"Kidney and liver function is definitely going down," Arthur said. "The peritoneal dialysis is not keeping up."
Kim had to steel himself to curtail his anger at this self-serving dialectic. It certainly wasn't helping his daughter. He tried to think and remain rational.
"If the peritoneal dialysis is not working," Kim said in a deceptively calm voice, "perhaps we should transfer her to the Suburban Hospital and get her on a dialysis machine."
"That's out of the question," Claire said. "She's too critical to be transferred."
"Well, it seems to me we-have to do something," Kim shot back, his anger bubbling to the surface.
"I think we are doing all we can," Claire said. "We're actively supporting her respiratory and kidney functions, and replacing her platelets."
"What about plasmaphoresis?" Kim said.
Claire looked at Walter.
"AmeriCare is reluctant to authorize it," Walter said.
"Screw AmeriCare," Kim spat. "If there's a chance you think it could help, let's do it."
"Hold on, Dr. Reggis," Walter said. The gray-haired man shifted his weight. He was obviously uncomfortable about this issue. "AmeriCare owns this hospital. We can't just go thumbing our noses at their rules. Plasmaphoresis is expensive and experimental. With lay families, I'm not even supposed to bring it up."
"How do we go about getting them to authorize it?" Kim questioned. "I'll pay for it myself if it can help."
"I'd have to call Dr. Norman Shapiro," Walter said. "He's the chairman of the AmeriCare Review Board."
"Call him!" Kim barked. "Right now!"
Walter looked at Claire. Claire shrugged. "I suppose a call can't hurt."
"Okay by me," Walter said. He left the room to use the phone at the ICU desk.
"Dr. Reggis, plasmaphoresis is grasping at straws," Claire said. "I think it's only fair to tell you and your former wife that you should be preparing yourselves for all eventualities."
Kim saw red. He was in no frame of mind to "prepare himself" as Claire euphemistically suggested. Instead he wanted to strike out at the people responsible for Becky's sorry state, and at that moment his nearest targets were the doctors in that very room.
"You do understand what I'm saying, don't you?" Claire asked gently.
Kim didn't answer. In a suddenly clairvoyant moment, he comprehended the absurdity of blaming these doctors for Becky's plight, especially when he knew where the fault lay.
Without warning, Kim broke away from Claire and rushed out of the ICU. He was beside himself with anger, frustration, and his humiliating sense of impotence. He started down the hall.
Tracy was still in the waiting room. She spotted Kim's hasty exit and immediately knew he was in a rage. When he passed by without a glance, she ran to catch up to him. She was afraid of what he might do.
"Kim. stop! Where are you going?" She pulled on his sleeve.
"Out," he said, breaking away.
"Where?"
Tracy had to run merely to keep up with Kim's determined stride. The look on his face frightened her. For the moment she forgot her own grief.
"I've got to do something," he said. "I can't just sit here and wring my hands. Right now I can't help Becky medically, but by God I'm going to find out how she got sick."
"How are you going to find out?" Tracy asked. "Kim, you have to calm down."
"Kathleen told me the E. coli problem is mainly a problem with ground meat," Kim said.
"Everybody knows that," Tracy said.
"Yeah, well, I guess I didn't," Kim said. "And remember when I told you that a week ago I took Becky to the Onion Ring on Prairie Highway? She had a burger, and it was rare. That had to have been when she got sick."
"So you mean to tell me you're going to the Onion Ring restaurant now?" Tracy asked incredulously.
"Obviously," Kim said. "If that's where Becky got sick, that's where I'm going."
"Right now, it doesn't matter where Becky got sick," Tracy said. "What matters is she is sick. We can worry about the how and the why some other time."
"It might not matter to you," Kim said. "But it matters to me."
"Kim, you're out of control," Tracy said with exasperation. "Just once can't you think of someone else besides yourself?"
"What the hell do you mean?" Kim snapped, feeling even more enraged.
"This is about you, not about Becky. It's about you and your doctor ego."
"The hell it is," Kim growled. "I'm in no mood to listen to any of your psychological nonsense. Not now!"
"You're not helping anyone by running off like this," Tracy said. "You're a threat even to yourself. If you have to go, at least wait until you have calmed down."
"I'm going in hopes it can calm me down," Kim said. "And maybe even give me an ounce of satisfaction."
The elevator arrived, and Kim boarded.
"But you haven't even changed out of your scrub clothes," Tracy said, hoping to find some way to delay him for his own good.
"I'm going," Kim said. "Right now. Nobody's going to stop me!"
Kim pulled into the Onion Ring parking lot fast enough to bottom out on the lip of the driveway. There was a muffled thump, and a shudder went through the car. Kim didn't care. He took the first parking spot he came to.
After putting on the emergency brake and turning off the ignition, Kim sat in the car for a moment and looked out the windshield at the restaurant. It was as crowded as it had been a week earlier.
The drive from the hospital had blunted the edge of his anger but not his determination. He thought about what he'd do once he was inside and then got out of the car. Passing through the main entrance, he found the lines at the cash registers stretched almost to the door. Unwilling to wait, he pushed his way to the front. Some of the customers complained. Kim ignored them.
Once at the counter, Kim got the attention of one of the cash-register girls whose name tag said: HI, I'M DEBBIE. She was a nondescript teenager with bleached hair and mild acne. Her facial features were frozen into an expression of absolute boredom.
"Excuse me," Kim said, forcing himself to sound calm even though it was apparent he was not. "I'd like to speak to the manager."
"You have to wait in line to order," Debbie said. She glanced briefly at Kim but was completely insensitive to his state of mind.
"I don't want to order," Kim said slowly and deliberately. "I want to speak to the manager."
"He's like really busy right now," Debbie said. She turned her attention back to the person standing at the head of her line and asked that the order be repeated.
Kim slammed his open palm down on the countertop with such force that it caused several napkin holders to vibrate off and fall with a clatter to the floor. The sound was like a shotgun blast. In an instant the entire restaurant went silent like a freeze-frame in a movie. Debbie turned pearl white.
"I don't want to have to ask again," Kim said. "I want the manager.
A man stepped forward from a position next to the central island behind the row of cash registers. He was dressed in a two-tone Onion Ring uniform. His name tag said: HI, I'M ROGER.
"I'm the manager," he said. His head twitched nervously. "What's the problem?"
"It's my daughter," Kim said. "She happens to be in a coma at the moment, fighting for her life, all from eating a hamburger here one week ago."
Kim was loud enough to make himself heard throughout the restaurant. Those customers who were eating burgers eyed them suspiciously.
"I'm sorry to hear about your daughter," Roger said, "but there's no way she could have gotten sick here, least of all from one of our burgers."