Chapter 34

"Scorpions, Fire Ants and Wild Wild Women"

I'VE BEEN IN FLORIDA A LITTLE OVER A YEAR. REALLY DOESN'T SEEM THAT LONG. I'M SETTLED AT THE CLINIC AND MY CASELOAD HAS DOUBLED … GOING ON TRIPLED …

PAUL SEEBOLD, THE FIRST PATIENT I TREATED HERE, DIED THE DAY AFTER THANKSGIVING LAST YEAR. IT WAS BLACK FRIDAY. BY THAT TIME HIS ONLY SUSTENANCE WAS CONTINUOUS INTRAVENOUS LACED WITH MORPHINE FOR DESSERT. EVEN SO, HE WAS IN EXCRUCIATING PAIN. I HOPED HIS JOURNEY TO THE 'OTHER SIDE' WOULD NOT BE LONG IN COMING. I WAS AT HIS BEDSIDE AT THE END BECAUSE HE HAD NO ONE ELSE.

PAUL WAS A WIDOWER. HIS WIFE AND SON HAD PRECEDED HIM IN DEATH: SHE, FROM NATURAL CAUSES. THE BOY, FROM A TRAGIC MOTORCYCLE ACCIDENT YEARS BEFORE. I COULD RELATE TO THAT COMPLETELY. I DID NOT MENTION MY FRIEND AND HIS NOISY SPORT CYCLE, BUT HOUSE APPEARED IN MY MIND LIKE AN AVENGING ANGEL WHEN PAUL TALKED ABOUT HIS SON.

THE NIGHT PAUL DIED, I PLACED MY HAND OVER HIS AND MURMURED THE PROMISE I HAD MADE TO HIM SHORTLY AFTER WE FIRST MET. HE HEARD ME AND UNDERSTOOD. HE SMILED.

I LIKED PAUL. HE REMINDED ME A LOT OF MY OLDER BROTHER, TOM. SAME STEADY PERSONALITY, SAME PHILOSOPHICAL OUTLOOK. HE WAS EASY TO TALK TO AND QUICK TO RECOGNIZE ANOTHER LONELY SOUL BIDING HIS TIME AND WAITING FOR HIS LIFE TO UNFOLD AROUND HIM. I WOULD MISS PAUL A LOT, EVEN THOUGH OUR FRIENDSHIP WAS BUILT AROUND HIS END GAME. I HAD DONE THAT SAME THING BEFORE WITH AMBER, AND KNEW THE CONSEQUENCES VERY WELL.

I LIFTED HIS BED COVERS AND PLACED HIS HOLEY OLD DIRTY SNEAKERS ON HIS FEET ONE LAST TIME. MY PROMISE TO HIM WAS THEREFORE FULFILLED, AND SHORTLY AFTER THAT HE SLIPPED INTO A COMA.

AT 2:30 A.M. HIS CARDIAC MONITOR BEGAN TO BEEP, AND THEN FLATLINED, AND I KNEW IT WAS OVER. I DID NOTHING TO REVIVE HIM. HE'D SIGNED A DNR. I NOTED HIS TIME OF PASSING AND WISHED HIM A SAFE TRIP. HE WAS ON HIS WAY BACK TO HIS FAMILY. I UNHOOKED HIS LINES, REMOVED THE LIFE-SUSTAINING LEADS, AND SHUT DOWN THE ELECTRONICS. I EASED OFF HIS SHOES AND SET THEM ON THE FLOOR BY THE BED. HE WOULD NOT NEED THEM ANYMORE. HE'D DIED 'WITH HIS BOOTS ON', AS HE'D REQUESTED.

THE MONITORS SOUNDED AT THE NURSES' STATION, AND THE NIGHT ATTENDING WALKED OVER TO PRONOUNCE HIM. THE TWO OF US EXCHANGED A FEW WORDS, AND THEN I LEFT, A LITTLE SUBDUED, AND WENT HOME TO A HOT SHOWER, A GLASS OF WINE, AND, EVENTUALLY, BED.

The clinic and research lab were both closed over the long Thanksgiving weekend. I was not in any mood to fight city traffic on this first mad scramble of the holiday season, so I lolled on the couch, snacking and channel surfing. SYFY was playing another rerun of "Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan", and I watched it again for the umpteenth time. I admired Leonard Nimoy's tongue-in-cheek portrayal of Spock, and I had actually met Ricardo Montalbahn once, and liked him a lot. I could also recite the movie's dialogue word-for-word, and it amused me to do so.

About 9:00 p.m. I popped a pizza into the oven, poured a tall glass of Coors Light, and thought about Paul Seebold. I would miss him. When the movie was over, I cleaned up the dishes and went to bed early. I slept through the night and on into the morning. Saturday and Sunday I didn't even change out of shorts and tee shirt.

Such an exciting life I lead these days …

Christmases came and Christmases went, and a couple of New Years' came and went … and I was soon looking back at more than three years of residence in the state of Florida. I guessed I was finally getting used to sweltering days and muggy nights and hearing about scorpions, fire ants and Palmetto bugs that the Snowbirds told me were out there. I kept to the city and didn't venture much into critter territory.

On a happier note, the run-ins I'd had with young Bobby Dryden in my early days, turned out better than I could have predicted. The first time I met him, I called his bluff. Took a chance and went with the nasty. Bobby lost his right leg to Ewing's Sarcoma, a small tumor that he'd denied until he couldn't stand the pain any longer (reminded me of someone I knew well …) By then it was too late. The leg had to come off.

His parents brought him to my office the second time to talk about a prosthesis. Bobby sat stubbornly in his wheelchair and refused to speak to me. Again. After his surgery he'd been coddled and protected too much for his own good, and he was used to being waited on like the lord of the castle. He played the 'cripple card' to the hilt and would not do anything that required physical effort on his part. I encouraged him for a short time, but was basically ignored in stony silence. All hell erupted when I finally asked if his Mommy had to help him change his underpanties too …

He banged his fists on the armrests of his wheelchair and screamed at me to "fuck off!" So I left my office, closed the door behind me and left him to cool his heels by himself. The eyes and ears of patients and staff alike turned to me in alarm while Bobby screamed a litany of obscenities, audible all over the clinic, even from behind the closed door. I crossed to the area where his parents were waiting with Dr. Gresh. His mother was ready to cave in, just as he expected her to do.

I touched her sleeve and drew her aside. As gently and urgently as possible, I asked her the question I felt she most needed to hear: "When are you going to let him grow up?"

The woman's eyes met mine, startled and resentful. I lowered my voice so she would know I meant nothing confrontational. "There are things he must learn to do for himself," I said. "You don't wipe his rear end for him, do you?"

"No, of course not!"

"Then let's just wait a minute. By now he's got to be pretty sick of me walking out on him."

When my office door burst open with a crash that sounded like a Mack truck getting hit by a freight train, we knew Bobby had gotten the message. The smart-looking black wheelchair rattled down the hallway in a direct course toward us.

"Now you're getting the idea," I told him smugly before he could open his mouth. "When you're ready to quit pitying yourself and grow up, come back and see me …" I walked back the hallway and brushed past his fancy wheelchair. I closed the office door quietly behind me.

"You're a f-freak!" He stammered.

Six months ago, Bobby Dryden took his first steps on a new leg, and he never called me anything after that but "Sneakers". So much for doctor-patient dignity.

I finally found out that I'd earned the nickname because for some reason I had a talent for walking up to people from behind and scaring the bejazus out of them. I had no idea. I just laughed. It wasn't a bad thing. I quickly got used to being called "Sneakers" by just about everybody. (After that, to my face.)

Six months later, Bobby confided in me that he had asked a girl to a school dance, and she had accepted. Later, he told me the dance had gone well.

They had also done the horizontal Tango …

("Did you take the proper precautions?" "What am I … stupid? Of course!")

We laughed together, and shortly after that I discharged him. I'll miss him, I think.

I began to spend a couple of lunch hours a week in Tom's office. Sometimes Jerry would join us and sometimes not. We would discuss pending cases and current ones, and other times just shoot the breeze about sports, everyday events, or whatever came up. Sometimes with Tom's permission, I would peruse some of the back issues of his collection of medical journals. Even I had no idea there were so many out there.

I like my job. I enjoy my patients and my co-workers. I'm even beginning to get used to living in Florida; bugs and critters notwithstanding. I've been thinking about Gregory House's whereabouts and well-being a little less lately. He's a big boy, dammit.

I also checked out the dating scene. Lots of attractive women in the Palm Beach area. A lot of them spoiled party girls, none of whom had never appealed to me at all. I went on a few dates, and some of them were even fun. But nothing permanent presented itself, and I was okay with that.

I find more gratification when patients who might have died ten years ago go into remission and back to their families with little or no hospital time and a new lease on life. It's nice to be part of that, and I look to the future and wonder if cancer might be eradicated in my lifetime. There are worse ways to be put out of a job. Maybe someday soon I might also find a cure for the persistent melancholy that has followed me and dogged my life for much too long …

Only one thing bothers me, and I wonder if I'm getting to be an alarmist in my old age. I've been invited to Tom and Patti's home for dinner on occasion. I usually accept when asked. I pick up a good bottle of table wine and go over there to enjoy their company and relax.

After dinner, we sit at the table and enjoy the wine and just talk. I've noticed that sometimes Patti looks at me with glances that make me squirm. I don't know if it's me, and I'm unconsciously throwing pheromones, or if there's something there I should shy away from. I've never given her any reason to believe I might be interested in something other than casual friendship, but the hair at the back of my neck sometimes jumps to attention when our gazes meet and I feel like I'm being hit on. Then the moment is gone and she turns away.

I'm sure Tom doesn't see it. He is a gentle, trusting man, and I can't possibly say anything to him about it without hurting him deeply. Should I pull away because of some bizarre suspicion? Am I just seeing things? … having sexual fantasies and seeing a dark seduction taking place where there is none? She's my mother's age, for crying out loud. I think I need to back off and let this fizzle out …

Suddenly it's February and I'm into my fourth year.

Going to be Presidents' Day tomorrow. Valentines' Day was almost a week ago. Patti takes away the lacy hearts and puts up top hats and powdered wigs … something like that … in their place. Next month it'll be Shamrocks and Shillelaghs.

And life goes on.

I got up this morning with a vague sense of foreboding … like a twinge of uneasiness that screws up your head when you feel that someone you know is angry with you for a reason you can't fathom. Or when you get that sense of impending doom when you've forgotten to do something very important … like pay the electric bill and today is 'cut-off' day.

I tried to ignore it, but it persisted. I grabbed my car keys and walked out to ol' Vanna White. I didn't brew coffee or make breakfast. I stopped by the donut shop instead, for a croissant and a cup of their potent coffee. Maybe I could douse my case of the willies with angry caffeine.

When I got to the clinic, it was 7:00 a.m. and the front door was still locked. Ruthie and Ubu were sitting on the front stoop beside the wheelchair ramp, talking. Like me, both had cups of angry coffee in their hands. There were two cars in the parking lot with A/Cs running; both with patients waiting for early morning appointments. Tom and Patti hadn't arrived yet, and neither had Jerry.

"What's happening?" I asked. "Where's everybody?"

I received only shrugs in return. Neither Oob nor Ruthie had any idea. As we stood there gazing around in puzzlement, traffic was picking up and the sun was growing hotter. I pulled out my cell phone to call Tom and Patti, and …

Suddenly the whirr of Jerry Sunday's blue Prius wound down as he careened into Tom's reserved parking space. The car's engine silenced and our colleague jumped out, slammed the door and ran up to us like his tail was on fire.

"Tom's had a heart attack!" He exclaimed. "He and Patti were getting ready for work and she came out of the bathroom and found him in the middle of the kitchen floor.

"She called me and I got to their place just as the EMTs were loading him into the ambulance. She gave me the keys to the office and told me to have someone open up. She's with him on the ambulance and they're headed to JFK Med Center in Boynton. Probably there by now."

Jerry held out the keys to me and asked me to open up and get patients to their appointments. "I'm going to the hospital and stay there until they figure out what's going on. Then I'll be back." He turned to Ruthie and Ubu. You guys need to pinch hit in reception today. Between the two of you, somebody can decipher the filing system and direct patients to where they need to go.

"Sneakers, you have to call in Nance and 'Dori to pinch hit in the clinic. Their cell phone numbers are written down on Patti's desk calendar. Okay?"

I nodded, a little too overwhelmed to comment. We all needed to come together today and keep things "business as usual". I stared at the keys as though I had no idea what they were.

"Hopefully they'll have him stabilized by the time I get there," Jerry continued. "Anyhow, I'll see you as soon as I can. It's gonna be a long day for you, my friend."

"We'll do what needs to be done, Jerry. Get going!"

He turned and ran back to his car, started it and backed out into traffic. He took off like a bat out of hell beneath the sound of squealing brakes and epithets from other drivers and the Doppler effect of blaring horns. The rest of us stood and stared after him as he sped away.

"Tom's been working too hard," Ruthie ventured as the troop of us filed inside the clinic, patients trailing behind us, eager for information we didn't have. "He's here when we come to work in the morning, and sometimes still here when we leave at night. I hope he's okay. I have a feeling we're going to have to hire more staff before long …"

Oob and I nodded agreement as we began to get things together to begin the day with sign-ins and appointments already a half-hour late. Now with the added responsibility of trying to answer questions from patients wanting to know the condition of the doctor they all admired.

A long day indeed.

Tom Gresh was in intensive care for two days. His heart attack had been moderately severe, but so far no invasive action had had to be taken. His doctors were pushing intravenous Heparin with aspirin in order to prevent clots from forming. He was under sedation and the initial treatment would run for a full forty-eight hours. They tested his blood frequently to measure APPT levels and keep bleeding under control. I knew he would be hooked up to enough sensors and monitors that he would look like a human junction box. In addition to that, muscle relaxants would be administered to keep his body calm when he came to consciousness.

Jerry Sunday returned to the clinic just before the end of the work day to let us know the boss had been proclaimed out of danger, but he would be monitored heavily for at least another week. We all heaved a sigh of relief at the news, but we were also exhausted with the work load, the tension, and the unfamiliarity of Patti's filing system. All her passwords were encrypted and none of us had a clue how to get to them. By the end of the day, there was a big pile of handwritten notes in the middle of her desk, weighted down by the Scotch tape dispenser.

For Tom Gresh, his enforced inactivity was a tall order, but he was too weak to protest. Patti remained by his side until ordered by his physician to go home and get some sleep in a real bed.

Reluctantly, Patti agreed to do as she was told. Looking back on it now, I believe her brain became slightly unhinged at that time. She wasn't accustomed to not having Tom at her side constantly, and she became anxious and frightened and maybe even a little paranoid. The next morning she arrived at the clinic early to unlock the passwords and show us how the system worked. Within a half hour everything was transferred from the written notes into each patient's file. She even managed to decipher my own illegible handwriting.

Nancy and 'Dori returned to their offices downtown to catch up there. Ruthie and Ubu retreated to their research lab. Patti and Jerry and I adjourned to my office during a break between patients' appointments. Patti told us she had notified a local Personnel Employment Service and requested two prospective staff members be sent for interviews. She wanted Jerry and me to do the interviewing.

Jerry, that slacker, immediately begged off, claiming he was absolutely no good at that stuff, and a lousy judge of character. "Sneakers can do it a lot better than I can. He's the sweetheart with all the ladies around here. I suck at it, and I hate it. I'll take on the patient overflow until he finds the right person."

I sighed and rolled my eyes.

To my consternation, Patti let him get away with it. "Well, James, I guess it's up to you. You do have a way with the ladies, you know." Her eyes were twinkling and her mouth turned up at one corner. It seemed I was stuck. I shrugged and held up my hands in surrender. She laughed quietly. Very different from the haggard look she'd worn when she walked in that morning.

"I guess I can do the interviewing," I said. "When do you want to start?"

"Whenever they begin to show up. Probably tomorrow. I told the agency we could interview everyone who wanted to apply. It shouldn't take long, but I won't have the time. Tom and I will go along with whomever you choose."

Jerry was already backing away. "Thanks, Boss Lady," he said. "I gotta go now … patients are stacking up by the door. Thanks for the reprieve. Give my best to Tom. I'll stop in to see him as soon as I can." He escaped quickly, closing the office door behind him.

Patti walked slowly across to where I stood beside my desk. She hadn't heard a word Jerry said. I watched as she approached.

She paused, reaching out to place her hands nervously on the back of one of the side chairs. It was like she was using the only solid object nearby to prop herself up. She looked across at me, eyes searching. I frowned, not quite understanding what she intended. Her face was taut and strained from nervous tension and lack of sleep. I didn't know what to say to her, if anything, and so I said nothing. The façade she'd worn since the day I met her had slipped, and I could see every year of her true age radiating from her in waves. There were tears welling in her eyes, spilling over, trailing down her cheeks, smearing her makeup and making me wish I were anywhere on Earth except here. I began to edge behind my desk.

"Jimmy … I'm so scared … what will I do if I lose him?"

"You'll go on," I said lamely. "Just as we all go on after a tragedy. I had to do it years ago when the woman I loved was killed in a street accident. We keep going because we have to. But Tom isn't going anywhere. He's out of danger now, and he'll get better. You'll go on together." I hated the empty words even as they poured from my mouth, but I could think of nothing more appropriate to say.

Her eyes were wide and blank. She wasn't hearing me. She let go of the back of the chair and came closer. I felt a moment's panic. I had nowhere to go in order to get out of her way. I felt every muscle in my body hardening to stone.

*OH NO!*

She kept coming, around the end of the desk, far beyond the limits of personal propriety, and reached up to my shoulders to wrap her arms gently around my neck. Forced into the corner, I could go no further. She was trembling and I found myself drowning in her perfume. My heart thumped wildly as her head fell onto my chest, her warm breath penetrating between the buttons of my dress shirt.

"I do so appreciate your taking over this way, dear Jimmy … I really do …"

"Patti … please!"

Nothing happened for a moment. Then she tensed as though waking from a dream.

She backed away slowly, looking into my startled face a moment, like a fox in the henhouse. Then she straightened. Embarrassed, maybe. Or something else … I don't know what. Silent, she turned away. Opened the door and left my office. I heard her footsteps as she stumbled down the hall and away …

I stood frozen, sweating copiously in the air conditioning. My heart thundered like a trip hammer; the rest of me feeling a very strange sense of déjà vu.

*I'm back in Princeton, on the sidewalk in front of Lisa Cuddy's ruined house. I'm only a bystander, rising clumsily to my feet, twisting in pain after having been blown off my feet by a runaway car. I stared after it in confusion as it raced up the short driveway and rammed the house with such force that it jumped through the window-wall and foundered to a stop in the middle of the dining room.*

Now, again, I'm the bystander, ambushed by circumstance and left twisting in the wind. If I'd had a feeling of foreboding this morning, it was now spelling itself out before me. Nothing good could come of this encounter.

Again I'd been left standing … not knowing what had just happened … or why.

Another perpetrator had walked away … except this one wasn't really going anywhere …

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