessary."

"I'll determine that. Now leave the room."

"She hasn't got much time left. She needs all her faculties."

"For what?"

"To fully accept the Lord. If she dies before accepting Him-'

Abby held her hand out to the nurse. "Give me the morphine. I'll administer it."

At once the syringe was handed to her. Abby stepped over to the IV line. As she uncapped the needle, she saw Mary Allen's weak nod of gratitude.

"You give her that dope and I'll call an attorney," said Brenda. "Do that," said Abby. She slipped the needle into the IV injection port. She was just pushing the plunger when Brenda surged forward and pulled the catheter out of her aunt's arm. Blood dribbled from the puncture site onto the floor. Those bright red drops spattering the linoleum was the final outrage.

A nurse clapped gauze to Mary Allen's arm. Abby turned to Brenda and said: "Get out of this room."

"You left me no choice, Doctor." ' Get out?

Brenda's eyes widened. She took a step backwards.

"Do you want me to call Security to throw you out?" Abby was yelling now, moving towards Brenda, who continued to back away into the hall. "I don't want you anywhere near my patient! I don't want you harassing her with your Bible bullshit!"

"I'm her relative!"

"I don't give a fuck who you are?

Brenda's jaw dropped open. Without another word she spun around and walked away.

"Dr. DiMatteo, can I speak to you?"

Abby turned and saw the nursing supervisor, Georgina Speer.

"That was very inappropriate, Doctor. We don't speak to the public that way."

"She just pulled the IV out of my patient's arm!"

"There are better ways to handle it. Call Security. Call for any assistance. But profanity is definitely not the way we do it in this hospital. Do you understand?"

Abby took a deep breath. "I understand," she said. And added, in a whisper, "I'm sorry."

After she'd restarted Mary Allen's IV, Abby retreated to the on-call room and lay listlessly on the bed. Staring up at the ceiling, she wondered: What the hell is wrong with me? She'd never lost control like that before, never even come close to cursing at a patient or relative. I'm going crazy, she thought. The stress is finally breaking me. Maybe I'm not fit to be a doctor.

Her beeper went off. God, would they never leave her alone? What she'd give to go a whole day, a whole week, without being beeped or phoned or harassed. It was the hospital operator paging her. She picked up the phone and dialled "O'.

"Outside call for you, Doctor," said the operator. "Let me put it through." There were a few transfer clicks, then a woman said: "Dr. Abby DiMatteo?"

"Speaking."

"This is Helen Lewis at New England Organ Bank. You left a message last Saturday about a heart donor. We expected someone at Bayside to call back, but no one did. So I thought! should check back."

"I'm sorry. I should have called you, but things have been crazy around here. It turns out it was just a misunderstanding."

"Well that makes it easy. Since I couldn't find the information anyway. If you have any other questions, just give me a-' "Excuse me," Abby cut in. 'what did you just say?"

"I couldn't find the information." 'why not?"

"The data you requested isn't in our system."

For a solid ten seconds Abby was silent. Then she asked, slowly, "Are you absolutely certain it's not there?"

"I've searched our computer files. On the date you gave for the harvest, we have no record of a heart donor. Anywhere in Vermont."