“I spent a couple of years at the CDC in Atlanta,” Marissa explained.
“I got assigned to a case where Ebola virus was being intentionally spread in HMOs.”
“Of course!” Dr. Carpenter said.
“I remember reading about that. My God, was that you?”
“Afraid so,” Marissa said.
“As I recall, you almost got killed!” Dr. Carpenter said with obvious admiration.
“I was lucky,” Marissa said.
“Very lucky.” She wondered what Dr. Carpenter would have said if she told him that during her biopsy his blue eyes had reminded her of the man who had tried to kill her.
“I’m impressed,” Dr. Carpenter admitted.
“And I’m glad to have some good news for you. Usually my secretary makes these calls, but after reading about you this morning, I wanted to call myself. The biopsy specimens were all fine. It was merely a mild dysplasia. As I told you that day, the culdoscopy suggested as much, but it is nice to be a hundred percent certain. Why don’t you schedule a follow-up Pap smear in four to six months? After that, we can let you go for a year at least.”
“Great,” said Marissa.
“I will. And thanks for the good news.”
“My pleasure,” Dr. Carpenter said.
Marissa shifted her feet. She was still embarrassed by her behavior at the biopsy. Gathering her courage, she apologized again.
“Hey, don’t give it another thought,” Dr. Carpenter said.
“But after your experience I’ve decided I don’t like that ketamine stuff.
I told anesthesia not to use it on any more of my cases. I know the drug has some good points, but I’ve had a couple of other patients with bad trips like yours, So please don’t apologize. But tell me, have you had any other problems since the biopsy?”
“Not really,” Marissa said.
“The worst part of the whole experience was the drug-induced nightmare. I’ve even had the same dream a couple more times since the biopsy.”
“I’m the one who should be apologizing,” Dr. Carpenter said.
“Anyway, next time we won’t give you ketamine. How’s that for a promise?”
“I think I’ll be steering clear of doctors for a while,” Marissa said.
“That’s a healthy attitude,” Dr. Carpenter said with a laugh.
“But as I said before, let’s see you back in four months or so.”
Hanging up the phone, Marissa rushed from her office. She waved hastily to her secretary, Mindy Valdanus, then repeatedly hit the Down elevator button. She had fifteen minutes to get to the Sheraton, an impossible feat given Boston traffic. Yet she was pleased with her conversation with Dr. Carpenter. She had a good feeling about the man. She had to chuckle when she thought about the sinister creature he had been transformed into in her nightmare. It amazed her what drugs could do.
At last the elevator arrived. Of course the best thing about the phone conversation was learning that the cervical biopsy was normal. But then a stray thought cropped up as the elevator descended to the garage. What would she do if the next Pap smear proved to be abnormal?
“Damn!” she said aloud, dismissing the gloomy thought.
There was always something!
March 19, 1990 7:41 Am.
Marissa stopped in her tracks in the middle of the elegant Oriental carpet that dominated the master bedroom. She was on her way to her walk-in closet to retrieve the dress that she had chosen the night before. The TV was on in the massive French armoire set against the wall opposite the king-sized bed; its doors were propped open by books. The television was tuned to Good Morning America. Charlie Gibson was joking about baseball spring training with Spencer Christian. Weak winter sunlight spilled into the room through half-open curtains. Taffy Two, Marissa and Robert’s cocker spaniel, was whining to be let out.
“What did you say?” Marissa called to her husband, who was out of sight in the master bath. She could hear the shower running.
“I said I don’t want to go to that damn Women’s Clinic this morning,” he shouted. His face appeared at the partially opened doorway, half covered with shaving cream. Then he lowered his voice, keeping it loud enough to compete with the television: