Flashback (1988) (8 page)

“He’s a vindictive son of a bitch, Lisette. Beneath that mellow, do-gooder image of his, he’s as vindictive as they come. And whether he admits it or not, he’s got a score to settle for all those years he had to watch from the stands while everyone was cheering for me. He’s got points he wants to make with Mom, with the Judge, with everyone in this damn town—even you.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Yeah? Well, we’ll see what’s crazy.” He stumbled against the side of the sofa and then dropped heavily onto it. “He can have this place. The hospital, the Judge, Leigh Baron, all of it except you—but only when I say so. Only after I’ve done what I’ve set out to do. Only after I’ve …”

His eyes closed and his head slumped to one side. In seconds, he was snoring.

Lisette took a blanket and drew it over him. It was the liquor talking. Nothing more. By morning it would be a wonder if Frank remembered anything of what he had just said. He loved his brother. Just as he loved her and the twins.

He just wasn’t very good at showing it, that was all.

There was something tearing at him—something that had nothing to do with Zack.

Only after I’ve done what I set out to do
. What in God’s name had he meant by that?

Silently vowing to do whatever she could to get her husband through whatever it was that had him so on edge, Lisette turned and headed back up the stairs.

5

The Carter Conference Room of Ultramed-Davis, refurbished by Ultramed but originally donated to the hospital by the paper company, was a large, all-purpose space, with deep-pile carpeting, a speakers table and podium at one end, and seating for close to one hundred. Metal-framed, full-color lithographs of significant moments in medical history lined the room on either side, and photographic portraits of past presidents of the medical staff filled the rear wall by the door. Beneath each portrait was a small gold plaque engraved with the officers name, year of birth and year of death. Beneath those photographs of past presidents still living, the date of birth had already been engraved, followed by a hyphen and a ghoulishly expectant space.

It was seven-thirty in the morning of Wednesday, July 3. The medical staff usually met on the first Thursday of the month, but because of the holiday, the staff had voted to hold its July session on Wednesday instead. The heated debate on the subject, typical for any group of MDs, had taken up more than half of its June meeting.

Forty physicians, nearly the whole staff of Ultramed-Davis, milled about the room, some exchanging pleasantries or bawdy stories, others obtaining “curbside consultations” from various specialists. A few merely stood by a window, staring wistfully at the brilliant summer day they would never have the opportunity to enjoy.

Zack Iverson sat alone toward the back of the room, mentally trying to match the faces and demeanors of various doctors with their medical specialties (gray crew cut, red bow tie … pediatrician; forty-four long sportcoat, thirty-four-inch waist, slightly crooked nose … orthopedist), and musing on his first two days in practice.

They had gone quite smoothly, with a number of consultations in the office and several in the hospital. He had even spent a brief stretch in the operating room, assisting one of the
orthopedists in the removal of a large calcium deposit that had entrapped a young carpenters right ulnar nerve at the elbow.

Several times each day, he had visited with Annie, who was progressing reasonably well in the coronary unit. He had also discharged old Chris Gow after a day and a half of good nursing care and after arranging for social services to help him get medicare coverage, physical therapy, and one meal a day at home. Contrary to Wilton Marshfield’s dire prediction, there had been no repercussions from Frank or anyone else regarding the old mans hospitalization.

All in all, they had been two interesting and rewarding days—the sort that more than made up for medicines liabilities as a career.

This day, however, was the one Zack had been awaiting. It would start with his first major case in the O.R.—the removal of a woman’s ruptured cervical disc—and it would end with dinner at Suzanne’s. He smiled to think of how misguided his apprehension about coming to Sterling had been.

“Okay, everyone, find a seat.”

The staff president, a pale, doughy internist named Donald Norman, called out the order as he hand-shook his way to the front of the room.

Norman had interviewed Zack twice on behalf of Ultramed, and it was actually
in spite
of the man and those two sessions that Zack had decided to come to Davis at all. A graduate of one of the medical schools in the Caribbean, Norman had been subsidized and trained at Ultramed hospitals and was a company man right down the line. His portion of the interviews had consisted of little more than a mirthless litany of Ultramed procedural and medical policies, each accompanied by a set of statistics justifying the “guideline” as beneficial to the welfare of both patient and hospital.

While Norman hailed the streamlined corporate approach as “revolutionary and unquestionably necessary,” Zack wondered if it amounted to a sort of gentrification of health care.

And he made no points whatever with the man by saying so.

To make matters worse between the two of them, Zack’s spontaneity and relaxed, eclectic approach to medicine sat poorly with Norman, who, though no more than a year or two older than Zack, wore a three-piece suit, smoked a curved meerschaum, and generally conducted himself like some sort of aging medical padrone.

In the end, with Zack’s decision still very much in the air,
several of the other physicians on staff managed to convince him that Ultramed-Davis was far more flexible in its policies and philosophy than Donald Norman liked to believe.

Norman took his place at the front table and gaveled the meeting to order with the underside of an ashtray.

During the secretary’s, treasurers, and committees’ reports, several latecomers straggled in, including Suzanne, looking lithe and beguiling in sandals and a floral-print dress. She was accompanied by Jason Mainwaring, who, Zack noticed in spite of himself, wore no wedding ring, although he did sport a sizable diamond on one little finger. The two took seats on the opposite side of the room and continued a whispered conversation, during which the charismatic general surgeon touched her on the arm or hand at least half a dozen times.

Zack spent a minute or two trying, unsuccessfully, to catch her eye, and then gave up and turned his attention to the meeting.

“Any additions or corrections to the committee reports?” Norman was saying. “If not, they stand accepted as read. Old business?”

One hand went up, accompanied by low groans from several parts of the room.

“Yes, Dr. Beaulieu,” Norman said, taking no pains to mask the annoyance in his voice.

From his seat, five or six rows in front of Zack, Guy Beaulieu stood, looked deliberately about the room, and finally marched up to the speakers podium—a move that prompted several more groans.

Zack, who had not seen Beaulieu in three or four years, was struck by the physical change in the man. Once energetic and robust, he was now almost pathologically thin. His suit was ill-fitting and his gaunt face had a sallow, grayish cast. Still, he held himself rigidly erect, as had always been his manner, and even at a distance, Zack could see the defiant spark behind his gold-rimmed bifocals.

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Beaulieu began, with a formality that probably would have sounded unnatural and patronizing coming from most in the room, but coming from him, did not. His speech still bore an unmistakable French-Canadian flavor, especially his “th” diphthongs, which sounded more like d’s. “I know that many of you are becoming a bit weary with my monthly statements on behalf of those who are not being cared for by this institution, as well as against those
of you who have slandered my name in this community. Well, I promise you that this will be the last in that series. So, if you will just bear with me …”

He removed a couple of sheets of yellow legal paper from his suit-coat pocket and spread them out on the podium. Once again, there were muted groans from several spots in the room.

Zack glanced over at Jason Mainwaring, who now sat motionless, staring impassively at the man. At that moment Suzanne turned and caught his eye. Zack waved a subtle greeting with three fingers, and she nodded in return. She seemed, even at a distance, to be preoccupied.

“I would like to inform the medical staff of Ultramed-Davis Hospital,” Beaulieu read, adjusting his bifocals, “that I have retained the Concord firm of Nordstrom and Perry, and have filed a class-action suit against this hospital, its administration, its medical staff, and the Ultramed Hospitals Corporation on behalf of the poor and uninsured people in the Ultramed-Davis treatment area. I am being joined in this effort by a number of present and former patients who fall into that group, including Mr. Jean Lemoux, Mr. Ivan MacCregor, and the family of Mme. Yvette Coulombe.

“The charges, which include unlawful and callous discharge from the hospital, improper patient transfer, and refusal to treat, are currently under review by Legal Assistance of New Hampshire, who have promised a decision in the next two weeks as to whether or not they will join our effort. As I have said many times before, sound, compassionate medical care is a right of all people, not a privilege. The attitude of this facility has, over the past three years, become one of, ‘Why should you get health care just because you are sick?’ We intend to fight that policy.”

Zack glanced around the room and catalogued myriad reactions among the physicians; few, if any of them, seemed sympathetic, and none of them appeared very threatened or upset. Some were openly exchanging looks and gestures of disgust, and one was actually circling a finger about one ear.

There are a few docs out there beating the bushes for a job because they thought the same thing, Iverson
. Wilton Marsh-fields warning against bucking the Ultramed system echoed in Zack’s thoughts as he studied the sea of blank and disapproving expressions. Suzanne’s, he noted, fell vaguely in the second group.

Beaulieu, too, paused and looked about, but then he continued as if unperturbed.

“In addition to the charges outlined above, we shall document a progressive and unethical blurring of the distinction between medical suppliers and providers, to the point where the care of patients throughout and without this facility is being compromised. We have evidence to back up our position, and every day we acquire more. It is my hope that those on the medical staff who have information which will further substantiate our claims will come forward and present such information to me or to our attorney, Mr. Everett Perry. I assure you that all such disclosures will be kept in the strictest confidence.”

The man, for all of his “crustiness,” as the Judge had put it, had guts, Zack acknowledged. Again he scanned the room; guts, yes, but not a speck of visible support.

“Finally,” Beaulieu read on, “I would like to announce that I, personally, have initiated legal action against a member of this staff, as well as against the administration of this hospital, who are, I believe, responsible for the slanderous, inaccurate, and highly damaging rumors regarding my personal and professional conduct. I call upon any physician who has knowledge of this matter to come forward. Again, I promise strictest confidence. Remember, there but for the grace of almighty God go any one of you.

“I thank you for your patience, and would welcome your questions and comments.”

Not a hand was raised. Beaulieu nodded in a calm and dignified manner, and then returned to his seat, apparently unmindful of the many annoyed and angry expressions that were fixed on him.

The staff meeting proceeded uneventfully. At the end of “new business,” Zack was formally introduced and welcomed with brief, measured applause. Sensing that some verbal acknowledgment of the greeting was called for, he stood up.

“Thank you all very much,” he began. “It feels great to be home again, and to be on the medical staff of the hospital in which I was born. As Dr. Norman noted in introducing me, in addition to my neurosurgical practice, I shall try to function as a medical neurologist until we are large enough, and lucky enough, to get one of our own. It is my hope to care for all those who need help in my area of expertise”—he glanced over at Guy Beaulieu—“regardless of their ability to pay.