“The patient in Trauma Room Six is dead on arrival,” the orderly stated.
“And do you have a name, or are you going to make me weed through all of this to find out?” Debbie demanded. She aimed her pen toward the clipboard in front of her.
“Tarkington,” the orderly replied.
George’s head shot up.
“Thank you. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Debbie said dismissively as she crossed out a name on the master sheet in front of her.
George edged along the countertop, angling for a look at the paperwork, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know that his patient had died. He glimpsed the given name Gregory before Debbie snatched away the chart. As her eyes met his there wasn’t an ounce of recognition.
So much for Clayton’s good word, George thought. He turned and headed down to Trauma Room 6. The dead patient was lying on a gurney, his clothes torn open, revealing a bare chest. An ER doctor was off to the side typing on a tablet. A male nurse was busy detaching the EKG leads from the individual’s chest. A crash cart with a defibrillator stood off to the side.
George looked at the dead man’s face. He just wanted to be sure it was the Tarkington whose MRI George had supervised the day before.
“What was the cause of death?” George asked the ER doctor.
The resident glanced up and shrugged. “Don’t know. If I had to guess, probably a heart attack. Whatever it was, he was long gone by the time he got here. He was as cold as an ice cube.”
“Was there a resuscitation attempt?” George asked, looking over at the defibrillator.
“No. Like I said, the guy was already cold.” He gave George a look of “what can you do” and left.
“Are you okay, Doctor?” one of the orderlies asked as he came in to retrieve the crash cart.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks,” George mumbled. Yesterday he had assumed Tarkington was in for a rough time, but he didn’t think the man would be dead within twenty-four hours! George couldn’t shake the feeling that the episode was directed at him to remind him yet again that life was fragile, unpredictable, and unfair, and that he better squeeze what he could out of it while he was able. Worse yet, he felt a strange and irrational complicity, as if he were somehow responsible. Had it not been for him, the lesions in the man’s liver might have been overlooked, and had they been overlooked, the man might be alive, happy, and unsuspecting while enjoying life with his family.
George wondered again if medicine had been an appropriate career choice. Maybe he didn’t have the emotional strength necessary.
Just then an orderly poked his head into the trauma room. “Excuse me? Are you Dr. Wilson?”
“Yes?”
“Dr. Sanchez asks that you return to the image-reading room to view a possible hip fracture.”
“Okay, thanks,” George said. He looked back at Tarkington’s lifeless body, then began walking back to Carlos. Passing the central desk, he paused to take another look at Debbie Waters. She was still at it, barking out orders. It might be interesting to find out what made her tick. And he did need to get out of his rut.
13
Sal DeAngelis glanced up at the clouds scudding across the sky. What a great day, he thought. He was dressed in a red T-shirt that had I LOVE MY OLDSMOBILE emblazoned across the front in white lettering. It was a gift from his oldest sister, Barbara, and happened to be his favorite piece of clothing. It was the same red as the exterior of his ride, and the off-white lettering matched the upholstery.
Sal carried a can of car wax in one hand and a toolbox in the other in case he came across something that needed repair. He had washed the car, and now it was time for a wax. He had only a vague sense of when it had last been waxed and couldn’t pin the exact date down. The reality was it had been the day before and the day before that.
He started on the grillwork, intending to proceed to the hood and front fenders. But he would never make it that far. All of a sudden an unpleasant feeling spread through his body. It was a sensation he used to experience frequently before iDoc entered the picture, when he would forget to eat on a regular basis. Since iDoc, such episodes had been a thing of the past. But now the sensation was back, and back with a vengeance.
He put down the can of car wax, tossed the polishing rag onto the hood of the car, and made a beeline for his apartment. Inside he went directly to the refrigerator and grabbed the half-gallon container of orange juice he had just bought. With shaking hands, he filled a glass and gulped it down. He stood still, waiting for the dizziness to recede.
Unfortunately he didn’t feel any better. With some difficulty he poured another glass of OJ. When that had no effect, he panicked, especially since he had begun to sweat profusely.
Dashing into the bathroom, he stared at his reflection. Perspiration was now literally drenching his face, and he could feel his pulse in his temples thumping rapidly. This was bad.
He dashed back out to the car, where he had foolishly left his phone. Even before he got to the car he heard his phone’s honk. Relieved at having his doctor available, he held the phone in front of his face. His hands were so sweaty that iDoc couldn’t make a biometric read of his fingerprints, so it automatically switched to visual verification. Finally, his iDoc doctor avatar appeared on-screen.
“Sal, we’re on speakerphone again,” Dr. Wilson said. “Can I speak openly?”
“Yes!” Sal shouted at the phone.
“I can tell you’re very anxious. I suggest you lie down.”
“Something’s wrong! My blood sugar is out of whack.”
“Nothing is wrong,” Dr. Wilson answered in his calm, reassuring voice. “You’re agitated. You need to lie down.”
“I need sugar,” Sal shouted back at the phone.
“Your sugar levels are normal,” iDoc stated soothingly. “Please, Sal. Go inside, lie down, and close your eyes.”
“Screw that!” Sal blurted. He knew he was getting worse, despite the orange juice. Dang it all, iDoc wasn’t working right. Damn computer glitches! Maybe he even screwed it all up himself. He might have broken that thing they put in him when he was bending over waxing the car. Sal pulled his T-shirt up to inspect the small, narrow pink scar on the left side of his lower abdomen. His anxiety growing, he tossed his phone onto the front seat of the Oldsmobile and massaged the pink scar with his fingertips. He’d always been afraid to touch the area, but now he pinched it, feeling the square, waferlike object implanted under his skin.
With sudden resolve, he bent down and opened his toolbox, rifling through his collection and sending screwdrivers and wrenches clattering to the concrete floor of the carport. There it was! His utility knife. He extended the razor-sharp blade, then looked back down at the thin scar, evaluating it. Abruptly changing his mind, he turned and ran. George!
Sal pounded hard on George’s front door, nearly shaking it off its hinges. There was no response. Sal’s anxiety level shot off the scale. He gasped for breath. On top of everything else, his COPD was acting up, causing him to wheeze.
“George! George! Open up, it’s an emergency!” George’s door didn’t open but the door to the adjacent apartment did.
“What the fuck, dude!” An angry, sleepy Joe stood in his doorway, sporting a pair of paisley boxers and nothing else. He looked at Saclass="underline" wild-eyed and clutching an open utility knife. “Whoa!” Joe immediately took a step back into his apartment, pulling the door halfway closed. “I’m trying to sleep, you crazy old fart!”