mother helps me with the tough passages.”
I remembered her mother. Heavyset and pleasant, fragrant of dough and
sugar. Blue numbers on a soft white arm.
“Get an SAP card,” she said. “It’s a kick.”
“Don’t know if I’d qualif’. My appointment’s across town.”
“I think you would. Just show them your faculty card and pay a fee.
It takes about a week to process.”
I’ll do it later, then. Canøt wait that ~~~g~ø~ “No, of course not.
Listen, I’ve got plenty of time left on my account. My chairman wants
me to use all of it up so he can ask for a bigger computer budget next
year. If you want me to run you a search, just let me finish up with
this, and we’ll find all there is to know about people who proxy their
kids.”
We rode up to the SAP room at the top of the stacks. The search system
looked no different from the terminals we’d just left: computers
arranged in rows of partitioned cubicles. We found a free station and
Jennifer searched for Munchausen-by-proxy references.
The screen filled quickly. The list included all the articles
Stephanie had given me, and more.
“Looks like the earliest one that comes up is I 977,” she said.
“~neet. Meadow, R. Munchausen syndrome by proxy: The hinterland of
child abuse.”” “That’s the seminal article,” I said. “Meadow’s the
British pediatrician who recognized the syndrome and named it.”
“The hinterland that’s ominous too. And here’s a list of related
topics: Munchausen syndrome, child abuse, incest, dissociative
reactions.”
“Try dissociative reactions first.”
For the next hour we sifted through hundreds of references, distilling
a dozen more articles that seemed to be relevant. When we were
through, Jennifer saved the file and typed in a code.
“That’ll link us to the printing system,” she said.
The printeM were housed behind blue panels that lined two walls of the
adjoining room. Each contained a small screen, a card slot, a
keyboard, and a mesh catch-bin under a foot-wide horizontal slit that
reminded me of George Plumb’s mouth. Two of the terminals weren’t in
use. One was marked OUT OF ORDER.
Jennifer activated the operative screen by inserting a plastic card in
the slot, then typing in a letter-number code, followed by the call
letters of the first and last articles we’d retrieved. Seconds later
the bin began to fill with paper.
Jennifer said, Automatically collated. Pretty nifty, huh?”
I said, “Melvyl and Orion-those are basic programs, right?”
“Neand’rthal. One step above cards.”
“If a hospital wanted to convert to computerized search and had a
limited budget, could it go beyond that?”
“Sure. Way beyond. There are tons of new software programs.
Even an office practitioner could go beyond that.”
“Ever hear of a company called BIO-DAT?”
“No, can’t say that I have, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’m no
computer person. For me it’s just a tool. Why? What do they do?”
“They’re computerizing the library at Western Pediatric Hospital.
Converting reference cards to Melvyl and Orion. Supposed to be a
three-week job but they’ve been at it for three months.”
“Is it a huge library?”
“No, quite a small one, actually.”
“If all they’re doing is probe and search, with a print-scanner It
could be done in a couple of days.”
“What if they don’t have a scanner?”
“Then they’re Stone Age. That would mean hand-transfer. Actually
typing in each reference. But why would you hire a company with such a
primitive setup when- Ah, it’s finished.”
A thick sheaf of papers filled the bin.
“Presto-gizmo, all the gain, none of the pain,” she said. “One day
they’ll probably be able to program the stapling.”
I thanked her, wished her well, and drove home with the fat bundle of
documents on the passenger seat. After checking in with my service,
going through the mail, and feeding the fish-the koi who’d survived
infancy were thriving-I gulped down half a roast beef sandwich left
over from last night’s supper, swigged a beer, and started in on my
homework.
People who proxied their kid.
Three hours later, I felt scummy. Even the dry prose of medical
journals had failed to dim the horror.
Devil’s waltz. Poisoning by salt, sugar, alcohol, narcotics,