Fever (31 page)

Cathryn ran out of the room and down the long hall, arriving back at the nurses' station out of breath. “Nurse! My daughter's not in her room! She's gone!”

The charge nurse looked up from her writing, then down at her clipboard. “That's Martel?”

“Yes! Yes! And she was there sleeping soundly when I came down here to answer the phone.”

“Our report from the day shift said she was very weak?” questioned the nurse.

“That's the point,” said Cathryn. “She might hurt herself.”

As if she thought Cathryn was lying, the nurse insisted on returning to Michelle's room. She glanced around the room and checked the bathroom. “You're right, she's not here.”

Cathryn restrained herself from making any disparaging comments. The nurse put in a call to security telling them that a twelve-year-old girl had vanished from Anderson 6. She also flipped on a series of small signal lights that called back the team of RNs and LPNs who'd been out working on the floor. She told them of Michelle's apparent disappearance and sent them back out to search all the rooms.

“Martel,” said the charge nurse after the others had left. “That rings a bell. What was the name of the child taken down to radiology for that emergency flat plate?”

Cathryn looked bewildered. For a moment she thought the woman was asking her the question.

“That's probably it,” said the nurse, picking up the phone and dialing radiology. She had to let it ring almost twenty times before a harried technician picked it up.

“You're doing an emergency flat plate on a patient from Anderson 6,” said the charge nurse. “What is the name of the child?”

“I haven't done any emergency flat plates,” said the
technician. “Must have been George. He's up in the OR doing a portable chest. He'll be back in a minute and I'll have him call.” The technician hung up before the charge nurse could respond.

 

Charles wheeled Michelle into the emergency room and, without any hesitation to suggest he didn't belong there, pushed the gurney into the examination area. He selected an empty cubicle and, pulling aside the curtain, brought Michelle in next to the table. After closing the curtain, he got out Michelle's clothes.

The excitement of the caper had buoyed Michelle's spirits and, despite her weakness, she tried to help her father as he dressed her. Charles found that he was very clumsy, and the more he hurried, the clumsier he was. Michelle had to do all the buttons and tie her shoes.

After she was dressed, Charles left her for a few moments to find some cling bandage. Luckily he didn't have to look far. Returning to the cubicle, he sat Michelle up and eyed her.

“We have to make it look like you were in an accident,” he said. “I know what we'll do!”

He tore open the bandage and began winding it around Michelle's head as if she'd suffered a laceration. When he was finished he stepped back. “Perfect!” As a final touch, Charles put a regular bandage over the bridge of her nose, making her laugh. Charles told her she looked like a motorcyclist who'd fallen on her head.

Pretending that she weighed two hundred pounds, he picked up his daughter and staggered out through the curtain. Once in the corridor he quickly became serious, heading toward the entrance. To his satisfaction the emergency room had become even busier than when he'd first entered. Tearful children with all manner of cuts and bruises were waiting, while mothers with coughing infants queued up to check in. Amidst the confusion Charles was unnoticed. Only one nurse turned as Charles and Michelle passed by. When Charles caught her eye he smiled and mouthed the words, “Thank you.” She waved
back self-consciously as if she thought she should recognize them but didn't.

Approaching the exit, Charles saw a uniformed security man jump up from the nearby chair. Charles's heart fluttered, but the man didn't challenge them; instead he scurried to the door and said: “Hope she's feeling better. Have a good night.”

With a welcome sense of freedom, Charles carried Michelle out of the hospital. Quickening his steps, he hurried to the parking garage, settled Michelle in the van, paid his parking fee, and drove off.

C
athryn tried to be both patient and understanding, but as time passed she became increasingly nervous. She castigated herself for leaving Michelle to answer the telephone. She should have had the call transferred directly to Michelle's room.

As she paced the lounge, she involuntarily thought about Michelle's comment: “I think it would be better if I were dead.” She'd initially put the statement out of her mind, but now that Michelle had not reappeared, it kept coming back to haunt her. Cathryn had no idea if Michelle could do herself harm but, having heard all sorts of grisly stories, she could not dismiss her fear.

Checking her watch, Cathryn walked out of the lounge and approached the nurses' station. How could a hospital lose a sick twelve-year-old child who was so weak she could barely walk?

“Any news?” asked Cathryn, directing her question to the evening charge nurse. There were now a half dozen nurses sitting around the station chatting casually.

“Not yet,” said the nurse, interrupting a discussion with a
colleague. “Security has checked all the stairwells. I'm still waiting for a call from radiology. I'm sure Martel was the name of the child radiology came and picked up.”

“It's been almost a half hour,” said Cathryn. “I'm terrified. Could you call radiology again?”

Not bothering to hide her irritation, the nurse called again and told Cathryn that the radiology technician had not come back from the OR but that he'd call when he did.

Cathryn turned away from the nurses' station, acutely aware how the medical people intimidated her. She was furious at the hospital, yet was unable to show her anger no matter how justified she thought it was. Instead she thanked the nurse and wandered back down to Michelle's empty room. Absentmindedly she looked into the bathroom again, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. Next to the bathroom was the closet, and Cathryn looked inside. She had the door almost closed when she reopened it and stared, dumbfounded.

Running back to the nurses' station, she tried to get the charge nurse's attention. The nurses from the evening shift who were going off duty and the night nurses who were coming on duty were grouped around the center of the nurses' station having their inviolable report. It was a time when emergencies were proscribed, medical or otherwise. Cathryn had to yell to get attention.

“I just discovered my daughter's clothes are missing,” said Cathryn anxiously.

There was silence.

The charge nurse cleared her throat. “We'll be finished here in a few moments, Mrs. Martel.”

Cathryn turned away angrily. Obviously her emergency wasn't as important as the ward routine, but if Michelle's clothes were gone, she had probably left the hospital.

The phone call must have been from Charles, and its purpose was to get Cathryn out of Michelle's room. All at once the image of the man pushing the child to surgery flashed before Cathryn's eyes. He was the correct height, the right build. It had to have been Charles! Cathryn rushed back to the
nurses' station. Now she was sure that Michelle had been abducted.

 

“Now let me get it straight,” said the stocky Boston police officer. Cathryn had noticed his name tag said William Kerney. “You were sleeping in here when a nurse tapped you on the shoulder.”

“Yes! Yes!” shouted Cathryn, exasperated at the slow pace of the investigation. She'd hoped that calling the police would speed up the whole affair. “I've told you ten times exactly what happened. Can't you go out and try to find the child?”

“We have to finish our report,” explained William. He held a weather-beaten clipboard in the crook of his left arm. In his right hand he struggled with a pencil, licking the end every so often.

The group was standing in Michelle's vacant room. It included Cathryn, two Boston police officers, the evening charge nurse, and the assistant administrator. The administrator was a tall, handsome man, dressed in an elegant gray business suit. He had a curious habit of smiling after each sentence, reducing his eyes to narrow slits. His face was gloriously tan as if he'd just returned from a vacation in the Caribbean.

“How long were you out of the room?” asked William.

“I told you,” snapped Cathryn. “Five minutes . . . ten minutes. I don't know exactly.”

“Uh huh,” murmured William, printing the answer.

Michael Grady, the other Boston police officer, was reading the temporary guardianship papers. When he finished, he handed them to the administrator. “It's a child-snatching case. No doubt about it.”

“Uh huh,” murmured William, moving up to the top of the form to print “Child Snatching.” He didn't know the code number for the offense and made a mental note to look it up when he got back to the station.

In desperation, Cathryn turned to the administrator. “Can't you do something? I'm sorry I can't remember your name.”

“Paul Mansford,” said the administrator before flashing a
smile. “No need to apologize. We are doing something. The police are here.”

“But I'm afraid something is going to happen to the child with all this delay,” said Cathryn.

“And you saw a man pushing a child to surgery?” asked William.

“Yes!” shouted Cathryn.

“But no child went to surgery,” said the nurse.

William turned to the nurse. “What about the man with the X-ray form? Can you describe him?”

The nurse looked up toward the ceiling. “Medium height, medium build, brown hair . . .”

“That's not too specific,” said William.

“What about his blue eyes?” asked Cathryn.

“I didn't notice his eyes,” said the nurse.

“What was he wearing?” asked William.

“Oh God!” exclaimed Cathryn in frustration. “Please do something.”

“A long white coat,” said the nurse.

“Okay,” said William. “Someone calls, gets Mrs. Martel out of the child's room, presents a bogus X-ray request, then wheels the child off as if he's going to surgery. Right?”

Everyone nodded except Cathryn who had put a hand to her forehead to try to control herself.

“Then, how long before security was notified?” asked William.

“Just a couple of minutes,” said the nurse.

“That's why we think they are still in the hospital,” said the administrator.

“But her clothes are gone,” said Cathryn. “They've left the hospital. That's why you have to do something before it's too late. Please!”

Everyone looked at Cathryn as if she were a child. She returned their stares then threw up her hands in exasperation. “Jesus Christ.”

William turned to the administrator. “Is there someplace in the hospital someone could take a child?” he asked.

“There are lots of temporary hiding places,” agreed the administrator. “But there's no place they won't be found.”

“All right,” said William. “Suppose it was the father who took the child. Why?”

“Because he didn't agree with the treatment,” said Cathryn. “That's why the temporary guardianship was granted: so that the treatment would be maintained. Unfortunately my husband has been under a lot of stress, not just the child's illness, but his job.”

William whistled. “If he didn't like the treatment here,” he said, “what was he interested in? Laetrile, something like that?”

“He didn't say,” said Cathryn, “but I know he wasn't interested in Laetrile.”

“We've had a few of those Laetrile cases,” said William, ignoring Cathryn's last statement. Turning to his partner, Michael Grady, he said: “Remember that kid that went to Mexico?”

“Sure do,” said Michael.

Turning back to the group, William said: “We've had some experience with parents seeking unorthodox treatment for their kids. I think we'd better alert the airport. They might be on their way out of the country.”

Dr. Keitzman arrived in a whirlwind of nervous motion. Cathryn was tremendously relieved to see him. He immediately dominated the small gathering and demanded to be told everything. Paul Mansford and the charge nurse teamed up to give him a rapid report.

“This is terrible!” said Dr. Keitzman, nervously adjusting his rimless glasses. “It sounds to me like Dr. Charles Martel has definitely had some sort of breakdown.”

“How long will the little girl live without treatment?” asked William.

“Hard to say. Days, weeks, a month at most. We have several more drugs to try on the child, but it has to be sooner rather than later. There is still a chance for remission.”

“Well, we'll get right on it,” said William. “I'll finish the
report and turn it over to the detectives immediately.”

As the two patrolmen walked out of the hospital a half hour later, Michael Grady turned to his partner and said, “What a story! Makes you feel terrible. Kid with leukemia and all that.”

“It sure does. Makes you feel thankful your own kids are at least healthy.”

“Do you think the detectives will get right on it?”

“Now? You kidding? These custody cases are a pain in the ass. Thankfully they usually solve themselves in twenty-four hours. Anyway, the detectives won't even look at it until tomorrow.”

They climbed into their patrol car, checked in by radio, then pulled away from the curb.

 

Cathryn opened her eyes and looked around in confusion. She recognized the yellow curtains, the white bureau with its doily and collection of bric-a-brac, the pink vanity that had doubled as her high school desk, her yearbooks on the shelf, and the plastic crucifix she'd gotten when she'd been confirmed. She knew she was in her old room that her mother had compulsively maintained since she had left for college. What confused Cathryn was why she was there.

She shook her head to rid herself of the numbing remnants of the sleeping pills Dr. Keitzman had insisted she take. Leaning over she snatched up her watch and tried to make sense out of the numbers. She couldn't believe it. It was a quarter to twelve. Cathryn blinked her eyes and looked again. No, it was nine o'clock. Even that was later than she'd wanted to sleep.

Slipping on an old plaid flannel robe, Cathryn opened the door and hurried down to the kitchen, smelling the aroma of fresh biscuits and bacon. When she entered, her mother looked up, pleased to have her daughter home no matter what the reason.

“Has Charles called?” asked Cathryn.

“No, but I've fixed you a nice breakfast.”

“Has anybody called? The hospital? The police?”

“No one has called. So relax. I made your favorite, baking-powder biscuits.”

“I can't eat,” said Cathryn, her mind a whirl. But she wasn't too preoccupied to see her mother's face immediately fall. “Well, maybe some biscuits.”

Gina perked up and got out a cup and saucer for Cathryn.

“I'd better get Chuck up,” said Cathryn, starting back to the hall.

“He's up, breakfasted, and gone,” said Gina triumphantly. “He likes biscuits as much as you. Said he had a nine o'clock class.”

Cathryn turned and sat down at the table while her mother poured the coffee. She felt useless. She'd tried so hard to be a wife and mother and now she had the feeling that she'd bungled it. Getting her adopted son up for school was hardly the criterion for being a good mother, yet the fact that she'd not done it seemed representative of her whole incompetent performance.

Battling her emotions, she lifted the coffee cup to her mouth, mindless of its temperature. As she took a sip, the hot fluid scalded her lips and she pulled the cup away, sloshing some of the fluid on her hand. Burned, she released her grasp on the mug and let it go. The cup fell to the table, shattering itself and the saucer. At the same moment, Cathryn broke into tears.

Gina quickly had the mess cleaned up, and repeatedly reassured her daughter that she shouldn't cry because Gina didn't care about any old cup that she'd bought as a souvenir in Venice on her only trip to that beautiful city that she loved more than any place in the world.

Cathryn got control of herself. She knew that the Venetian cup was one of her mother's treasures and she felt badly about breaking it, but Gina's overreaction helped calm down her emotions.

“I think I'll drive up to Shaftesbury,” said Cathryn at length. “I'll get some more clothes for Chuck and check on Jean Paul.”

“Chuck's got what he needs,” said Gina. “The money it costs to drive up there, you could buy him a new outfit in Filene's basement.”

“True,” admitted Cathryn. “I guess I want to be around the phone if Charles calls.”

“If he calls and gets no answer, he'll call here,” said Gina. “After all, he's not stupid. Where do you think he's gone with Michelle?”

“I don't know,” said Cathryn. “Last night the police talked about Mexico. Apparently a lot of people looking for unusual cancer cures go to Mexico. But Charles wouldn't go there. I know that much.”