The Proteus Cure (2 page)

Not a “he,” but Bill didn’t correct her. He needed to be alone … just for a minute.

“Would you get Daddy a glass of cold water from the refrigerator, sweetie?”

Smiling at the responsibility she was being given, she rushed out to the kitchen. When she was gone, Bill folded his arms on his desktop and rested his forehead on them.

Sheila … poor Sheila. The best on his staff … a brilliant, caring physician, a genuinely good person … gone, snuffed out in the blink of an eye. The staff, the patients would be devastated. But no one more than Abra.

God, how was he going to tell her?

Had to keep this quiet until he could sit down face to face with his sister.

I’ll miss her too, he thought.

But …

But relief tinged his grief, and he hated himself for that. Sheila was no longer a threat, would no longer be sticking her nose into places she didn’t belong. The secret of VG723 would be safe. But at such a cost.

He felt something wet on the back of his wrist. He lifted his head and looked.

A tear.

Dr. Sheila Takamura snatched Sean O’Reilly’s chart from the nurses’ station and headed for his room. Her heels beat an echoey tattoo on the tiled floor of the lymphoma ward at Tethys Hospital. Not quite thirty-five, she had a slim, compact body, reddish blond hair, and a freckled nose.

Sheila had just got word from Bill Gilchrist that Sean had been cleared for VG723 therapy and she couldn’t help smiling. So far, nine out of every ten patients who received VG723 in the clinical trial had beaten cancer. All types of cancer. Ninety percent in remission, back from the brink of death when every other therapy had failed. Remarkable results for the lucky ones who qualified for it. Sean had just got lucky.

She wished VG723 had been around when her mother had lung cancer. Gone six months after she was diagnosed. Sheila bit her lip. When would losing Mum ever stop hurting?

At least now she had Abra. Sheila smiled when she thought of the little woman who had become her surrogate mother. Abra had no children, Sheila no parents, and they both lived for Tethys. It seemed fate had brought them to each other.

Sheila heard a familiar voice as she approached the room. Paul Rosko. She smiled and listened as he read to Sean.

Paul had first shown up at Tethys seven years ago—long before Sheila had arrived—when his six-year-old son had undergone an experimental leukemia therapy. The boy was thirteen now and cancer free. But his dad still hung around, volunteering, comforting the chemo patients. Said he owed Tethys for the miracle they’d performed on his son.

Well, he’s certainly paid his debt, she thought.

Something about Paul, something in the lilt in his voice that made her smile, made everyone smile. One of those people who brought life with him wherever he went. She admired his dedication, his refusal to let people fall into the despair that pushed many over the edge. If that tenacity was needed anywhere, it was in the cancer ward. Paul made a difference …

She stepped through the door and found him sitting at Sean’s bedside. The twenty-year-old lay propped up on his pillows, his naked scalp reflecting the overhead fluorescents, his skin so pale that it was hard to tell where Sean ended and his sheets began. Michael Stipe in whiteface.

What a contrast to the burley, dark-haired, flannel-shirted man sitting bedside. To some his size might have been intimidating, but Sheila saw him as a human Teddy bear.

“So, Professor Rosko, teaching literature again?”

Paul rose. “Oh, hi, Sheila. I wish I were a professor, but…”

Something in his eyes when he said that… something Sheila couldn’t place.

“Sean, don’t let him fool you,” she said. “I’ve been a professional student most of my life and I don’t know one tenth of what Paul does about literature or history. ‘Professor’ is well-deserved.”

“No, please—”

Sean said, “Then what
do
you do, man?”

“A cable installer. Just a working stiff.” He seemed to be apologizing. He gave Sheila an uncertain smile and spoke in a hacked English accent.
“I work pretty ’ard for a sufficient living.”

She knew he was quoting something but had no idea what it was.

“Beatles?” she said, tongue firmly in cheek. “
Hard Days Night?”

Sean laughed.

“Close.” Paul held up a copy of
Great Expectations.
“I’ve been talking to Sean about Pip. He had it tough for a long time, but he turned out all right in the end.”

Sheila stepped closer to the bed.

“Funny you should be talking about
Great Expectations;
I just got word that we have some pretty great expectations for you, Sean. You’ve qualified for VG-seven-twenty-three.”

The left side of Sean’s mouth twisted. “Well, hallelujah. I’ve been selected by the Tethys gods to sample their elixir. I’m worthy to enter their lottery.”

Earlier in her career Sheila might have asked herself why this youth was acting like a jerk. But experience had informed her. She’d offered him hope, but he’d had so many hopes dashed he’d become gun shy. He’d learned: If you don’t get your hopes up, they can’t be shot down.

“You were a match so you—”

“What makes me so special? We’ve all got the Big C.”

“Seven-twenty-three isn’t for everyone, Sean. You know that. It’s got to be individually matched.”

“The therapy uses stem cells, right? Can’t they become anything, fix anyone?”

She’d wondered the same thing, many times. Why did some patients not qualify? VecGen, the company producing VG723, was secretive about the selection process—probably with good proprietary reasons. But she couldn’t argue with their great results.

Males, females, blacks, whites, rich, poor, Tethys had no criteria for admission beyond the fact that the patient be eighteen or older and that all other therapies had failed. No pattern she could see to those who didn’t qualify, but it appeared as if younger patients got the nod most often. She hadn’t done a statistical analysis, but it seemed more people in their twenties wound up with VG723 than all other age groups combined.

Beyond the standard screening tests, VG also required current photos of each patient. A photographer shot full body views and face shots from every angle.

The heartbreak came when patients she thought would succeed didn’t qualify. Like that young pre-law from Harvard. She was smart as a whip, with rich parents who begged for the VG723. God, her father was a state representative. You’d think he’d have some pull. But no match. Sweet girl. Albino. Sheila had had to watch her grow even paler as the cancer took her away. So damn frustrating, but it was out of her hands. Sheila had no say, no control. VG723 had to be tailored to the patient and the malignancy. If they couldn’t make a match, it wouldn’t work.

Informing the rejects usually fell to her. How she dreaded those days.

“Sean.” Paul leaned over and touched the young man’s foot. “Listen, when my son Coogan had leukemia, when he was in a bed like this one, he saw some of his roommates die. Good friends who didn’t all come through. No, it’s not fair. It sucks. But a lot
are
saved. That’s what counts. Yes, I feel terrible for the others, but at the end of the day… well…” His voice caught. “I was able to take my son home and I thank God every day for that. You’ve got to be thankful too.”

Sheila touched Paul’s arm. He’d said what she felt.

“It’s true, Sean. Seven-twenty-three can’t save everyone, but it can save so many who’d die without it. I want you to be happy.”

Sean wiped his eyes. “I
am
happy. I’m freakin’ stoked. But I feel wicked guilty, okay? Katie died last week. I wanted her to get the treatment. She could have been saved.”

Sheila shook her head. “Not by seven-twenty-three, Sean. They couldn’t make a match. Forget the guilt, okay? You didn’t take seven-twenty-three from Katie or anyone else. It simply wouldn’t have helped her. But it will help you. Smile, now, okay? You’re going to live.”

Sean sobered. “Well, there’s no guarantee.”

Sheila and Paul exchanged glances.

“You’re right,” she said. “No promises, but seven-twenty-three has a great track record. No reason we can’t add you to our successes.”

A smile crept onto Sean’s face. “I’ve got a chance,” he whispered. Then louder. “I’ve got a freakin chance! Do my parents know yet?”

“No, you’re the first.”

“I’ve gotta call them.” He was beaming now as he turned to Paul. “Well, Prof, looks like
Classics 101
is canceled for tonight. Got about a hundred calls to make.”

Sheila placed the phone on his bed and patted his hand.

“Congratulations, Sean. Come on, Paul. ”

As soon as they reached the hallway, Paul threw an arm across her shoulders.

“You folks are amazing. What you do here at Tethys—”

Sheila softened at his touch. Feeling his muscular arm around her reminded her how long it had been since a man had held her. She breathed his scent, Irish Spring, just like Dek used to wear.

Paul released her. “… don’t you think?”

Sheila stared at him. What had he said? Her mind had wandered off. He brought back feelings … she’d felt a
connection
.

God, what a high school thing to think.

“What?” she asked, her voice shaky.

“Don’t you think it’s just matter of time before Tethys wins the Nobel? They’ve pretty much wrapped up a cure for cancer. If that doesn’t warrant a trip to Sweden, I don’t know what does.”

“It’s not us. It’s VecGen’s development. We just administer it.”

“So modest.” He cleared his throat. “I was thinking… Want to go to lunch? To uh, to celebrate about Sean?”

Sheila looked at her watch. “I can’t. I’ve got back-to-back patients till late today.”

“I can hang around. Afternoon coffee?”

Sheila took a mental step back. Was he hitting on her? She’d never thought of him
that
way. Rarely thought of anyone that way. After Dek, work had become her life. But she liked Paul. Had liked him for a long time from the little she knew of him. Looked forward to seeing his smile every week.

“I don’t mind waiting,” Paul said. “I can bother some more patients. I’m sure someone wants to hear about Dickens.” He grinned and shrugged. “Or not.”

She was tempted. It was
just
coffee, not a marriage proposal.

“All right. I’d like that.”

“Me too.”

He held her gaze and Sheila didn’t seem able to say anything else or move from the spot. But it was a good immobility. A surge of long-forgotten excitement rushed through her.

”Okay then,” he said.

She broke eye contact and noticed that her heart rate had kicked up. “Three o’clock? We’ll meet by the river in the parking lot. Coog wants to practice some skateboard moves. We can watch.”

“Okay, see you then,” she said.

“Looking forward to it.”

He turned and walked down the hall. She stood for a minute, enjoying the feeling of being interested in something other than work.

Work! She needed to call a patient.

The chart was back in her office, so she put on her leather coat and gloves, and then headed outside.

Early December and unseasonably warm. By now they should have been buried in snow but the predicted high today was forty-five. She knew it was only a matter of time before they’d be into the single-digits of winter.

There’s New England for you.

The clang and clatter of heavy machinery echoed through the air from the construction site of the new wing. She couldn’t wait for it to be finished. No matter how much refurbishing they underwent, these old buildings were still so, well, old.

She kicked at the brown leaves as they blew into her path. A crisp morning. Tethys and its surrounding town of Bradfield sat amid rolling hills. Down the slope to her right the Copper River glistened, winding past the campus, down through the center of their little village, and on into the woods.

A month ago an Autumn-in-New England postcard. Today the trees stood bare and the massive surrounding hills blocked the sun. The grass had gone into hibernation. A clear sky today, but soon the snow would come and she’d be hurrying through a Winter-in-New England postcard.

All the buildings at Tethys Medical Center looked the same: majestic, old, solid structures with granite block walls nearly black with age. Stately but intimidating.

All this used to be Bradfield College, a medical school built in 1890. It went under in the eighties and sat empty until Tethys Medical Center stepped in about a dozen years ago and bought it. After major renovations the Admin building kept its purpose, the men’s dorm became the Tethys Cancer Center, the women’s dorm the Tethys Birthing Center, a fertility clinic, the classroom building the lab. The smaller dormitories and faculty housing became homes for the employees.

Sheila had bought the gardener’s home upriver. An awful nice house for a gardener: two stories, three bedrooms, roof patio … and for a third of what she would have paid if she’d bought off campus in overpriced Bradfield.

Bill, her boss, friend, and one of the founders, lived in the former Dean’s house, a mansion overlooking the river.

Must be nice, Sheila thought. Jesus, just
look
at that house.

Even from this far, she could see Elise Gilchrist’s shiny new Porsche pull into the driveway. She stiffened as the chic brunette got out of the car, arms loaded with shopping bags.

Sheila shook her head. No, I’m
not
jealous.

She turned away from the Gilchrist mansion and trudged on.

Sheila liked living in Bradfield. She’d grown up in Massachusetts, was used to the weather, wouldn’t dream of leaving. This was a great town for shopping—ten miles from tax-free New Hampshire, forty miles to Boston, and only an hour to the outlet stores in Freeport, Maine. People
needed
access to L.L. Bean’s winter gear if they lived around here.

A gust blew some leaves into her face. Nice. The wind puffed again but she stepped into the Admin building ahead of the leaves.