Anything I can help with?”
“Thanks. Can’t think of any.”
She closed her eyes.
I said, “I’ll let you rest,” and walked to the door.
“Dr. Delaware?”
“Yes?”
“That home visit we spoke about,” she said. “When we finally do get
out of here, you’re still planning on doing it, aren’t you?”
“Sure.”
“Good.”
Something in her voice-a stridency I’d never heard beforemade me stand
there and wait.
But she just said “Good” again, and looked away, resigned. As if a
critical moment had come and gone. When she started to play with her
braid, I left.
No sign of Vicki Bottomley; the nurse on shift was a stranger. After
completing my own notes, I reread Stephanie’s, the neurologist’s, and
those of the consulting endocrinologist someone named Alan Macauley,
with strong, large handwriting.
The neurologist had found no abnormality on two successive EEGs and
deferred to Macauley, who reported no evidence of any metabolic
disorder, though his lab tests were still being analyzed. As far as
medical science could tell, Cassie’s pancreas was structurally and
biochemically normal. Macauley suggested further genetic tests and
scans to rule out some sort of brain tumor, and recommended further
“intensive psychological consultation per Dr. Delaware.”
I’d never met the man and was surprised to be referred to by name.
Wanting to know what he meant by “intensive,” I looked up his number in
a hospital directory and called it.
“Macauley.”
“Dr. Macauley, this is Alex Delaware-the psychologist who’s seeing
Cassie Jones.”
“Lucky you. Been to see her recently?”
About a minute ago.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Wiped out-post-seizural fatigue, I guess.”
“Probably.”
“Her mother said she didn’t hold her dinner down.”
“Her mother, huh?. . . So, what can I do for you?”
“I read your notes-about psychological support. Wondered if you had
any suggestions.”
Long pause.
“Where are you now?” he said.
“Chappy Ward nursing station.”
“Okay, listen, I’ve got Diabetes Clinic in about twenty minutes.
I can get there a little early-say in five. Why don’t you catch me?
Three East.”
He waved when he saw me coming and I realized I’d seen him the day
before at Ashmore’s memorial. The husky, dark, bald man who’d talked
about Texas and guns, a Smith & Wesson in every black bag.
Standing, he looked even bigger, with thick sloping shoulders and
stevedore arms. He had on a white polo shirt over pressed jeans and
western ostrich boots. His badge was pinned just above the
jockey-and-horse logo. His stethoscope was in one hand. The other
hand made aeronautic movements nosedives and fast climbs-as he talked
to a gangly boy of around seventeen.
Fifteen minutes before clinic was scheduled to start and the
Endocrinology waiting room was filling up. Nutritional posters hung on
the walls. Children’s books and battered magazines were stacked on the
table, along with brochures and packets of artificial sweetener.
Macauley slapped the boy’s back and I heard him say, “You’re doing
great-keep it up. I know sticking yourself sucks the big hairy one,
but depending on Mommy to stick you sucks even worse, doesn’t it? So
keep her the heck out of your life and go have some fun.”
“Yeah, right,” said the boy. He had a big chin and big nose. Big jug
ears, each pierced with three gold wire loops. Well over six feet, but
Macauley made him look small. His skin was oily-looking and sallow,
spotted with pimples on cheeks and brow. His hair had been mowed in a
new-wave do with more levels and angles than an architect’s wet
dream.
“Party on,” he said glumly.
“Hey, party hearty, man,” said Macauley, “just as long as it’s
sugar-free.”
“Fuck,” said the boy.
“Now, that’s’ okay, Kev. That you can do to your horny little heart’s
content, long as you use a condom.”
The boy grinned despite himself.
Macauley slapped him again and said, “Okay, scram, get, vamoose, clear
out of here. I’ve got sick people to deal with.”
“Yeah, right.” The boy pulled out a pack of cigarettes, stuck a smoke
in his mouth, but didn’t light it.
Macauley said, “Hey, turkey, your lungs are someone else’s problem.”
The boy laughed and shambled off.
Macauley came over to me. “Noncompliant adolescents with brittle