The Proteus Cure (13 page)

“Now,” Paul said, “let’s take a look at the goateed gent in the first panel on the next page.”

He sat at Coog’s bedside. His boy looked pale this morning, but not nearly as pale as when he’d had leukemia. Stronger than yesterday, and he was eating a regular diet, but still had an IV running. The nurse said she expected Dr. Brody, the internist overseeing his care, to order the IV pulled and discharge him when he made his morning rounds.

Paul refocused his attention to the matter at hand: He and Coog each held a copy of
The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen
.

A comic book, Paul thought. No, check that: a graphic novel.

He’d never dreamed he’d be reading and discussing such a thing—and with his son of all people. But he’d come to regard this as an extraordinary work of popular fiction. He hoped that by pointing out the literary references in the comic he could induce Coog to check out the originals. Anything to divert him from those damn videogames.

Paul had tried to get into the games with Coog but all too quickly learned that he lacked the reflexes, the manual dexterity, and—most important of all—the patience. One day it had taken everything he had to keep from ramming the damn controller through the screen.

Coog shifted in his bed and winced.

“The ribs?”

Coog nodded. “They’re not so bad if I stay still, but rolling over is the pits.”

“Want me to have them give you a pain pill?”

He shook his head. “Nah.”

Paul smiled. “Think they’d give me one?”

Coog laughed and grabbed his side. “Don’t make me laugh! Please! It kills.”

The boy’s pain subsided and he went back to flipping the pages.

“I never knew all this stuff was in here.” He looked up at Paul and smiled. “It’s so cool, Dad!”

Dad
…

Despite all Sheila’s caveats, he had to know. He’d never been one to take things on faith. He knew he had a lot of St. Thomas in him, had to stick his finger into the wounds, confirm the gap in the flesh, feel the congealed blood.

Learn what’s real and then deal with it: That was the way he lived. He couldn’t stand being in limbo.

That was why he’d dropped of the HLA reports at her office this morning. Soon he’d know—

“Are you mad at me?”

Coog’s voice snapped him back.

Paul forced a smile. “No. Why would I be mad at you?”

“Because of the accident?”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“Yeah, but I should have seen him coming.”

“And I should have insisted you go to the skateboard park.”

On reflection, Paul had realized that he had to shoulder some of the blame. Yes, the guy in the Hummer should have been going slower and paying attention instead of yammering on his cell phone, but Coog should not have been skateboarding in a parking lot. Paul had to take full responsibility for that. It had seemed harmless then, but it was a dumb thing to allow. He’d somehow assumed that if he was there watching, everything would be okay.

Wrong.

The memory of Coog’s skinny, angular body sprawled unmoving on the asphalt would stick with Paul the rest of his life.

“You
sure
you’re not mad?” Coog said.

“Positive. Why do you keep asking? Am I acting mad?”

“Well …” he twisted his mouth to the side, a tic Paul found endearing. “Maybe not mad. But different.”

Different
…

The word sucker-punched him.

Was his relationship with Coog changing already—even before the results? Was he unconsciously distancing himself?

No. He couldn’t allow that. Biological son or not, this blessed boy was at a critical stage. Feeling rejected by his father … who knew what that could do?

Paul hid his turmoil.

“Maybe I’m suffering some residual shock because I almost lost you. You’re all I’ve got, Coog. If …”

The swelling lump in his throat choked off the rest.

He couldn’t jeopardize moments like this. The mere possibility was unbearable. He’d tell Sheila to cancel the paternity test.

He looked at Coog’s smiling face. This boy was his son. He couldn’t allow some lab test to change that.

Sheila’s shift was nearly over and she was signing off on the last of her charts. She heard two of the nurses talking and laughing, discussing their plans for the evening. They were going to see a Johnny Depp movie. Simple, but at least they had somewhere to go. And after the last few days, she needed a quiet night alone, but it seemed quiet nights alone were all she ever had.

She heard Randy the orderly call someone. She leaned in to hear.

“I’ve got a gig tonight. Can you make it? Great, bring friends. Lots of friends. It’s gonna be a great time.” He hung up.

She studied the tall, longhaired man, his wavy locks tied in a ponytail. She’d heard him talk about the metal band he played in part time and wondered why everyone else seemed to have outside lives except her? At the end of her shifts all she could imagine was going home and putting her feet up. Once in a while she visited Abra, but that was more a mother-daughter thing. No friends her own age, no men calling. Work had become her life. It had been that way since Dek died. There never seemed time for anything or anyone else.

One of her dad’s favorite songs echoed back to her.
Don’t get around much anymore …

Ain’t that the truth.

As she headed for the parking lot, she felt a little jealous that all these people were going out while she’d be home alone. Again. Spending her night re-watching
You’ve Got Mail
or
As Good As It Gets.
Or going to Abra’s and re-watching
Casablanca
or
The Maltese Falcon
.

Her life: She worked and she went home, worked and went home. And it wasn’t so bad, really.

She reached her 4Runner and had just started it up when she saw a familiar figure waving.

Paul.

She turned and watched him hurry down the walk from the hospital wing carrying a skateboard. She cringed recalling Coogan’s accident.

She pointed to it. “Don’t tell me you’re—”

He laughed as he stopped. “Not a chance. This wound up in the lost and found and Coog wanted it back. Not that he’ll be on it any time soon.”

“I hope not.”

“How’s Coog doing?”

“Great. Doctor Brody’s discharging him today. Hurts all over, especially those broken ribs, but otherwise … it’s like a miracle.”

She hesitated. Here was why doctors were advised not to treat family members or friends. Narrowing the distance between physician and patient could lead to major mishaps—like missing or delaying a diagnosis because you don’t want to
believe
it’s that diagnosis—or minor predicaments like being the bearer of bad news to someone with whom you have more than just a professional relationship.

Sheila faced that with Paul.

As an oncologist here, she never had to tell anyone that they had cancer—they all knew that before they passed through the gate. But she’d had to tell too many that she could offer them no hope. The experienced oncologists had warned her about becoming emotionally involved. A high percentage of her patients were going to die no matter what she did.

So far she’d failed to develop that hard shell. She hated to think that one day she’d be viewing her patients as tumors, or problems to be solved, rather than as people. But she supposed it was inevitable. Allowing yourself to care, and then failing people you care about, dashing their hopes, numbering their days … she’d have to build that shell or go mad.

And now she had bad news for Paul. But at least not cancer.

Sheila shut off her car and stepped out. Paul leaned against Hank Belson’s silver Jaguar in the neighboring space. He folded his arms. His eyes locked onto hers.

“I’m glad I caught you. I wanted to talk to you about that paternity test.”

Here we go.

She said, “The results—”

He waved a hand. “I know they’re not back yet. I just wanted to tell you to cancel it.”

Sheila blinked, startled.

“What changed your mind?”

He shrugged. “Like you said, finding out may change me. It would change
something
. I realized it doesn’t matter. So, thanks but no thanks. Please cancel the test.”

What a wonderful man, she thought. Why aren’t there more like him?

Yet she wished he weren’t quite so wonderful, because what she knew would rattle his world to its foundations.

Her heart urged her to shred the results, but she knew the billing department’s computer had already charged Paul’s insurance company for the test; the company would soon send him an EOB and then he’d want to know what she was hiding.

Better to deal with this now than later.

“The results came in this morning.”

His eyes widened. “So soon?”

“It wouldn’t be so quick if we were dealing with a commercial lab, but we do our own.”

Paul had dropped off the HLA reports and she’d delivered them to the lab. This afternoon’s printout had confirmed Paul’s fears and added a result she’d never anticipated. Something he should know.

Paul stood up with closed fists and a wide stance, as if readying for a punch.

“And?”

“I thought you didn’t want to know.”

He stood silent. Finally he spoke.

“I didn’t. And I could have got by with only Rose knowing the truth. But now it’s all down in black and white.
You
know. So I’ve got to know too.”

“You’re sure?”

He nodded.

The results she’d printed out had shocked and baffled her. Still did. But one thing was certain.

“The results are negative for paternity.”

Another frozen pause, then …

“Negative … that means I’m not …” his Adam’s apple bobbed “… not Coog’s father?”

God, she hated this.

“I’m afraid so.”

In a flash Paul whirled and slammed his fist against the Jag.

“Whore!”

Sheila stepped back, shocked by his ferocity. Shocked too by the dent he’d made in the front fender.

As the car alarm began to beep and whistle and wail, Paul looked at her. Her throat tightened at the infinite hurt in his eyes.

“Sorry,” he said over the racket. “But I guess that’s what I get for marrying a …”

He balled his fists again, but this time he closed his eyes and stood statue still. He seemed to be counting.

“A whore?” Sheila said. “I’m not so sure.”

He opened his eyes and looked at her.

“You have a better term? We’d been married one year—
one year!
—when she conceived Coog. What do you call a woman who cuckolds her husband during their first year together?”

“You don’t have all the facts.”

“Which are?”

She’d have to shout to be heard above this racket, and she didn’t want to do that.

“Let’s go to my office. I have all the data there. Some of it you might need to see to believe.”

Some of it she still didn’t believe. Or want to.

Bill sat in the dimly lit room and peered at the ten-inch black-and-white screen that showed Sheila Takamura at her keyboard. The tape was less than an hour old.

He’d had about half the offices—his own excluded, of course—wired for visual monitoring, usually from an overhead light fixture. He couldn’t be too careful. When he’d installed the surveillance in Sheila’s office he figured he may as well expand it to other offices to keep an eye on everyone. Never know who she’d talk to. All the feeds ended in this tiny basement room under the Admin building where every imaginable electronic device lined the walls. Only he and Shen had the key.

Bill had been leery at first about allowing Shen access, but the man was loyal to a fault and never asked the obvious question as to why “
Ji
ù-zhù-zh
e
” deemed all this espionage necessary.

Except his dear “
Ji
ù-zhù-zh
e
” didn’t know a thing about it.

Both he and Shen knew why Sheila needed extra watching, and exactly what to look out for. Since Shen and Abra had no direct contact except at the annual holiday party, it was safe to let Shen assume that Abra had ordered this.

Even through the high-angle, low-resolution lens Sheila stirred Bill. If he had something like this set up in her bedroom he could—

He gave himself a mental slap. Cool it. She made him feel like a horny high school kid. He had to get over this. And he’d tried. He’d sworn he’d never act on these feelings, but seeing her every day, hearing her voice, her intelligence, her devotion to her calling, to Tethys … it wasn’t easy.

But I can dream, can’t I?

Her closeness to Abra, getting to know her through Abra’s stories about her, only made it worse. Especially compared to the incessant strife with Elise these days.

He kept pressing the button but couldn’t get the spyware to work. Shen usually operated the system for him but Bill wanted to do this alone, needed to see what she was up to without Shen’s prying eyes. He pressed another key and lines of type cascaded the length of the monitor.

She read her mail, then visited Amazon to order a gift certificate, then updated chart files.

Good girl, Sheila. Keeping your nose clean.

Bill had seen her leave twenty minutes ago and she wasn’t expected back for the rest of the day.

You need to get a life, Sheila, he thought. Better learn to put some distance between yourself and this place or Tethys will eat you alive.

Bill turned off the tape and hit the rewind button. But as he turned to go, movement on the screen caught his eye. She was back. Odd. He hit record.

Curious, he leaned closer to watch. Bill saw a familiar-looking man enter behind her.

What was this?

“I don’t understand why you’re being coy,” Paul said as he shut the door behind him. “Why not just come out and tell me?”

Good question, Sheila thought.

“Maybe because I feel I’ll need hard copy to back me up.” She moved behind her desk and removed the file with the printouts from a side drawer. “And maybe because I feel it might be a good idea to have you seated when you hear this.”