After the ribbon-cutting ceremony, Izzy and Regina repaired for a drink.
“I’m glad I’ll be retiring soon,” Izzy said as he reached for his second Scotch and soda.
“If only we could just practice medicine,” Regina wistfully said.
“Those days are gone, Regina, gone forever.”
“Well, I’ll do the best I can.”
And she did.
Central Virginia Hospital sat in the middle of a large, round beltway. Spokes were the various departments, the core of the new building being a large six-story square. The architects felt they had created a state-of-the-art medical center, but like so many new things, it was confusing as hell. Did one go to the core building to check in, or did one go to the wing that housed one’s specialist?
One thing they did right was the emergency room, which was easy to find. It was the first spoke off the main building once one turned off the state highway onto the beltway. The overhang where ambulances pulled in had a series of lights. You couldn’t miss it.
Another thing the designers accomplished was exciting landscaping and plantings. One saw lots of green spaces, too. Dr. MacCormack’s office sat on one of the roads off the beltway, away from the hospital. Like the hospital, those buildings were sparkling new. Many doctors could perform minor procedures in their offices, a great convenience to patients. Harry drove along to Willow Lane, turned right, and within less than a minute arrived at the modern glass-and-steel three-story building. An expensive carved and painted sign with Apollo’s caduceus identified this as Willow Lane Medical Associates. Once at the front door, another painted sign, again expensively done with incised letters in black with gilt edges, cited all the doctors within.
Harry passed through Regina’s office door at ten and passed back out at ten-thirty. She felt a weight on her shoulders she’d never felt before.
As she walked through the parking lot to her truck, she said hello to Cory Schaeffer, M.D.
“How are you, Harry?” he asked.
“Fine,” she lied. “And you?”
“Good, thank you.” He locked the door of a small car painted a pretty light metallic misty green.
“Is that an electric car?”
“It is. The Lampo. Just bought it last week. You put the key in, there’s no motor noise. That’s taken me a bit to get used to, but the mileage is unbelievable. Even better, screw the Arabs. I don’t need their gas.”
Given Cory’s aggressive views on that and other subjects, Harry demurred. “There’s wisdom in that. Correct me if I’m wrong. Doesn’t the battery for this thing cost twelve thousand dollars?”
“Uh, I’m not sure of the exact price, but there’s no danger of me having to buy a battery. I have a cruising range of four hundred miles. Now, that’s really incredible. The car will switch to a four-cylinder engine should the voltage drop too low. I’ve not yet heard those four cylinders. I expect I will sometime or other.”
“So, if you drove, say, to the Greenbrier,” Harry said, mentioning a gorgeous retreat in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, “you wouldn’t need gas?”
“Not a drop.”
“Where do you plug in the car? I mean, you’d have to put it in the parking lot. How would you recharge the battery?”
“Right now gas stations and retreats like Hot Springs or the Greenbrier don’t have a facility for a recharge. But given the push for autonomy from foreign powers when it comes to transportation and energy, I’m confident that within a year or two we will pull into a gas station or a parking lot even at a motel and there will be a recharge station so more than one car can fill up, so to speak. I envision it as a low bank with big square outlets.”
“I hope you’re right, or you won’t be going too far.” Harry couldn’t resist the little jab.
“Trust technology, Harry. It’s gotten us this far.”
She wanted to say “And yes, it’s polluted our rivers, our skies; ruined our eyes in many cases as people stare into screens all day; it’s helped create far too much obesity as people sit hours upon hours; but worse, it’s broken the bonds between people.”
She knew he wouldn’t see it that way, but then again, maybe a physician couldn’t. So much of what happened in their world involved nanotechnology, lasers, imaging, new ways to heal without cutting, and more tests than even a genius could remember. It overwhelmed her, and she mistrusted it. It was her nature to distrust the new.
“I’ll try,” she fibbed.
Cory rested his hand on the short hood of the Lampo. “You found her, didn’t you?”
“Yep.”
“Well, I’m sorry for that, Harry. What a good nurse she was. If you’re in the operating room, you want Paula.”
“Didn’t mean to criticize you about trusting technology.”
He reached over and touched Harry’s shoulder. “We can’t know everything, but we can try, and so often technology can show us the problem much faster than our own senses.”
“It’s good to see you, Cory. Thanks for talking to me about your car.”
“Oh, I know you’re a gearhead.” He smiled. “One of the first conversations I had with you when I moved here from Minneapolis was why a live axle is a rougher ride but better for a truck. I thought, well, I haven’t met too many women who know stuff like that, and then I met BoomBoom Craycroft. Must be something in the water in these parts.”
“Hope so. Saves us money when we go for auto repair.” Cory blinked.
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Men usually don’t.”
A puzzled look crossed his face. “What’s being a man got to do with it? I figure if you know motors, you can tell the mechanic where to look first. Save some money.”
“True enough. However, Cory, there are those dishonest mechanics out there who figure a woman is as dumb as a sack of hammers about motors. So they give you a laundry list of repairs, all of which are unnecessary. The woman foots the bill. That’s never happened to BoomBoom or me.”
He smiled slyly. “No, but I bet a lot else has.”
Harry laughed and waved him off as he walked away. She then hopped up into the high seat of her F-150 with the live axle—so good for hauling. She cranked the engine and luxuriated in the rumble of that big old gas-guzzling V-8.
“Damned if I’d buy an electric car.” She rolled down the road, then pulled over.
She opened the glove compartment, fished out her cellphone, which was taped together after many little accidents, and dialed Susan Tucker.
“Hey.”
“Hey back at you. Where you at?” Susan used the grammatically incorrect sentence.
“Dr. MacCormack’s. Can I see you? Now.”
After so many years of friendship, Susan knew Harry was in trouble.
“I’m on the golf course. Want to meet me at the Nineteenth Hole or home?”
“Home.”
“Be there in about a half hour.”
“Good enough.”
• • •
When Susan pulled into her driveway, Harry felt a flood of relief and love. She needed Susan, and Susan never failed her. Harry prayed that she had never failed her friend, either.
Within minutes, the two sat at Susan’s kitchen table, tea in front of them, as well as Harry’s problem.
“You’re going to have the procedure, aren’t you?”
“I am, but I’m not looking forward to it. I have to lie on a table, drop my boob through it, and they go in with a tiny, tiny scalpel with a little fishhook, sort of, pull out some tissue, then test it.”
“They’ll put some numbing cream on. That will help.”
“There isn’t going to be any numbing cream at the back of my boob. It’s going to hurt like hell.”