Determined not to sound like an hysteric while describing his symptoms to Guthridge, Marty recounted the odd experiences of the past three days in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice. He tried to use clinical rather than emotional terms, beginning with the seven-minute fugue in his office and ending with the abrupt panic attack he had suffered as he had been leaving the house to drive to the doctor’s office.
Guthridge was an excellent internist—in part because he was a good listener—although he didn’t look the role. At forty-five, he appeared ten years younger than his age, and he had a boyish manner. Today he wore tennis shoes, chinos, and a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt. In the summer, he favored colorful Hawaiian shirts. On those rare occasions when he wore a traditional white smock over slacks, shirt, and tie, he claimed to be “playing doctor” or “on strict probation from the American Medical Association’s dress-code committee,” or “suddenly overwhelmed by the godlike responsibilities of my office.”
Paige thought Guthridge was an exceptional physician, and the girls regarded him with the special affection usually reserved for a favorite uncle.
Marty liked him too.
He suspected the doctor’s eccentricities were not calculated entirely to amuse patients and put them at ease. Like Marty, Guthridge seemed morally offended by the very fact of death. As a younger man, perhaps he’d been drawn to medicine because he saw the physician as a knight battling dragons incarnated as illnesses and diseases. Young knights believe that noble intentions, skill, and faith will prevail over evil. Older knights know better—and sometimes use humor as a weapon to stave off bitterness and despair. Guthridge’s quips and Mickey Mouse sweatshirts might relax his patients, but they were also his armor against the hard realities of life and death.
“Panic attack? You, of all people, suffering a panic attack?” Paul Guthridge asked doubtfully.
Marty said, “Hyperventilating, heart pounding, felt like I was going to explode—sounds like a panic attack to me.”
“Sounds like sex.”
Marty smiled. “Trust me, it wasn’t sex.”
“You could be right,” Guthridge said with a sigh. “It’s been so long, I’m not sure what sex was like exactly. Believe me, Marty, this is a bad decade to be a bachelor, so many really nasty diseases out there. You meet a new girl, date her, give her a chaste kiss when you take her home—and then wait to see if your lips are going to rot and fall off.”
“That’s a swell image.”
“Vivid, huh? Maybe I should’ve been a writer.” He began to examine Marty’s left eye with an ophthalmoscope. “Have you been having unusually intense headaches? ”
“One headache over the weekend. But nothing unusual.”
“Repeated spells of dizziness?”
“No.”
“Temporary blindness, noticeable narrowing of peripheral vision?”
“Nothing like that.”
Turning his attention to Marty’s right eye, Guthridge said, “As for being a writer—other doctors have done it, you know. Michael Crichton, Robin Cook, Somerset Maugham—”
“Seuss.”
“Don’t be sarcastic. Next time I have to give you an injection, I might use a horse syringe.”
“It always feels like you do anyway. I’ll tell you something, being a writer isn’t half as romantic as people think.”
“At least you don’t have to handle urine samples,” Guthridge said, setting aside the ophthalmoscope.
With squiggly ghost images of the instrument light still dancing in his eyes, Marty said, “When a writer’s first starting out, a lot of editors and agents and movie producers treat him as if he is a urine sample.”
“Yeah, but now you’re a celebrity,” Guthridge said, plugging his stethoscope ear tips in place.
“Far from it,” Marty objected.
Guthridge pressed the icy steel of the stethoscope diaphragm against Marty’s chest. “Okay, breathe deeply . . . hold . . . breathe out . . . and again.” After listening to Marty’s lungs as well as his heart, the doctor put the stethoscope aside. “Hallucinations?”
“No.”
“Strange smells?”
“No.”
“Things taste the way they should? I mean, you haven’t been eating ice cream and it suddenly tasted bitter or oniony, nothing like that?”
“Nothing like that.”
As he wrapped the pressure cuff of a sphygmomanometer around Marty’s arm, Guthridge said, “Well, all I know is, to get into People magazine, you’ve got to be a celebrity of one kind or another—rock singer, actor, smarmy politician, murderer, or maybe the guy with the world’s largest collection of ear wax. So if you think you aren’t a celebrity author, then I want to know who you’ve killed and exactly how much damn ear wax you own.”
“How’d you know about People?”
“We subscribe for the waiting room.” He pumped air into the cuff until it was tight, then read the falling mercury on the gauge before he continued: “The latest copy was in this morning’s mail. My receptionist showed it to me, really amused. She said you were the least likely Mr. Murder she could imagine.”
Confused, Marty said, “Mr. Murder?”
“You haven’t seen the piece?” Guthridge asked as he pulled off the pressure cuff, punctuating his question with the ugly sound of a Velcro seal tearing open.
“Not yet, no. They don’t show it to you in advance. You mean, in the article, they call me Mr. Murder?”
“Well, it’s sort of cute.”
“Cute?” Marty winced. “I wonder if Philip Roth would think it was cute to be ‘Mr. Litterateur’ or Terry McMillan ‘Ms. Black Saga.’ ”
“You know what they say—all publicity is good publicity. ”
“That was Nixon’s first reaction to Watergate, wasn’t it?”
“We actually take two subscriptions to People. I’ll give you one of our copies when you leave.” Guthridge grinned impishly. “You know, until I saw the magazine, I never realized what a really scary guy you are.”
Marty groaned. “I was afraid of this.”
“It’s not bad really. Knowing you, I suspect you’ll find it a little embarrassing. But it won’t kill you.”
“What is going to kill me, Doc?”
Frowning, Guthridge said, “Based on this exam, I’d say old age. From all outward signs, you’re in good shape.”
“The key word is ‘outward,’ ” Marty said.
“Right. I’d like you to have some tests. It’ll be on an out-patient basis at Hoag Hospital.”
“I’m ready,” Marty said grimly, though he was not ready at all.
“Oh, not today. They won’t have an opening until at least tomorrow, probably Wednesday.”
“What’re you looking for with these tests?”
“Brain tumors, lesions. Severe blood chemistry imbalances. Or maybe a shift in the position of the pineal gland, putting pressure on surrounding brain tissue—which could cause symptoms similar to some of yours. Other things. But don’t worry about it because I’m pretty sure we’re going to draw a blank. Most likely, your problem is simply stress.”
“That’s what Paige said.”
“See? You could’ve saved my fee.”
“Be straight with me, Doc.”
“I am being straight.”
“I don’t mind saying this scares me.”
Guthridge nodded sympathetically. “Of course it does. But listen, I’ve seen symptoms far more bizarre and severe than yours—and it turns out to be stress.”
“Psychological.”
“Yes, but nothing long-term. You aren’t going mad, either, if that’s what you’re worried about. Try to relax, Marty. We’ll know where we stand by the end of the week.” When he needed it, Guthridge could call upon a demeanor as reassuring—and a bedside manner as soothing—as that of any gray-haired medical eminence in a three-piece suit. He slipped Marty’s shirt from one of the clothes hooks on the back of the door and handed it to him. The faint gleam in his eye betrayed another shift in mood: “Now, when I book time at the hospital, what patient name should I give to them? Martin Stillwater or Martin Murder?”