Brain. Chapter 8, 9
8
Moments before the alarm was due to sound, Martin pressed in the knob on the clock and lay there, looking up at the ceiling. His body was so used to waking at five-twenty-five that he rarely needed assistance, no matter what time he went to sleep. Marshaling his strength, he rose quickly and donned his jogging clothes.
The nighttime rain had saturated the air with moisture, and a stringy fog hung over the river, making the stanchions of the bridge appear as if they were supported by vaporous clouds. The dampness deadened the sound so that the early-morning traffic did not interrupt his thoughts, which were mostly about Denise.
It had been years since he had felt the excitement of romantic love. For a couple of weeks he hadn’t even recognized the reason for his insomnia and odd mood swings, but then when he found himself remembering what Denise wore each day, the reality finally dawned on him with a mixture of cynicism and delight. The cynicism came from having watched several of his colleagues who were also forty plus make fools of themselves with new, young loves. The delight came from the relationship itself. Denise Sanger wasn’t just a young body to be used to deny the inevitability of time. She was a fascinating combination of mischievous inventiveness and penetrating intelligence. The fact that she was so pretty was like icing on the cake. Philips had to admit that he was not only crazy about her, but was also becoming dependent upon her as a means of rescue from the self-fulfilling prophecy his life had become.
When he reached the 2.5-mile mark, Philips turned and headed back. There were more joggers now, some of whom he recognized; but he tended to ignore them as they did him. His breathing became a little heavier but he continued to maintain a strong smooth pace all the way to his apartment.
Philips knew that as much as he’d liked medicine, he’d used it as an excuse for not expanding any other parts of his life. The shock of his wife’s flight had been the biggest single cause of this realization. What to do about it was another issue. For Martin, research had become the potential salvation. While he continued his grading day-to-day commitments, he’d expanded his research hoping that it would eventually win some freedom for him. He didn’t want to give up clinical medicine, just loosen the stranglehold it had on his life. And now that Denise had come along, he was even more committed. He vowed he would not make the same mistake again. If things worked out between them, Denise was going to be his wife in the full sense of the word. But to do that his research had to succeed. By 7:15 he had showered, shaved and was at his office door. When he went inside he stopped, amazed. Overnight the room appeared as if it had been transformed into a dump for old X rays. Randy Jacobs with his usual efficiency had pulled a great percentage of the films he’d requested. The envelopes from the master list were stacked in precarious piles behind the worktable. Those from the second, smaller list were stacked by Philips’ alternator. Lateral skull films had been taken from each of the envelopes of the latter group and mounted on the viewing screens.
Philips experienced a new wave of enthusiasm and sat down in front of the alternator. He immediately began scanning the films for abnormalities similar to those he’d seen with Marino, Lucas, Collins, and McCarthy. He’d gotten through almost half when Denise walked in.
She looked exhausted. Her normally shiny hair seemed oily and her face was pale with dark circles under her eyes.
She gave him a quick hug and sat down. Looking at her wan expression he suggested she take a few hours off for a nap. He’d see her in the angiography room when she felt like returning. Meaning, of course, he’d start the case.
“Hold on,” said Denise. “No special concessions for the boss’s mistress. It’s my turn to be in the cerebral angiography room and I’ll be there whether I’ve slept or not.”