“Sounds like a busy afternoon. And don’t forget—”
“I know: Shut up and listen.”
Sister Eileen pointed an index finger at him and used her thumb as a facsimile of a gun hammer.
Smiling, they parted.
* * *
They had told him that security was lax and that he probably could get around the hospital pretty much at will. He hadn’t believed them. But he had been willing to try it. And now he was simply amazed.
It hadn’t been difficult getting past the lady who screened prospective volunteers. As rehearsed, he claimed that he worked part-time as a janitor for a nearby community theater and that he wanted to spend as much time as he could spare helping those less fortunate than himself. Yes, he understood that his acceptance as a volunteer was no promise of regular employment; if it happened, that would be nice, but he was in no way counting on it.
A few more questions and a few simple forms to fill out and he was issued a long white hospital coat. His picture was taken and the print affixed to his identification badge: Bruce Whitaker, Volunteer.
On the face of it, the coat and ID were indistinguishable from those of most of the other hospital personnel. Nurses, aides, even many of the doctors, wore the same. Of course the identification differed. But few people did more than scan the ID tag. At most, some looked at it just long enough to get his name.
Things were going far better than he could have hoped.
Of course there had been that unfortunate collision in the corridor with the aide who was carrying a food tray. That had been a bit of a mess. But it had been her fault as much as his. She should have looked before she picked up a full tray from the cart. Anybody could have been coming down the hallway at that precise moment. The fact that he’d been studying room numbers as he walked quickly and distractedly down the corridor was his excuse. What was hers? Besides, he had stopped and helped clean up the mess.
And then there was the specimen bottle. He had been thrilled when the nurse asked him to take it down to the lab. They trusted him! It was a good feeling—a good feeling that lasted until he reached the basement corridor. That was when he had dropped the bottle. Damned terrazzo floor! The bottle had bounced, then hit and shattered. Oh, well; the nurse would never remember who she had entrusted the bottle to. As for the specimen, there was plenty more where that had come from. He smiled. How clever! He would have to tell the others about that.
For better than an hour, no one had bothered him. He tried to appear purposeful, as if on some mission, as he familiarized himself with the various departments of St. Vincent’s.
So far, he had been most impressed with the emergency unit. So much seemed to be going on there that his head had been figuratively spinning from watching all that activity. He must tell the others of the near catastrophe he had observed. The one where the unconscious man might have died if the one doctor’s orders had been followed. But the other doctor had ordered an additional test and, as a result, the patient’s life was saved. Whitaker had been even more impressed than the others present at how easily a fatality could be caused by a simple mistake. Yes, he must tell the others about that.
Hello! What’s this? A section of the hospital he had not been shown on his orientation tour. Or had he? He couldn’t quite recall. In any case, the sign identified it: Clinic.
He wandered in casually, cautiously. His first impression was that it was a combination of the emergency unit and a pharmacy. The facility contained a huge store of medical supplies as well as many separate cubicles where patients could be seen and treated. About all it lacked of the emergency unit were the trauma rooms and the exotic equipment they held.
He’d better investigate and see what went on here. There was some activity behind the curtain in cubicle two. As authoritatively as possible, he walked to a spot just opposite the cubicle. He pretended to study a chart lying on the long, curved counter. Though he didn’t know who was speaking, he could hear quite clearly.
“How many times has this been for you?” a male voice asked.
“I d’know,” an indifferent female voice replied. She sounded black.
“You don’t know how many times you’ve been pregnant?” An unmistakable tone of incredulity.
“I don’t rightly know that I’m pregnant now, y’see.” She sounded strangely disinterested.
“You said that you haven’t had a period for two months!”
“I said that because you axed me how long it’s been.”
“You said you’re suffering abdominal pain.”
“Stomach ache.”
“But your abdomen isn’t particularly tender.”
“It still hurts.”
There was a pause. “Okay,” the male voice continued, “you wait here for a few minutes. There’ll be a nurse in to see you in a little while.”
The curtain was whipped back, then closed behind the man as he left the cubicle. Whitaker was able to see inside for only a second. The patient was seated on a gurney. She wore a print hospital gown, much the same as those used in the emergency room. And she was, indeed, black.
The man’s garb was similar to Whitaker’s. White shirt and blue tie; dark trousers topped by a white frock coat. There was an identification badge, but Whitaker could not read it. Draped around the man’s neck was a stethoscope. Whitaker assumed, correctly, that he was a doctor.
The doctor glanced briefly and quizzically at Whitaker. But the white hospital coat and ID seemed to assuage his curiosity. Whitaker busied himself at the desk.
“Maggie,” the doctor addressed a nurse, “get a specimen from the gal in two. I want a urinalysis done.”
“Okay.”
The nurse squeezed by Whitaker on her way to and from getting a bottle. Yet she didn’t seem to notice him. He couldn’t get over it: it was almost as if he were invisible.
The nurse obtained the specimen from the patient in cubicle two and departed. Some twenty minutes passed before she returned. Meanwhile, Whitaker concentrated diligently on remaining as still and inconspicuous as possible. He didn’t notice that one edge of his sleeve had fallen into an open stock bottle cap containing a concentration of Gentian Violet. The dark blue-purple solution was slowly seeping up his sleeve.
The nurse handed the doctor the test results. With the chart under his arm, the doctor reentered the cubicle. Once again, Whitaker could see the patient only momentarily. She seemed quite young. Again he could hear their voices clearly. It helped a little now that he knew what they looked like.
The thought crossed his mind that it would be better for the patient if there were more privacy. But he dismissed that thought quickly in favor of the advantage it gave him to be able to overhear their conversation. It did not occur to him that few, if any, in the clinic would ever bother to eavesdrop.
“Well, Ms. Tyler, according to our records, you’ve been at St. Vincent’s quite a few times. Though usually in emergency or maternity.”
Whitaker assumed the doctor had referred to the chart. Ms. Tyler did not reply.
“You’ve been pregnant five times and you have four living children; is that correct?”
“Not ‘zactly. I been pregnant more like six, seven times.”
“The others were abortions?”
“I didn’t have nothin’ done.” Somewhat truculently.
“Spontaneous abortions, then. Well, you’re not pregnant this time.”
“Thank the Lord.”
“Thank the Lord, indeed. You’ve just got a stomach upset. And I’ll give you something for that. But you could have been pregnant, couldn’t you?”
“How’s that?”
“You’re sexually active now? You have a boyfriend?”