It’s ex-wife, Will wanted to say, but didn’t bother.
Maxine, stylishly dressed as always, today in a floral print silk blouse, navy blazer, and gray slacks, knocked on the doorway and nodded gravely to the nurse as they passed.
“You all right?” she asked.
“Physically I’m fine. How’d you know I was here?”
“Gordon called and told me, then a few minutes after that, Karen Millstein called.”
“I could win the Nobel Prize and news wouldn’t travel any faster.”
“In case you don’t know it, you didn’t win the Nobel Prize.”
“I didn’t take any drugs, either.”
“Gordon said it was in your blood and urine.”
“I didn’t take any drugs.”
Will wondered how many times he would say the phrase over the hours, days, and weeks ahead.
“I thought you’d been acting strange lately.”
“You came to tell me I’ve been acting strange?”
“I came to see if you’re all right.”
“I’m not all right. I didn’t take any fentanyl and nobody believes that.”
“You passed out in the operating room and then stopped breathing and then had the drug in your blood and urine. What are people supposed to think?”
“I didn’t take any drugs. Sid Silverman was just here. I’m about to be suspended from the staff.”
“What else could they do?”
“He says the media is going to be all over this. We’ve got to try our best to protect the kids. Maybe you should go away for a week until the firestorm blows past.”
“Maybe we will. Listen, Will, Mark and I talked and decided that until this business is resolved, I’m going to limit your visitation with the twins-no visits for the next week, then once a week in the playroom or yard at our place, three hours maximum, supervised. That is, provided your psychiatrist says it’s safe.”
“I don’t see a psychiatrist.”
“You will now.”
“That’s ridiculous. You can’t do that.”
“Can and will. Don’t make me go to court for a restraining order. Besides, if our situations were reversed, you know you’d do the same thing.”
Will sank back and stared at the ceiling. This wasn’t the time or place to battle Maxine, especially when he was totally outgunned. He lived for his medical practice and time with his children. Now, in a matter of just a few hours, he had lost both.
Who? Why? How?
For the first time, the questions took center stage in his mind.
Was the managed-care killer somehow involved? If so, to what end? He was supposed to be the ally of the movement. Why would they want to destroy him?
“Will? Are you listening to me? I asked if you thought you might be sued for this.”
“How should I know?” he replied, still staring overhead. “If I’m sued, I’m sued. That’s why I have malpractice.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Maxine said, “but if you’re sued for this, you don’t have malpractice. Have you forgotten?”
The clause! In fact, he had forgotten. In an effort to stem the bleeding from malpractice premiums that were going through the roof, Fredrickston Surgical Associates had decided to switch their coverage to PSF-Physicians Security Fund-a small physician-owned company based in Indiana. Among several clauses designed to keep premiums down was one omitting coverage for any incident involving the use of alcohol or other mind-altering drugs. It was not surprising that Maxine knew the details of his malpractice insurance better than he did. She was a businesswoman, and an avaricious one at that. If he were wiped out by a claim, which as of this moment seemed exceedingly possible, her finances would take a significant hit.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I just can’t get worked up about that right now.”
“But it’s true.”
“Yes, I suspect it’s true.”
“Damn you, Will. Don’t you ever think of anyone but yourself?”
Wolf Hollow Condominiums was a well-maintained, middle-class development situated a few miles outside the city. Will’s unit, a two-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath town house, was in the block farthest from the clubhouse and outdoor pool, thus bringing its cost down from absolutely prohibitive for him to merely unaffordable. Still, the kids enjoyed the pool and the game room, and had actually made some friends there. It would be hard to one day have to tell them that the place had become the property of Kurt Goshtigian or his heirs.
It was nearly eight when Will arrived home, having signed out against medical advice. Ken Millstein simply refused to authorize an early discharge for someone who had spent a large portion of the day on a vent due to a massive drug overdose and respiratory arrest. If nothing else, he insisted on a psych evaluation to determine whether or not Will was a danger to himself or anyone else. Ultimately, Will relented, and a colorless shrink named Yvonne Sands took more than an hour to determine that he was, in fact, mentally able to go home. Still, Millstein made him sign the AMA papers.
As Sid Silverman had predicted, the executive committee voted unanimously to suspend him from the hospital staff until his situation could be resolved. It seemed like only a matter of time before the Board of Registration suspended him, as well. Was there any way his disability insurance would pay anything without insisting he admit that he was an addict? Maybe he could claim a severe, paralytic depression and simply crawl into bed for a year or two. At the moment, such a diagnosis would not be stretching the truth very far. Will pulled into his parking space, grateful that no reporters or cameramen were lurking about, but he knew it was just a matter of time before they descended on 10-108 Wolf Hollow Drive, hungering for any ort of information about him and his life.
Compared to the house in Ashford, the condo was quite modest. Even so, Will liked the hardwood floors and the view of the woods out back, and bit by bit, as the bookshelves filled and art-framed prints or the twins’ masterpieces-began to fill the walls, the place had become home. There was no evidence inside that the police had been there yet. Feeling numb and detached from his life, Will brewed a pot of tea, then sank onto the couch in the small den.
Who? Why? How? After a few minutes, the three burning questions were joined by a fourth: What now? He wanted to fight back-needed to fight back-but he knew things were only going to get worse. A lawyer? Probably that was the place to begin. He really didn’t know any who handled this sort of thing. Thanks to the no-drug clause, there was no chance his malpractice company would provide one, and the incompetent weasel who had handled his divorce would probably succeed in getting him the gas chamber. What sort of retainers did lawyers charge these days, anyhow? At a recent Society meeting he had heard of one insisting on $50,000 up front. Was that possible?
The divorce and ongoing settlement payments had hit his finances hard, as had increasingly restrictive managed-care policies. He had maybe ten thousand in the bank, fifty or so in his retirement fund, and perhaps thirty that he could wring out of the condo. Not much to show for seven years in surgical practice. Jim Katz knew a lot of well-placed people. Maybe he or one of the other two partners could recommend someone.
Will sipped at his tea and stared across at the dark screen of the TV.
Shit. What in the hell had just happened to his life?
The doorbell had rung several times before he became aware of it. Let the circus begin, he thought. The guest bathroom overlooked the parking lot. Rather than answer the door, he went upstairs, carefully opened that bathroom window, and peered down. Patty Moriarity, alone, paced back and forth across the front stoop. Faced with the vast emptiness of his condo and, in fact, his world, a visit even from her was welcome.