Author's note: Thanks again to those who reviewed. I appreciate your input. I don't own anything but this story.

Episode 3: The People You Think You Know

"Martin Goldberg. Time of death: 12:34 a.m. Cause of death: Renal Failure. Pronounced by Dr. Vincent Wartz at Hillwood Memorial."

He sighed as he finished the last dictation. He hadn't spent this much time in the ER ever since he accepted that position in the board of directors 3 years ago. And yet, it felt nice to be garbed in scrubs rather than a stuffy suit and tie. Well, he thought to himself, better not get too used to this.

"Gerald?" Phoebe walked behind him and put her arms around him.

"Yeah."

"You know what today is?"

"Thursday," he replied not even looking up from his paper.

"Gerald." Phoebe's voice rose slightly.

"Mmhmm."

"Honestly, Gerald." Phoebe stood up to leave.

"I know what today is, Pheebs." She froze in mid-stance.

"Really."

"I already made the reservations a week ago." He turned to her grinning.

"Oh, Gerald." She laughed and kissed him.

Arnold forced himself to get out of bed before his alarm clock could go off. He noticed that Lila's side of the bed was already made. She had probably left early for work. Again.

He wandered into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. He splashed some cold water on his face, brushed his teeth, and cleaned his glasses. He glanced at the clock; it was almost time for Sean to wake up.

"Hey, short-man. You better wake up." Arnold entered his son's room. Sean was still fast asleep. Arnold gently shook his son.

"Short-man, you've got school today." Sean mumbled and turned over to the other side.

"We don't have school today, daddy."

"Why's that short-man?"

"Parent-teacher conference." Arnold frowned.

"I didn't know about this, short-man. Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"You never asked me."

"Short-man, you should tell me about important things like this."

"I put it on a magnet on the refrigerator. I was going to tell you, but I forgot."

"Ok, but next time, tell me. Even if you have to call me when I'm at work. You can leave a message with one of the clerks. Ok?"

"Ok, daddy." Arnold kissed his son's forehead.

"Get some sleep." He left his son and headed towards the kitchen. Sure enough, there was a small piece of paper on the refrigerator. He studied it carefully. He put it in his pocket and called the hospital.

"Hey, Troy? It's Dr. Greene. Yeah. Yeah, could you just tell Phoebe when she comes in that I'm taking my day off today instead of next week. Turns out I've got this parent- teacher conference I have to attend. Ok, thanks." He hung up the phone and poured some cereal for himself and Sean.

"Dr. Heyerdahl, Dr, Greene just called; says he's taking his day off today for some school conference about his kid."

"Well, I certainly appreciate the early notice. I already gave Helga the day off to unpack. Why don't you give Wartz a call; I'm sure he's itching to see if he can still fit into his scrubs."

"You're joking right? You really want Wartz here?"

"I wish I were." Phoebe threw away some junk mail and stepped out from behind the admit-desk.

"Dr. Heyerdahl." Nadine walked beside Phoebe.

"Yes."

"There's a man in exam room 2 complaining about of flu-like symptoms."

"Ok thanks, Nadine." Phoebe opened the curtain and found two middle aged men in the middle of a somewhat heated dispute.

"Robert, I don't know why you dragged me here; I told you it's just a cold."

"You've been like this for a while, Daniel. I'm getting concerned."

"I told you, it's getting better each day."

"No, it's not, Daniel."

"Excuse me." The two men looked up at Phoebe.

"Daniel, why don't you tell the doctor how you've been feeling?

"I'm telling you, Robert, I'm not that sick." Phoebe decided that it was time to interrupt.

"Ok, Daniel, why don't you tell me what's wrong?" Robert spoke up.

"He's got a fever, a sore throat, headaches, and he has this special-looking rash."

"Robert!"

"Hmm." Phoebe rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "These are consistent with flu-like symptoms, although it's a bit early for the flu. I can prescribe you some antibiotics which should clear up the virus. I am a little curious about this rash, however."

"It's just a rash." Daniel was becoming quite agitated.

"Daniel, would you be willing to undergo a blood test?"

"Why?"

"Just a pre-caution. I want to make sure that this isn't a fungal or bacterial infection.

"Fine." Daniel rolled up his sleeve and Phoebe drew some blood into the syringe.

"Ok Daniel, we should have the results within an hour." Phoebe and Nadine walked out. She pulled Nadine aside.

"Nadine, something's not right about that man's symptoms. There should not be a rash present with flu."

"What are you thinking?"

"Tell Path that I want a Dot-blot immunobinding assay for the presence of HIV antibodies. Also, tell them to run the new Oraquick test."

"Are you sure, Dr. Heyerdahl?"

"It's just a hunch. I hope I'm wrong." Phoebe turned around and walked back to the exam room.

Vincent Wartz stormed into the ER. He wasn't too pleased about having to work too early. This was just an additional burden added on to the daily board meetings. He sipped his coffee and added his name to the marker-board schedule.

"Troy, where are Greene and Pataki?"

"Well, Dr. Greene is taking his day off today so he can go to some school conference for his kid. Dr. Heyerdahl gave Dr. Pataki the day off so she could unpack."

"Oh, that was brilliant." Wartz snorted in disgust.

"Please, can we get a doctor?" The voice came from a young man who was supporting an older man by the shoulder. Both men were dressed in black robes and were wearing skull caps. The older man's robes were stained with what appeared to be vomit. Wartz walked over quickly.

"What's the problem?"

"He vomited during the morning prayer."

"Is that all?"

"No," continued the young man. "He has been complaining of abdominal pain, fatigue, and a strange taste in his mouth. He could barely make it through the service."

"What kind of taste is it, sir?" The old man spoke up.

"It tastes like metal." Wartz's eyes lit up at the description.

"Sir, you could be experiencing acute renal failure; we need to get you checked in ASAP. He put the man's other arm around his shoulder and helped carry him into exam room 1.

Helga sipped her coffee as she thumbed through the newspaper. It was nice of Phoebe to give her the day off to unpack. Right now, she was trying to procrastinate as long as possible until she would actually have to start working. However, her procrastination was interrupted by 2 loud knocks on her door.

"Crimeny, who could be here at 10 A.M.?" She marched over to the door and flung it open.

"Arnold?" She stepped back in surprise.

"Greene's Movers, like you requested ma'am. Service with a smile." Arnold bowed deeply. Helga chuckled.

"You really didn't have to come, football-head."

"I told you I wanted to help, Helga." Sean stepped out from behind his father and tugged at his shirt.

"Who is she, daddy?"

"Well, son, this is my friend Helga. She's a doctor at the hospital where I work." The boy smiled at Helga.

"Hi, I'm Sean." Helga smiled and knelt down to his level. He didn't look that much like Arnold. His hair was brown and his head wasn't shaped like a football. In fact, he looked more like his mother. For some reason though, that didn't bother Helga. There was something about him, the way he talked and his overall behavior that reminded her of the 9 year old boy she had loved.

"So you're the new short-man. You're lucky to have a good daddy."

"Yeah, he lets me watch Spiderman." Arnold laughed and patted his son.

"Probably more than I should. So where are these boxes anyway?" Helga gestured at a large pile of moving boxes near the corner of the room.

"Ok, we'd better get started then. Short-man, go with Helga and start with the smaller ones. I'll unpack the ones marked 'fragile'." Helga led Sean over to some smaller boxes and they began unpacking some clothes.

"Why did you call my daddy football-head?" Helga smiled at the boy's curiosity.

"Well, when your daddy was young, he used to have a football-shaped head, so we all used to call him football-head."

"Only you, Helga!" Arnold called from the other side of the room. Helga and Sean both laughed.

"I'm going to get something from my room; I'll be right back." Helga walked to her bedroom. Sean continued unpacking the box. He stopped when he came across a small, discolored notebook that was falling apart. He carefully removed it and opened it. His eyes lit up as he read.

"Daddy! Helga must really like ice-cream." Arnold turned around, puzzled.

"What do you mean, short-man?" Sean ran over and gave him the book. Arnold raised an eyebrow when he saw it.

"Short-man, you shouldn't read other people's things. It's not nice." At this point, Helga returned from her room.

"Oh, Helga, here's this book Sean found. I'm sorry that he opened it." Helga swallowed a gulp of air and steadied herself.

"Thanks." She walked over quickly and took the book, putting it aside. She continued unpacking. Sean walked over to her.

"I'm sorry for taking your book, Helga." She smiled and ruffled his hair.

"That's ok, Sean; you didn't know." He grinned.

"I like your pink robe."

"Ok. Ok, thanks." Phoebe sighed as she hung up the phone. Her fears had been confirmed. Daniel had tested HIV positive. She opened the curtain and found Daniel sitting on the bed alone.

"Well, doctor, was there anything unusual?"

"There was no indication of the presence of bacteria or fungi in your blood, Daniel," Phoebe replied quietly.

"Great. So you'll give me these antibiotics and I'll be better soon, right?"

"Daniel, there's something you need to know." His face sunk at Phoebe's solemn tone.

"What is it? I thought you said I was healthy aside from the flu." Phoebe sighed.

"Daniel, we ran an Oraquick test for HIV using your blood sample. You tested positive for HIV antibodies." His jaw dropped at her words.

"Now, wait a minute, doctor, those tests aren't one-hundred percent accurate. It could have easily been a mistake."

"Daniel, the Oraquick was determined by the FDA to be ninety-nine percent accurate. To be sure, I'm also having pathology run an immunobinding assay to confirm it. Your CD4 count is also lower than normal which would explain your flu-like symptoms."

"Doctor, there's still a chance, albeit a small one, that the test gave a false positive. And besides, there's still no proof that HIV even causes AIDS." Phoebe raised an eyebrow.

"Daniel, it is a general consensus in the scientific community that HIV does indeed cause AIDS."

"Then, why is there a Nobel-Prize winning biochemist who doesn't believe that HIV causes AIDS?"

"Kary Mullis is among the minority of scientists who believe that. The important thing Daniel is that we need to get you started on antibiotics and anti-retroviral treatment." Daniel stood up to leave.

"I'm sorry, doctor, but I will not take medicine for a disease that has not been proven to cause AIDS." He started walking out, but Phoebe raised her hand.

"Wait." He turned around.

"Are you going to tell Robert?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'll let you tell him. He's a grown man; he can make his own choices about what to do if he finds out." He walked quickly past the admit-desk and through the double-doors.

"You didn't tell me you were diabetic, Rabbi Goldberg." Dr. Wartz remarked as he removed the catheter.

"You didn't ask."

"You're supposed to come everyday for your dialysis. Why did you miss your scheduled time yesterday?"

"I was officiating a bar-mitzvah. The needs of the spirit sometimes outweigh the needs of the body." Wartz smirked.

"What's the matter, doctor, don't you believe in God?" Wartz turned to the rabbi and stared at him thoughtfully.

"I used to." The rabbi rubbed his chin.

"It's a shame because you are doing God's work."

"I am today." The rabbi nodded his head.

"You were in the marines?" Wartz looked at him a bit surprised.

"Yeah, how did you know?" The rabbi pointed to a tattoo of the marine-corps crest and motto slightly above Wartz's left elbow.

"Oh, this; I'd almost forgotten it was there." He scratched at it nervously.

"How long were you in the corps?"

"5 years; I left in '93."

"Where were you stationed?" Wartz looked away.

"I'd rather not talk about it." He stood up to leave.

"Well, rabbi, you should be all set. Just come in at your usual time this afternoon for your dialysis and you should be fine." The rabbi nodded and Wartz walked away.

Arnold knocked on the door of Room 121. It was amazing how little P.S. 118 had changed. He remembered running down these same halls when he was Sean's age.

"Come in; it's open." Arnold entered the room and saw an elderly woman in her 70's with silvery hair sitting behind the desk.

"Ah, you must be Sean's father; Dr. Greene, right?"

"Yes, and you are?"

"Miss Slovak. It's nice to meet you." The two of them shook hands.

"I can't help but think that I had a teacher named Slovak once when I was in fourth grade. She left to play on the LPGA." The old lady chuckled.

"Well, that was just a little mid-life crisis. I came back to P.S. 118 about 15 years ago and I'm still here."

"I'm not sure if you remember me then, Miss Slovak; my name is Arnold. I used to sit in the second row and wear a little blue cap." The old teacher looked confused for a moment until her eyes brightened at the memory.

"Oh, Arnold. Yes, I remember you. Now that you mention it, I always knew that Sean reminded me of someone. Please, let's sit down over here." They walked over to one of the children's desks and Arnold slid in uncomfortably.

"Sean is a really good little boy. He's well-liked by the other students; he's kind; he doesn't tease any of the other kids; he's polite and respectful in class." Arnold smiled.

"Well, I try to teach him to be a good person. I'm glad he paid attention."

"I'm sure he has good role-models." She paused, and then continued.

"However, he seems to be struggling a bit in his arithmetic. Sometimes his homework isn't complete and when it is, it looks as if it were hurriedly done." Arnold raised an eyebrow.

"I didn't know that; I guess that's partially my fault. I work pretty late at the hospital and his mother's been working late for the past couple of weeks and so neither of us really checked if Sean had done his homework."

"You can't blame yourselves for this, Dr. Greene. Your jobs are very demanding. Maybe what you could do is when you or your wife come home is sit with Sean in his room and check his homework and go over some of the things he needs help with. I'm sure his arithmetic will start getting better, and if I remember correctly, you were pretty good with numbers when you were a kid." He smiled at the memory of when he tutored Torvald in math.

"Thank you, Miss Slovak." They stood up, shook hands again, and Arnold walked out of the classroom.

"Oh, Daniel, I brought you a soda." Robert called, opening the curtain. He stepped back when he only saw Phoebe.

"Where's Daniel?"

"Daniel said he had to leave. I was wondering if we could talk for a few minutes, Robert," Phoebe asked quietly.

"I don't understand, doctor, I'm not sick. I feel fine."

"It's Daniel, and it might be you." Robert looked concerned.

"What is the meaning of this doctor?"

"How long have you and Daniel been together, Robert?" His eyes pointed at the sky with a dreamy expression on his face.

"Well, I met Daniel when he came to give a poetry recitation at the school where I teach. His poetry was so expressive, so special. After class, I complimented him on his poetry, and he invited me for some coffee so he could show me his new works. I guess it just started from there. You know, he's not only a poet, he's also an activist as well."

"Where do you teach?"

"Oh, I teach fourth grade at P.S. 118." Phoebe nearly gasped.

"Mr. Simmons? Mr. Simmons, it's me, Phoebe Heyerdahl. I was in your fourth grade class."

"Phoebe? My goodness Phoebe, you've certainly turned into a special young woman. I always knew you would succeed. Aside from Olga Pataki, you were the best student P.S. 118's ever had." He gave her a big hug.

"I'm glad to see that you're doing all-right, Mr. Simmons."

"Now, what is it about Daniel being sick that you wanted to tell me?" Phoebe sighed.

"Daniel tested positive for HIV." His face turned pale when he heard the words.

"You can't be serious, can you?"

"I'm sorry to say that I am."

"Oh, my goodness." He held his head in his hands. Phoebe spoke quickly.

"Mr. Simmons, I think that it would be wise for you to undergo a test as well. You could be at risk for the virus, or worse-case scenario, you may have already been infected."

"I don't know, Phoebe. I'm not sure if Daniel would approve. He has rather special views on HIV."

"This isn't about Daniel; it's about you."

"Phoebe, if word got out that I was HIV-positive, then I could lose my job. Parents would be uncomfortable with a teacher with HIV. And my family; they would never approve; they keep asking me when I'm going to get married. Who knows what they'll do if I had HIV?"

"People with HIV can live normal, healthy lives, Mr. Simmons. But the important thing is to get tested."

"I'm not sure if I want to know."

"So you would rather stay with Daniel and risk infection."

"Daniel loves me; he would never hurt me."

"If Daniel really loved you, he wouldn't want you to get HIV." Mr. Simmons stood up to leave.

"I'm sorry, Phoebe, but I'll have to take my chances." He walked quickly out of the room.

"Mr. Simmons, please!" Phoebe followed him out, but he didn't turn back.

"Who was that?" Troy stood behind Phoebe.

"A dead man walking."

"Debbie, did Rabbi Goldberg come in for his dialysis yet?"

"No, he hasn't been in since this morning, Dr. Wartz." Wartz grabbed a chart and squinted.

"Shit, he was supposed to be here at 3." He grabbed a coat and rushed out of the ER.

"Short-man, I'm back!" Arnold opened the door to his apartment.

"Hi, daddy!" Sean called from the kitchen.

"Where's Suzy?" Arnold asked as he hung up his coat.

"I told her that she could have the day off." Arnold spun around.

"Helga? What are you doing here?"

"Just spending some time with your son. He helped me unpack the rest of the rest of my things and I figured I'd pay him back by making his lunch and giving him someone to talk to." Arnold smiled.

"You didn't have to do that, Helga. But, thanks." She pointed at some dishes sitting on the counter.

"I also took the liberty to make some chicken and rice, since Sean said that he hadn't had it for a while."

"Then the least you can do is stay and help us eat it."

"I don't want to impose. Besides, I better be going." She started to walk out of the kitchen when Sean ran over to her side.

"Helga, you don't have to leave, do you?"

"I'm sorry, kiddo, but I do have to go." The boy's face saddened. Helga smiled and ruffled his hair.

"Don't worry, kiddo, I live on the third floor, remember? You can come see me whenever you want?" His face brightened again.

"Ok." He hugged her tightly. Arnold smiled at the scene.

"Helga, I owe you one." She smiled at him.

"Well, football-head, I might just take you up on that someday."

"Yeah, someday." She walked slowly out of the door. Arnold stared at after her for a while.

"Daddy?" Sean's voice shook him out of his stare.

"Yeah, short-man?"

"How was the conference?" Sean's tone was quieter and a little nervous.

"Well, short-man it was good. Miss Slovak told me that you've been a good boy. But she also told me that you need a little help in arithmetic. Is that true?" Sean hung his head down.

"I'm sorry, daddy. Sometimes I was confused and I ended up putting it off. I wanted to ask for help, but you or mom would always be out. I didn't mean to." Arnold patted his son's shoulder.

"It's all-right, short-man. Your mother and I haven't been there enough for you and that's our fault. But from now on, you can ask us for help whenever you need it, no matter what time is it. Got it?" Sean nodded.

"Ok, let's eat this nice dinner, and afterwards we'll tackle that arithmetic together."

He stood quietly at the back of the synagogue trying to pick out Rabbi Goldberg amongst the large crowd gathered for evening prayer. It had been a long time since he had been in a building with any religious significance.

He didn't understand the rabbi's behavior. Blind faith over sound science. And there were many, some even in this synagogue who believed and acted as the rabbi.

He listened as the rabbi led them in evening prayer. Even in his weakened state, the rabbi's voice rang clear and strong. From just listening you would never have guessed how sick the rabbi actually was. The service was nearing an end and the people began filing out of the building. He moved quickly up to the front and saw the rabbi sit down wearily near the altar.

"You missed your dialysis again, rabbi."

"Ah, Dr. Wartz. I was wondering when you were going to come."

"You knew I was coming?"

"Not until now."

"Rabbi, we need to get you to the hospital." Wartz helped the rabbi up and supported him by the shoulder.

"Ok, let's go." They walked slowly down the aisle.

"What's wrong, honey?" Gerald asked as he sipped his wine.

"Oh, nothing; just a patient." He placed his hand on hers.

"We don't take our work home with us. And besides, we're supposed to be celebrating five good years." She smiled.

"Has it really been that long already?"

"Sometimes, I wonder."

"Is this couple ready to order?" Jacques, the long-time waiter at Chez-Paris arrived at their table.

"Yes, I'll have the boeuf bourguignon."

"And I'll have the escargots and the terrine de saumon aux epinards-riz."

"Very good." He left quickly to take the orders.

"Now, where were we?" She smiled.

"Well, you were going to tell me..." Her train of thought was interrupted by loud laughter coming from the corner table. It was a couple who looked quite intimate as they enjoyed their dinner. The woman was tall with brown hair, brown eyes, and wearing a green evening gown. The man also had brown hair, was well built and in a designer suit. Phoebe squinted carefully.

"Gerald, if I'm not mistaken, that looks a lot like..."

"Lila."

"Rabbi, I'm starting to wonder if you are missing your sessions on purpose." Wartz helped the rabbi onto the bed as they waited for the lab tech to bring in the dialysis machine. The rabbi chuckled.

"Maybe I am." He looked at the doctor with a solemn expression.

"If you keep this up you won't live to see next week."

"You know, I've been on dialysis for nearly 6 years. Adding up the total hours spent at the hospital, I've spent a good part of my life attached to a machine that cleans my kidneys."

"Rabbi," The rabbi raised a hand.

"I'm very tired, Dr. Wartz. Very tired. I keep coming in for these sessions and it just doesn't go away."

"You can't just give up on life."

"Perhaps, I should say the same to you about faith."

"That's a different story."

"You know, I've been a rabbi since I was 28 years old. I've officiated hundreds of bar-mitzvahs, weddings, not to mention Shabbat services and daily prayers. I've heard thousands of confessions, performed last rites." He paused before continuing.

"Dr. Wartz, it is obvious that something is troubling you. You would not have specifically come looking for me, or do you make it policy to go after every patient who misses a dialysis session?" Wartz looked away. The rabbi motioned him to come over and took his hand in his.

"I want to hear your pain, Dr. Wartz. I want to take it with me." The lab technician entered the room but Wartz waved him off, telling him that he would perform the dialysis.

"Please, doctor, I haven't much time." Wartz breathed a heavy sigh.

"I was an army surgeon during the first Gulf War. It was at the end of the war, a few days after the cease-fire; we were ordered to fly into Basra, in southern Iraq to pick up some Red-Cross workers who were injured in some of the last fighting. It was supposed to be a routine evac; we fly in, pick them up, and go. Instead, we fly in and the town's in chaos. There's fighting between the remnants of the Iraqi army and civilians who rebelled. We move in and we find the workers are holed up in their station, an abandoned apartment complex. We carry them out on stretchers and then this Iraqi woman and her daughter run after us, begging us to take them along. They're being chased by the Iraqi soldier. He grabs the women by the hair and flings them back. We pointed our weapons at him but our sergeant orders us to stand down; says that we just signed a cease-fire and that the war is over. We protest, but he says that the order came from above. I remember seeing the expression on the Iraqi soldier's face when we ran back to the helicopter. It was as if he were saying, 'you may have won your war, but you won't win this one.' He shot both women at point blank range and left their bodies to die. We get on the chopper and we hover over the village watching the carnage, and we can't do a damn thing about it. The blood of those Iraqis is still on our hands."

Wartz held his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. The rabbi reached over and took his hand.

"God forgives all who ask, and he will forgive you as well." His voice was weakening and he sunk back on the bed, ready for the big-sleep.