“Not only do I know her name, but I also know the day she died as well as the circumstance. The date was November 15, 1949.”
“Okay,” Mitt said as an appeasement, holding up his hands in a surrendering gesture while struggling to organize his thoughts yet again. Every time he had in mind that there was no way that Lashonda could surprise him any more than she already had, she went ahead and did, and the surprises seemed to be coming with increasing frequency. “How on earth do you know all that?” he managed, slowly enunciating each word.
“Before I go into an explanation of how, I want to go back to the issue of the special abilities you and I and a few other people command, namely being able on occasion to predict the future and sense what other people are thinking. Are you okay with that?”
“I suppose,” Mitt said. “But you are killing me with suspense.”
“I would prefer you use a different metaphor.”
“Whatever,” Mitt said with mild irritation. It seemed to him she was dragging out their conversation unnecessarily.
“Having the abilities I just named is in reality a function of another trait, which I sense you might not be aware you possess. You, my friend, are a living, breathing ‘portal.’ Are you familiar with the term?”
“In the sense of being a metaphorical gateway?” Mitt stared at his new acquaintance, wondering if she was now being serious or whether she was intellectually toying with him.
“Yes, exactly. A gateway into what we call another dimension for lack of any better term. Some people have mistakenly assumed portals are only physical objects such as an old mirror or an old house and the like. Such places and objects can be portals, there’s no doubt, and I have definitely experienced one such portal. But more to the point, certain people can be portals, too, like you and me. The fact that you are a portal is the reason you are seeing the blond girl who haunts these Bellevue Hospital buildings. You, my friend, are a gateway to the paranormal.”
Mitt continued to study Lashonda’s face, thinking that maybe she was going to smile and say that she was only teasing. But she didn’t. She was staring back at him with a serious expression, waiting for his reply.
“I don’t know what to say,” Mitt offered at length.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Lashonda said. “But it’s a reality that you need to recognize so you will take to heart what I am ultimately going to tell you. Before I do, let’s revisit the instrument that Charlene pointed at you. You saw it as a surgical instrument, correct?”
“That was my impression,” Mitt agreed. “But I wasn’t sure.”
“I’m convinced it is a surgical instrument, and each time I’ve seen Charlene, she’s always carrying it. Although she’s never pointed it at me, I naturally concluded it had to have some significance, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I suppose,” Mitt said.
“When I looked into it with the unique sources I have available, I came to the conclusion that it’s an outdated instrument called an ‘orbital-lobotomy knife,’ or an ‘orbitoclast,’ which resembles an old-fashioned ice pick but with a slightly flattened tip. It was designed by a mid-nineteenth-century physician named Walter Freeman. He was a staunch advocate of lobotomies and tried to popularize the procedure by creating a way for it to be done at the bedside rather than requiring a full operating room and anesthesia.”
The moment Lashonda mentioned the word lobotomy, Mitt’s mind flashed back to the Pendleton article, where he’d learned that Clarence Fuller had done as many as forty lobotomies on children. With the remembrance came the concern that maybe Clarence had performed a lobotomy on Charlene Wagner.
“I can tell what you are thinking,” Lashonda said. “And I’m afraid that you are entirely correct. Your ancestor Dr. Clarence Fuller attempted to do a bedside lobotomy on Charlene, but it went horribly wrong, killing her.”
“Good God,” Mitt managed. In his mind’s eye he could see Charlene’s scornful expression when looking at him. And if everything that Lashonda was saying was true, he could understand why. “I did notice what appeared to be bloodstains on the front of her dress.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that as well, and they’re there for good reason. The orbitoclast inadvertently cut through a major brain artery, causing a massive fatal stroke. Charlene was obviously wearing that particular dress when she was, in a sense, murdered.”
Mitt took a deep breath and let it out noisily. He spread his hands. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything at the moment,” Lashonda said. “But you must give what we have been talking about some very serious thought. The reality, I’m afraid, is that Bellevue Hospital might not be where you should do your training as a surgeon.”
“What?” Mitt questioned with sudden angst and even some anger. “Why?”
“Simply because I believe you are in danger of retribution as a direct descendant of the previous Dr. Fullers, all of whom were responsible for many deaths and measureless suffering, which unfortunately accompanied their positive contributions. Now, it is not that I believe the ghosts of Bellevue, of which there are countless numbers, can do you harm directly, as they cannot. But they can effect change through inanimate objects and generally harass you in that fashion. Have you noticed anything that might qualify in that realm during these few days you’ve been here?”
Once again, Mitt was back to staring at Lashonda, again clearly taken aback by what she had just said. What had immediately come to his mind were the curious forceps incidents in the operating room, the popping of Benito Suárez’s sutures, and even the spilled drink episode in the cafeteria, and he wondered if they might qualify. But then he had an even scarier thought that made his heart metaphorically skip a beat. What if the deaths of his patients were due to transcendental, inanimate workings?
“I can tell that I have once again struck a chord with your emotions, and I’m getting the message that there have been other deaths. I’m sorry to learn that. Am I sensing that correctly?”
“Yes, all my patients,” Mitt said reluctantly. He’d worried that he bore some responsibility, but he’d kept dismissing the idea. Now, from what Lashonda was saying, it came back in a rush. If his patients had been assigned to Andrea instead of to him, would they still be alive and well? The possibility alone, true or not, filled him with anguish.
“Was there anything about the deaths that might suggest a paranormal influence?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Mitt said without hesitation. “Three of my patients died tonight, and when I think about them, I have to say there was something I’d felt was strange involving all three. Particularly with the last patient, who suffered a thyroid storm just hours ago after having his thyroid removed yesterday morning.”
“A thyroid storm? What is that?”
“It’s when a person’s metabolism goes into overdrive by too much stimulus. The point I want to make is that there was an intravenous source of thyroid hormone set up to give a slow drip over as many days as needed until he could take the medication by mouth. After he died, I happened to notice that the drip had somehow been opened such that the entire container was empty, meaning he’d gotten perhaps a week’s worth of thyroid hormone all at once.”
“I think I understand what you are saying, and yes, I’d say that could definitely fall in the paranormal realm. What about the other two?”
“Both were somewhat similar. Both patients were also on intravenous support and both experienced sudden severe electrolyte abnormalities that affected their heart function, leading to their deaths.”
“How many patients have you been assigned so far?”