17 Bucking the System
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Part II
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Mac started shaking. The tremors woke me. I jumped out of bed and into shorts and a tank top. You’re supposed to call 911. All I could think about was getting him to a hospital.
I checked the GPS and took off. The time was 2:17. I reached the emergency room at 2:25. No traffic at that time of morning. Six hours later, Dr. Mika Weizman walked up to me and said, “You should have called 911.”
I shrugged. Ten minute drive either way, but I got him to the ER faster. “How is he?”
“Stable. We had to remove the tumor to relieve pressure on his brain. The tissue has been sent to the lab for analysis. Can you give me the name of his physician?”
“Barry Jacobs in Annapolis, Maryland.” I held out the folder I had somehow remembered to grab on my way out of the RV. “The last doctor who saw him was Sam Yang in Chamberlain, South Dakota.”
Weizman ignored my offering. “What medication is he on?”
I opened the folder and held up a sheet of paper taped to the cover. “This is a summary.”
I looked around while she scanned the page. I hate big hospitals. This one reminded me of the hospital where I used to work. Six floors. At least a quarter-mile from one end to the other. Specialty sections branch off at intervals. Patient rooms are set along the walls like the lockers in a high school.
“How come he’s here?” Weizman demanded.
“He came to visit a cousin. She has a home in University Village.”
The doctor grimaced in disgust. “I meant how come he isn’t in a hospital getting the medical care he needs?”
“He refused treatment. Dr. Yang has him on chemo. I have him on a diet and exercise regimen.”
“That probably explains the condition he’s in.”
“His condition is explained by the fact that after a lifetime of doing the right things, he found himself alone and dying from brain cancer. His response was ‘Fuck it.’”
Weizman recoiled. I continued. “All of that happened before he waltzed into my life.”
“And you saw an opportunity to experiment with your fantastical approach to treating cancer.”
My fists clenched. What the fuck are you talking about? “I decided he needed whatever help I could give him.”
“Aren’t you the Katherine Graham who worked at St. Elizabeth’s in St. Louis?”
I nodded. “I work there.”
“You are not in the least qualified to be dealing with something like this.”
“I have spent the last ten years working with people living out their last days in a senior care facility. I am more qualified than you.”
“You can forget about going back to that job. The report I’m going to file will get you barred from ever working with elderly patients.”
“I have a nice job as a restaurant manager lined up.”
The doctor shook her head and walked off. Fatigue and despair swept over me. I might never see Mac again. There was nothing here for me. I might as well pack up and go home.
I came up with a couple of ideas as I walked back to the camper. Our home seemed empty and cold. I could not imagine missing anyone as much as I missed that old codger.
I called UAF and left a message for Professor Robert Learned in the Geophysical Institute. He was the one ally I had in Fairbanks. I’d have to kill time until he called back.
The EMTs had used our sheet to move Mac off the bed onto the gurney. They had pushed the bed up out of the way in their rush to get him into the hospital. I stowed it properly. Mac’s clothes were in a heap on the floor. I picked them up and folded them.
His cell phone was in a shirt pocket. I toyed with it, not wanting to invade his privacy. Curiosity won out. I pressed the power button. The screen lit up. I swiped – app icons popped into view. Mac never bothered with passwords unless he had to.
I found an Ann Stillwell with a Florida area code and an Anne MacGregor with a Maryland area code in his contact list. The latter had a warm, pleasant smile. She looked like the kind of person you could talk to about anything. Someone who would always boost your spirits. I wanted to talk to her. I couldn’t, but seeing her cheered me up.
The other Ann was an attractive woman. No problem getting attention from men. But she projected a stern, commanding persona — the offspring of an authoritarian father and a warm, feminine mother. I pressed the icon. My call went straight to voice mail. I identified myself and said I needed to speak to her about her father. I gave my cell number for the callback.
Mac’s son was “Junior” in the contact list. Voice mail again. I left the same message.
The scotch called out to me. I hadn’t needed a drink this bad in a long time. I couldn’t risk running into Weizman or anybody else on the hospital staff with alcohol on my breath.
We had marijuana, but I wasn’t in the mood for that. I got down into a lotus pose to meditate. It didn’t work. I needed to be doing something.
I went back to Mac’s clothes. A business card in his wallet caught my attention. “Tereza Ivanova” was written in large red letters across the center. “Therapist” was printed in the bottom left corner. I called the phone number in the bottom right corner. What kind of therapy did you submit to, Mac?
A woman with a husky voice and a thick accent said, “Tereza. How can I help you?”
“My name is Katherine Graham. I am calling about a man who may have been your client.”
“What is his name?”
“Donald MacGregor.”
“Ah. Yes. How is Donald?”
“Not well. He had a seizure this morning. I brought him to the emergency room. They removed a tumor from his brain. He’s recovering in the ICU.”
“I see. How can I help?”
“I don’t know.”
“You called me.”
“The doctors won’t let me see him. I have to do something to keep from going crazy.”
The pause was so long I wondered if she had forgotten about me. “Donald will be okay,” she assured me. “This will all work out. You must be patient.”
“I wish I could believe that.”
“He calls you Kate. Doesn’t he?” Her voice was gentle but firm. I nodded. She continued, “You are the guardian angel sent to keep him safe. That is no easy task, but your success is guaranteed.”
Shit. A nut case. “Thank you for your time.”
“Katherine,” she commanded before I could hang up. “If God is with you, who can stand against you?”
“Well, let’s see,” I snarled. “Hospital security. The medical staff taking care of him. If he dies, …” A thought hit me like a punch in the gut. I had to catch my breath. “When he dies, they will probably charge me with negligent homicide.”
“That is not going to happen.” Her voice projected such conviction that I actually believed her. “Help is coming. Doors will open when the time is right. Be patient.”
“I hope so,” I muttered.
I was about to hang up. Her voice stopped me. “Katherine.”
“What?”
“The child you are carrying is the son of a chieftain. Name him Gregor MacGregor.”
The phone fell from my hand as I collapsed into a ball on the floor. My phone interrupted the crying jag. I sat up and looked at the screen. It was from the university. “Hello.”
“Kate. This is Bob,” the voice on the other end said. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“Mac’s in the hospital. They won’t let me talk to him.”
“Is that why you left so early?”
“I had to rush him to the emergency room. He was having a seizure.”
“What can I do?”
“I don’t know. I think I need a lawyer.”
“Kirsten and I will get over there as soon as we can.”
“Thank you.”
“You sound terrible. Get some rest. I’ll call you as soon as I find out what’s going on.”
He ended the call. I said, “Bye.” But the line was already dead. I pulled myself up onto the sofa and stretched out. The pot was in the chest across the aisle. I couldn’t summon the energy to get up and roll a joint. I folded my hands on my belly. She had to be wrong. The odds had to be a million to one against it.