Thomas was dictating when Cassi stepped into his office. “Thank you again, comma, Michael, comma, for this interesting case, comma, and if I can be of any further assistance in his management, comma, do not hesitate to call. Period. Sincerely yours, end dictation.”
Clicking off the machine, Thomas swung around in his chair. He regarded Cassi with calculated indifference.
“And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” he asked.
“I’ve just come from the ophthalmologist,” said Cassi, trying to control her voice.
“That’s nice,” said Thomas.
“I have to talk to you.”
“It had better be short,” said Thomas, glancing at his watch. “I’ve got a patient in cardiogenic shock that I’ve got to see.”
Cassi could feel her courage falter. She needed some sign that Thomas would not become irritated if she once again brought up her illness. But Thomas’s posture just suggested an aggressive nonchalance. It was as if he were daring her to cross some arbitrary line.
“Well?” asked Thomas.
“He had to dilate my pupils,” said Cassi, skirting the issue. “There’s been some deterioration. I wondered if we could go home a little earlier.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Thomas, standing up. “I’m pretty sure the patient I’m seeing will need emergency surgery.” He slipped off his white jacket and hung it on the hook on the door leading to the examining room. “In fact, I may have to spend the night here in the hospital.”
He said nothing about her eye. Cassi knew she had to bring up her own surgery, but she couldn’t. Instead she said, “You spent last night in the hospital. Thomas, you’re pushing yourself too hard. You need more rest.”
“Some of us have to work,” said Thomas. “We can’t all be in psychiatry.” He pulled on his suit jacket, then stepped back to the desk to snap the tape out of the dictating machine.
“I don’t know whether I can drive with this blurry eye,” said Cassi. She knew better than to respond to Thomas’s pejorative implication about psychiatry.
“You have two choices,” said Thomas. “Hang around until the drops wear off or stay the night in the hospital. Whatever you think is best for you.” Thomas started for the door.
“Wait,” called Cassi, her mouth dry. “I have to talk to you. Do you think I should have a vitrectomy?”
There, it was out. Cassi looked down and saw she was wringing her hands. Self-consciously she pulled them apart, then didn’t know what to do with them.
“I’m surprised you still care about my opinion,” snapped Thomas. His slight smile had vanished. “Unfortunately, I’m not an eye surgeon. I don’t have the slightest idea of whether you should have a vitrectomy. That’s why I sent you to Obermeyer.”
Cassi could feel his rising anger. It was just as she feared. Telling him about her eye condition was only going to make matters worse, “Besides,” said Thomas. “Isn’t there a better time to talk about this kind of thing? I’ve got someone dying upstairs. You’ve had this problem with your eye for months. Now you show up when I’m in the middle of an emergency and want to discuss it. My God, Cassi. Think about other people once in a while, will you?”
Thomas stalked over to the door, wrenched it open, and was gone. In a lot of ways Thomas was right, thought Cassi. Bringing up the problem of her eye in Thomas’s office was inappropriate. She knew when he said he had a patient “dying upstairs,” he meant it.
Her jaw clenched, Cassi walked out of the office. Doris made a show of typing, but Cassi guessed she’d been listening. Walking down to the elevators, Cassi decided to go back to Clarkson Two. It would keep her from thinking too much. Besides, she knew she couldn’t drive, at least not for a while.
She got back to the ward while the afternoon team meeting was still in progress.
Cassi had arranged to take the rest of the day off and did not feel up to joining the group. She was afraid if she were among friends her delicate control would crumble and she’d burst into tears. Thankful for the unexpected opportunity of reaching her office unobserved, she slipped inside and quickly closed the door behind her. Stepping around the metal and Formica desk, which practically spanned the width of the room, she settled herself into the aged swivel desk chair. Cassi had tried to liven the cubbyhole with several bright prints of Impressionist paintings she bought at the Harvard co-op. The effort hadn’t helped much. With its harsh overhead fluorescent lighting, the room still looked like an interrogation cell.