Children weren’t supposed to get cancer.
Nobody was supposed to get cancer.
T, he diseases that fell under the domain of the
marauding crab were ultimate acts of histologic
treason, the body assaulting, battering, raping, murdering
itself in a feeding frenzy of rogue cells gone
berserk.
I slipped a Lenny Breau cassette into th tape
deck and hoped that the guitarist’s fluid genius
would take my mind far away from plastic rooms
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74 Jonathan Kellerman
and bald children and one little boy with henna-colored
curls and a Why Me? look in his eyes, But I
could see his face and the faces of so many other
sick children I’d known, weaving in and out of
the arpeggios, ephemeral, persistent, begging for
rescue…
Given that state of mind, even the sleaze that
heralded the entry into Hollywood seemed benign,
the half-naked whores nothing more than big-hearted
welcome wagoners.
I drove through the last mile of boulevard in a
.blue funk, parked the Seville in the doctors’ lot,
and walked through the front door of the hospital
with my head down, warding off social overtures.
I climbed the four flights to the oncology ward
and was halfway down the hall before hearing the
ruckus. Opening the door to the Laminar Airflow
Unit turned up the volume.
Raoul stood, bug-eyed, his back to the modules,
alternately cursing in rapid Spanish and screaming
in English at a group of three people:
Beverly Lucas held her purse across her chest
like a shield, but it wouldn’t stay in one place
because the hands that clutched it were shaking.
She stared at a distant point beyond Melendez-Lynch’s
white-coated shoulder and bither lip, strain-lng
not to choke on anger and humiliation.
The broad face of Ellen Beckwith bore the startled,
terrified look of someone caught in the midst
of a smarmy, private ritual. She was primed for
confession, but unsure of her crime.
The third member of the audience was a tall,
shaggy-haired man with a hound dog face and
squinty, heavy-lidded eyes. His white coat was unbuttoned
and worn carelessly over faded jeans and
BLOOD TEST 75
a cheap.looking shirt of the sort that used to be
called psychedelic but now looked merely garish. A
belt with an oversized buckle in the shape of an
Indian chief bit into a soft-looking middle. His feet
were large and the toes were long, almost prehensi-ble.
I could tell because he’d encased them, sockless,
in Mexican huaraches. His face was clean-shaven
and his skin was pale. The shaggy hair was medium
brown, streaked with gray, and it hung to his
shoulders. A puka shell necklace ringed a neck that
had begun to turn to wattle.
He stood impassively, as if in a trance, a serene
look in the hooded eyes.
Raoul saw me and stopped his harangue.
“He’s gone, Alex.” He pointed to the plastic room
where I’d played checkers less than twen.ty-four
hours ago. The bed was empty.
‘.’Removed from under the noses of these so-called’
professionals.” He dismissed the trio with a contemptuous
wave of his hand.
“Why don’t we talk about it somewhere else,” I
suggested. The black teenager in the unit next door
was peering out through the transparent wall with
a puzzled look on his face.
Raoul ignored me.
“They did it. Those quacks. Came in as radiation
techs and kidnapped him. Of course, if anyone had
possessed the good sense to read the chart to find out if
radiologic studies had been ordered, they might
have prevented this—felony!”
He was boring in on the fat nurse now, and she
was on the verge of tears. The tall man came out of
his trance and tried to rescue her.
“You can’t expect a nurse to think like a cop.”‘
His speech was just barely tinged with a Gallic lilt.
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Jonathan Kellerman
Raoul wheeled on him.
“You! Keep your damned comments to yourself!
If you had an iota of understanding of what medicine
is all about we might not be in this mess. L/kc
a cop! If that means exercising vigilance and care to
insure a patient’s safety and security, then she damn
well does have to think like a cop! This isn’t an