"And if you need a sitter for Nikki, my older sister, Alice Doherty, would be delighted to help out. She lost her husband a few years ago. Besides, she lives out your way."
"That's a wonderful tip," Angela said. "With both of us working we'll need someone just about every day."
Later that same afternoon David and Angela met the handyman and the painter out at their new home. They arranged to have a general cleaning as well as a minimum of painting and repairing to make the house weatherproof.
After one more visit to the hardware store so Nikki could pet Rusty one last time and say goodbye, the Wilsons got on the road for the drive back to Boston. Angela drove. Neither David nor Nikki dozed. They were all keyed up from what they'd accomplished and full of dreams about their new life that was imminently to begin.
"What did you think about Dr. Portland?" David asked after a period of silence.
"What do you mean?" said Angela.
"The man was hardly friendly," David said.
"I think we woke him up."
"Still, most people wouldn't act that irritable. Besides, he looked like death warmed over. He's changed so drastically in a month."
"I thought he sounded and looked depressed."
David shrugged. "He wasn't even that friendly the first time we met him, now that I think of it. All he wanted to know was whether I played basketball. Something about him makes me feel uncomfortable. I hope sharing an office with him doesn't become a sore spot."
It was dark by the time they returned to Boston; they'd stopped for dinner on the way. When they got back to their apartment, they looked around in wonderment, amazed that they'd been able to live for four years in such a tiny, claustrophobic space.
"This entire apartment would fit into the library of the new house," Angela commented.
David and Angela decided to call their parents to share the excitement. David's were delighted. Having retired to Amherst, New Hampshire, they felt like Bartlet was next door. "We'll get to see a lot more of you guys," they said.
Angela's parents had a different response.
"It's easy to drop out of the academic big leagues," Dr. Walter Christopher said. "But it's hard getting back in. I think you could have asked my opinion before you made such a foolish move. Here's your mother."
Angela's mother came on the line and expressed her disappointment that Angela and David hadn't come to New York. "Your father spent a lot of time talking to all sorts of people to make sure you had good positions here," she said. "I think it was inconsiderate of you not to take advantage of his effort."
After Angela hung up she turned to David. "They've never been particularly supportive," she said. "So I suppose I shouldn't have expected them to change now."
6
Traynor arrived at the hospital with time to spare for his afternoon meeting. Instead of going directly to Helen Beaton's office, he went to the patient area on the second floor and walked down to room 209. After taking a breath to fortify himself, he pushed the door open. Being chairman of the board of directors of the hospital had not changed Traynor's aversion to medical situations, particularly bad medical situations.
Conscious of breathing shallowly in the presence of the seriously ill, Traynor moved across the darkened room and approached the large orthopedic bed. Bending over and scrupulously avoiding touching anything, he peered at his client, Tom Baringer. Tom didn't look good, and Traynor didn't want to get too close lest he catch some awful illness. Tom's face was gray and his breathing was labored. A plastic tube snaked from behind his head, feeding oxygen into his nose. His eyes were closed with tape, and ointment oozed out between his eyelids.
"Tom," Traynor called softly. When there was no response, he called louder. But Tom did not move.
"He's beyond responding."
Traynor jumped and the blood drained from his own face. Except for Tom, he'd thought he was alone.
"His pneumonia is not responding to treatment," the stranger said angrily. He'd been sitting in a corner of the room. He was cloaked in shadows; Traynor could not see his face.
"He's dying like the others," the man said.
"Who are you?" Traynor asked. He wiped his forehead where perspiration had instantly appeared.
The man got to his feet. Only then could Traynor see that he was dressed in surgical scrubs, covered with a white jacket.
"I'm Mr. Baringer's doctor, Randy Portland." He advanced to the opposite side of the bed and gazed down at his comatose patient. "The operation was a success but the patient is about to die. I suppose you've heard a variation of that quip before."
"I suppose I have," Traynor said nervously. Shock at Dr. Portland's presence was changing to anxious concern. There was something decidedly strange about the man's manner. Traynor wasn't sure what he would do next.
"The hip has been repaired," Dr. Portland said. He lifted the edge of the sheet so Traynor could see the tightly sutured wound. "No problem whatsoever. But unfortunately it's been a fatal cure. There's no way Mr. Baringer will walk out of here." Portland dropped the sheet and defiantly raised his eyes to Traynor's. "There's something wrong with this hospital," he said. "I'm not going to take all the blame."
"Dr. Portland," Traynor said hesitantly. "You don't look well to me. Maybe you should see a doctor yourself."
Dr. Portland threw back his head and laughed. But it was a hollow, mirthless laugh which ended as suddenly as it had begun. "Maybe you're right," he said. "Maybe I'll do that." He then turned and left the room.
Traynor felt stunned. He looked down at Tom as if he expected him to wake up and explain Dr. Portland's behavior. Traynor could understand how doctors might become emotionally involved in their patients' conditions, but Portland seemed unhinged.
Traynor tried one last time to communicate with Tom. Recognizing the futility, he backed away from the bed and slipped out of the room. Warily he looked for Dr. Portland. When he didn't see him, Traynor quickly walked to Beaton's office. Caldwell and Kelley were already there.
"Do you all know Dr. Portland?" Traynor asked as he took a chair.
Everyone nodded. Kelley spoke: "He's one of ours. He's an orthopedic surgeon."
"I just had a very peculiar and unnerving encounter with him," Traynor said. "On my way here I popped in to see my client, Tom Baringer, who's very sick. Dr. Portland was sitting in the corner of Tom's darkened room. I didn't even see him when I first went in. When he spoke, he acted strangely, even belligerently. I imagine he's distraught over Tom's condition, but he said something about not taking all the blame and that there was something wrong with the hospital."
"I think he's been under strain from overwork," Kelley said. "We're short at least one orthopedic surgeon. Unfortunately our recruiting efforts have been unsuccessful so far."
"He looked ill to me," Traynor said. "I advised him to see a doctor, but he only laughed."
"I'll have a talk with him," Kelley promised. "Maybe he needs a little time off. We can always get a locum tenens for a few weeks."
"Well, so much for that," Traynor said, trying to compose himself more in keeping with his role as chairman of the board. "Let's get our meeting underway."
"Before we do that," Kelley said, flashing one of his winning smiles, "there's something I have to say. My superiors are very upset about the negative ruling on the CON for open-heart surgery."
"We were disappointed about that as well," Traynor said nervously. He didn't like beginning on a negative note. "Unfortunately it's out of our hands. Montpelier turned us down even though we thought we'd made a good case."
"CMV had expected the open-heart program to be up and running by now," Kelley said. "It was part of the contract."
"It was part of the contract provided we got the CON," Traynor corrected. "But we didn't. So let's look at what has been done. We've updated the MRI, built the neonatal ICU, and replaced the old cobalt-60 machine with a new state-of-the-art linear accelerator. I think we have been showing remarkably good faith, and we've been doing all this while the hospital has been losing money."