Coma by Robin Cook. Part five

“Exactly.”

“Well, it seems to me that the reputation of the hospital is nothing compared to the irreparable damage suffered by these people. I have become more and more convinced that the reputation of the hospital deserves to be ruined if that’s what it takes to solve the problem.”

“Now, Miss Wheeler, you can’t be serious. Where would all the people turn … all the people who are in daily need of the facilities in this hospital? Come … come. And by glibly drawing attention to an unfortunate but nevertheless unavoidable complication …”

“How do you know it’s unavoidable?” interrupted Susan.

“I can only believe what the chiefs of the respective departments assure me. I am not a doctor nor a scientist, Miss Wheeler, nor do I pretend to be. I am an administrator. And when I am faced with a medical student who is here to learn surgery, but instead spends her time calling attention to a problem which is already under investigation by qualified people such as Dr. McLeary here—a problem whose indiscreet disclosure has the potential to cause irreparable harm to the community, I am forced to react quickly and decisively. Obviously the warnings and exhortations you have already received to assume your normal duties have gone unheeded. But this is not a debate. I’m not here to argue with you. On the contrary, with all due respect, I thought it best to give you an explanation for my decision about your surgery rotation. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will phone your dean of students.”

Oren picked up McLeary’s telephone and dialed.

“Dr. Chapman’s office, please. … Dr. Chapman, please. Phil Oren calling. … Jim, Phil Oren here. How’s the family? Everyone in our house is just fine. … I suppose I told you that Ted’s been accepted at the University of Pennsylvania. … I hope so. … The reason I called is about one of your third-year students rotating on surgery, a Susan Wheeler. … That’s right. … Sure, I’ll hold.”

Oren looked at Susan. “You are a third-year student, Miss Wheeler?”

Susan nodded. Her nascent anger had melted into dejection.

Oren looked back at McLeary, who suddenly stood up, apparently bored. “I’m sorry, Don, for this intrusion,” said Oren. “I suppose we should have gone to my office. I’ll be finished …” Oren redirected his attention into the telephone. “Yes, I’m here, Jim … well that’s nice to know she’s been a good student. But nonetheless she had exhausted her welcome here at the Memorial. She is supposed to be on surgery but has decided never to attend rounds, conferences, or surgery. Instead, she has been irritating the staff, particularly our Chief of Anesthesia, and exacting unauthorized information from our computer storage facility by some devious means. We obviously have enough trouble around here without her kind of help. … Sure, I’ll tell her you want to see her … this afternoon at four-thirty. Good enough. I’m sure the V.A. would be happy to have her … right (chuckle). Thanks, Jim. Speak to you soon, and let’s get together.”

Oren hung up the phone and smiled diplomatically at McLeary. Then he turned to Susan.

“Miss Wheeler, your dean, as you have plainly heard, would like to have a word with you this afternoon at four-thirty. From this moment on, your professional welcome at the Memorial has been terminated. Goodbye.”

Susan looked from Oren to McLeary and then back. Mc-Leary’s expression was unchanged. Oren sported a self-satisfied smile, as if he had just won a debate. There was an awkward silence. Susan realized that the scene was over, and she got up without a word, picked up the parcel containing the nurse’s uniform, and left.

Wednesday, February 25, 11:15 A.M.

Finding the hospital intolerably oppressive from an emotional point of view, Susan fled. She pushed her way through the lingering crowds, out into the rainy, raw February day. Once outside and without any particular destination in mind, she just walked, aimlessly, lost in her own thoughts. She turned on New Chardon Street and then on Cambridge Street.

“Assholes,” she hissed as she kicked a stray, partially crunched Campbell’s soup can. The light rain flattened her hair against her forehead. Small droplets coalesced and dripped from the tip of her nose. She wandered up Joy Street into the back side of Beacon Hill, preoccupied with her stream of consciousness. She saw but her mind did not record the clutter of life, dogs, garbage, and other debris of the decaying urban surroundings.

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