Cell (14 page)

RADIOLOGY DEPARTMENT CONFERENCE ROOM

L.A. UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER

WESTWOOD, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

WEDNESDAY, JULY 2, 11:57
A.M.

G
eorge followed Carlos into the tiered conference room carrying the remains of a vending machine lunch.

“That shit'll kill you,” Carlos said.

“That's what I hear. You know where I can find a good doctor?” George joked. After his little chat with Debbie, George's appetite had returned, but he realized he didn't have enough time to wait in line at the cafeteria. He wondered if Kasey would approve of his going out with her. He guessed she certainly wouldn't think Debbie was his type of girl. Nor did he. There was an in-your-face toughness about Debbie that conflicted with what George had found so appealing about Kasey's warmth and generosity. But at least he wouldn't have to wonder what to say. Debbie wasn't one to allow lulls in the conversation.

George took a seat near the back of the conference room near Carlos, who introduced George to some of his fellow first-year friends. They plied George with questions about the daily meeting schedule, and George explained that generally there were three a day: seven
A.M.
, noon, and four thirty
P.M.
, and they should consider them mandatory. If they didn't show up, they had better have a good excuse. He added that every other Thursday, the noon conference would be a didactic lecture in physics that was a particularly must-attend event.

As he finished talking, Claudine walked into the room and made her way over. Carlos noticed her and tapped George on the knee to get his attention.

“Hey, Claudine!” George grinned. “Take a seat. Have you met everybody?” George waved toward the bevy of first-year residents.

She didn't smile back. “Did you hear about the two patients we saw on Monday?”

“What two?” George asked.

“Greg Tarkington and Claire Wong.”

“I know about Tarkington. I was in the ER when he was brought in DOA.”

“The same thing happened to Claire Wong this morning.”

George was shocked. “You mean she died?”

Claudine nodded her head solemnly. “She was brought in and declared dead on arrival.”

“I was in the ER all morning and didn't hear anything about it.” George shook his head. Tarkington had been a shock. Tarkington and Wong was more than a shock. It seemed like a statistical improbability. What the hell was going on?

“It spooked me,” Claudine said. “We MRI'd both two days ago. It just feels so odd. I mean, I suspected that they were both terminal, but having them die within forty-eight hours . . .”

“Both had bad diseases,” George replied, as if such a comment could explain the two unexpected deaths.

“It makes me feel responsible somehow,” Claudine said, “even though I know that's not rational. Still. They seemed so normal and healthy and probably would still be if we hadn't done the studies. I'm afraid we opened up a can of worms.”

George, aware of the first-years watching and listening, said reassuringly, “You have to remember, the diseases in both cases were remarkably aggressive, Claudine. Their deaths are surprising, but not unexpected.”

“Okay. Just wanted to tell you.” Claudine nodded absently and walked off to find a seat.

George felt momentarily addled. First, about openly dismissing the oddness of the two deaths coming so close together. Second, because those deaths were temporally and most likely causally related to the MRIs they did. His reflex motivation was to make Claudine feel better, even though he should have let her feelings initiate a dialogue so that they could all share their feelings. The trouble was that this new bit of news struck directly into his own sensitivities, reawakening his paranoia that death was stalking him; that he was personally responsible, not the MRIs.

“That was weird,” Carlos whispered to George. “I can't believe she really thinks that MRIs could have caused two deaths.”

“Well, both MRIs suggested cancer recurrence,” George said. “The patients had probably heard the results from their oncologists. With all that they had been through, that had to be devastating news.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“Listen, I don't want to talk about it anymore at the moment. Do you mind?”

“Of course not. Sorry.”

“You don't have to be sorry,” George assured him.

George didn't want to dwell on these thoughts. Instead he forced himself to think that at six
P.M.
he was going to be at the Whiskey Blue Bar like a normal person, chatting with a very confident and attractive woman.

At that moment Clayton descended the central aisle. As he walked, his eyes darted around the room. For a brief second his eyes locked on to George's, and he shot him a thumbs-up.

George smiled and nodded out of courtesy but was confused as to what Clayton meant by it. The only thing he could think of was that somehow Clayton had already learned that he and Debbie were planning to meet over at the W Hotel bar that evening.
My God!
George thought.
There are truly no secrets in the hospital.

WHISKEY BLUE BAR, THE W HOTEL

WESTWOOD, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

WEDNESDAY, JULY 2, 2014, 9:31
P.M.

G
eorge had a better time with Debbie at the Whiskey Blue than he had anticipated. He couldn't believe three and a half hours had passed since they arrived. She was the perfect distraction, even if a bit rough around the edges. She had a smoker's voice, but it fit like a glove with her colorful, sailor trash talk, and she had an opinion, a strong opinion, about almost everything. They met a number of her friends, including several of the bartenders, who greeted her by name. It was apparent she was a regular customer. It was all very social and L.A. A few B-list celebs came in, too, and Debbie even knew a couple of them. There was nonstop chatter about all sorts of superficial subjects and nothing about medicine or, most important, death.

Along with the lively conversation there were a lot of drinks, all on Debbie's tab, which she insisted on under no uncertain terms, and she did the ordering. George wasn't about to make an issue of it. The only problem was that George had such a good time, he didn't keep track of how much liquor he was throwing back, and ended up quite drunk.

Debbie on the other hand just sipped and was quite sober. George hadn't noticed. He was having a ball, and the only thing he had had to eat was some salted nuts and dried wasabi peas.

During the course of the evening, Debbie related that she had completed her nurse's training at the University of Colorado, but had come to L.A. as soon as she had her degree and had worked at the University Medical Center ever since. “I started out in the ER, and I'm still there,” she said with obvious pride.

When George asked about her personal life, she was happy to fill him in. She told George she'd never been married, had dated a few of the staff doctors, including Clayton for a time, but she didn't want to talk about them, adding that she preferred to date people outside of the medical profession. George agreed with her on that issue, but said he hoped to see her again.

Finally Debbie looked at her watch. It was after nine thirty. “This place is getting so damn crowded. And this girl has to get up in the morning.”

Even through the fog of booze, George realized she wanted to leave. “Time to go home?”

“Yes. Where do you live? Close by?”

George gulped. Damn, she was direct. “Uh . . . yeah. A few blocks . . .”

“Let's go back to your place and decompress. All these people . . . I need a little quiet time.”

George felt a spark of panic. He knew he wasn't ready to sleep with anyone, and he didn't want her to see his crummy apartment. Groping for a reply, he said, “Well . . . my housekeeper canceled today and—”

“Oh, come on. I don't care about that. And, besides, I don't want you driving tonight. Is your car here?”

George had to think. “Left it with the valet.” He produced his parking ticket.

Debbie snatched it away. “I'll get this thing validated and drive you home, then catch a cab from there.”

George realized that she had a point about driving, particularly when he stood up. He could tell he'd drunk way more than he should have. Her concern bumped his regard for her up a couple of notches. “Okay. Good idea. Thanks.”

The ride to George's apartment wasn't more than five minutes, and Debbie spent the time quizzing George about his friends outside of the hospital. The relative lack of which was embarrassing to admit, but he did. What he didn't say was that the friends he had had been Kasey's.

“A smart, handsome man like you should have loads of friends. I mean, I know about your fiancée, but it is time that you let the past be the past.”

George didn't want to discuss Kasey, mainly because he himself was trying not to think about her. And then, before he knew what he was doing, he found himself talking about Pia Grazdani and his ridiculous infatuation with her in medical school. He couldn't stop himself. In that vein, he even launched into what his Pia infatuation did to his relationship with Paula. It was as if all the alcohol had been a kind of truth serum.

To her credit, Debbie seemed both interested and sympathetic. “Don't give yourself a lot of shit about that. Hell, I've experienced the same kind of self-destructive relationship myself.”

“Really?” George asked, but he still wished he had kept his mouth shut.

They arrived at his apartment, and George got out his cell phone with some difficulty. “I'll call you a cab. Is there some company you prefer?”

“Hold off on the cab. I said I wanted to relax for a few minutes. Let's go inside.” Before George could respond, she was out of the car, hand on her hip, waiting for George.

George launched into another face-saving apartment-apology campaign as they were about to cross the threshold of his front door. “I've been meaning to do something with the place, but a residency is so time-consuming—”

“Sweetie, I don't mind a bit. Please quit worrying,” Debbie said, pausing to look around after entering. “You're right. It's a piece of shit. But whatever, I don't care.” She spotted George's iPod dock, fished her own phone out, and put on some music, cranking up the volume. George sat on the couch and watched as she took a joint from the bag.

“Wanna get high?” She didn't wait for a response and immediately lit up. “I so need this. After all the crazy shit in the ER this week.” She took a hit from the joint and passed it to George. George hesitated. The last time he smoked weed was when he was an undergrad, but he didn't want to risk putting her off.
What the hell
, he thought, and took a drag, inhaling deeply. He started coughing immediately.

“You okay, sweetie?”

“Yeah. Wrong pipe.”

A loud thumping boomed through George's apartment wall. It was the wall common with Joe's apartment. George realized who it was and burst out laughing. Joe the Actor was pissed at the noise! In light of all the times George had been disturbed by Joe's wild orgies, it made George's evening.

“Why are you laughing?” Debbie said, laughing, too. The weed was kicking in for both of them.

“Because,” George giggled, “he keeps me up all the freaking time with an endless stream of hookups.”

They continued laughing until Debbie said she wanted something to drink. Something alcoholic.

“I have some Jack Daniel's. Will that work?”

“Absolutely.” Debbie reached over and turned up the volume on the iPod speakers while George went into his kitchen to retrieve the liquor and some glasses. “No ice! No ice!” Debbie called after him. “Straight and neat!”

George wasn't really up for more booze but poured a couple of drinks anyway and brought them back to the living room.

Debbie was dancing to the music. George stopped and gawked. She caught him looking and smiled, putting her hand out for the drink.

Debbie sipped her bourbon. She was suddenly serious despite the pot and the alcohol. “Okay, so what's the deal with this neighbor of yours who crashed into the ER?”

“He was just a friend.” George didn't want to discuss Sal any more than he wanted to discuss Kasey.

“Ironic, huh? That he died right next to you and you were friends with him.”

“We were more acquaintances than friends,” George hedged. “The guy was lonely. I felt sorry for him.” George felt guilty distancing himself from Sal.

Debbie kept prodding for details about Sal's wild ride to the hospital, then began asking questions about what George thought about iDoc and Amalgamated Healthcare. She confided that Clayton advised her to put money into Amalgamated and wondered what George thought.

George's mind was reeling from the alcohol and pot. With some difficulty he told Debbie that Clayton advised him to do the same, but it didn't matter, because he didn't have enough money to invest in anything. George then tried to change the subject, but Debbie was persistent. She kept bringing the conversation back to Sal's story and what George thought about iDoc.

Suddenly all the alcohol and marijuana caught up to George. The giggles had been replaced by pervading sleepiness. Debbie hardly seemed to notice and switched to what George thought about iDoc's helping Sal by taking the burden of insulin out of his hands.

George made a huge effort to marshal his thoughts and answer. He made it a point to sit up straight and take a deep breath: “iDoc undoubtedly helped the guy, not only with his diabetes but with all his medical problems. iDoc was
someone
whom Sal could talk to whenever he wanted, which was pretty damn often because of his Alzheimer's. Prior to iDoc, Sal used to bombard me with medical questions every time he saw me. That stopped with iDoc.”

“Let me ask you this: Do you think iDoc added to Sal's problems in any way?”

George thought about that one before answering. “As far as I'm concerned, iDoc was a big plus for Sal.” Despite his best intentions he couldn't suppress a mighty yawn. “I'm sorry!” he added. And he was.

Debbie could see that George was having trouble keeping his eyes open. Still she continued. “Is there anything about the situation that bothers you?”

“Well, yes!” George said, trying desperately to think. “One is that Sal's sisters haven't been told of his death as far as I know, and two is all this talk that Sal crashed into the ER to commit suicide. He liked life, and his car, as silly as that might sound, too much to commit suicide.”

“I heard he had been taking medication for depression.”

George grimaced. “People get prescribed all kinds of things they don't need. You know that. Anyway, I never saw him act depressed.”

“The advancing Alzheimer's. Losing his faculties. That could have made him contemplate suicide. I heard he had self-inflicted wounds, apparently done while driving.”

“I heard about those wounds. It confused me enough to go down to the morgue to check them out for myself.”

Debbie looked surprised that he had made that effort. “I've never been down there.”

“Most people haven't. I don't advise it.”

“What did you find out?”

“Nothing. I wasn't allowed to see the body, supposedly because of HIPAA rules. That seemed weird, because I am a resident. Strangely, though, I saw Clayton down there.”

“What was he doing?” She set her drink down and eyed him closely.

George didn't respond, losing his battle trying to stay awake. In slow motion he sagged back and his head flopped to the side.

Debbie was not to be denied. She gave George's shoulder a shake. He revived with some difficulty. His eyes were glassy.

“You didn't answer,” Debbie said. “What was Clayton doing in the morgue?”

George licked his lips. His eyelids were fluttering in an attempt to keep them open. With effort, he forced himself to sit up straight. “I have no idea. I did find it rather strange at the time.”

“So you didn't see Sal's body?”

“No. But let me ask you a question: Do you know which ER doctor was in charge of Sal's case?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I wanted . . .” He stopped and his eyes closed for a couple of seconds. “I wanted to ask why they thought some wounds were self-inflicted.”

“What's your opinion about what iDoc will do for your career?”

“Huh?” George was having trouble organizing his thoughts about such an oddball question coming out of the blue. Debbie was staring at him expectantly.

“I guess I'm worried that I might end up working for a health insurance company. I worry—”

“But you think iDoc is perfect for people like Sal,” Debbie interrupted. “With all his medical problems and then with prostate cancer added to the list.”

“Sal didn't have prostate cancer.”

“Yes, he did. It was stage-three, small cell.”

“I never heard that,” George said, reviving to a degree. He was surprised. Sal had never mentioned it when he'd told him about all his other health issues.

“It was only discovered recently,” Debbie said. “I can tell you from my perspective that iDoc is going to be a godsend. It's going to keep a lot of people out of the ER who shouldn't be there.”

George started to tell her that he was not going to be able to stay awake for another minute, but he didn't have to. She checked the time and jumped up.

“Damn it all,” she blurted. “Do you know what time it is? And it's a school night. This girl has to get home and into bed ASAP.”

George felt a wave of relief as she used her cell to call a taxi. After that, she got her stuff together while George watched.

“Thank you for the great evening,” she said. “You don't have to get up. I can see myself out.”

He stood up anyway with the intention of at least walking her to the door, but had to lean on the arm of the couch for support.

“Stay where you are,” she ordered. “You need to get to bed right away yourself.”

“I agree.” He put his hand out for a shake. She smiled and gave it a pump along with an air kiss to the cheek. A moment later she was gone.

George stumbled into his bedroom. He decided he'd just lie down for a few minutes before taking off his clothes . . .