The Test (12 page)

“Yeah,” Dan said, knowing this to be true, swearing right then that he'd stop. And swearing that he'd find a way to get what Terry wanted. But how? The very thought of opportunism was so alien to him.

A
PRIL
2001

Chan kept one eye on Rory and one eye on the kids as they boarded the Parnell Gulfstream. “You gonna be okay, honey?” he asked for the third time.

“I'm good.” Rory forced a smile. They were standing on the tarmac outside the private terminal at Orlando International Airport. Chan and the kids were heading home to Doylestown. “Eight kids, a week in Disney World, I'm exhausted. This'll be a reprieve.”

“I still think you're crazy.” Chan scrutinized Rory so closely that she had to squint to hold back the tears. “I mean, why you? Dan lives in Florida, for heaven's sake. Why do you have to personally check out the property?”

“I wanted to make sure the house will handle all the kids when we come down for vacation, but I will miss all of you. You sure you'll be okay?”

She knew he would. Mrs. Owen, their supernanny-housekeeper could manage just fine.

“Yeah, yeah. A break from us. Alone on a sunny beach?”

“Ready, Dad?” Emily shouted from the doorway of the aircraft. “We got everything on the plane.”

“We'll miss you, Mom.” Misty had deplaned and run over to hug Rory one more time. “Don't be gone too long.”

“I'll be home next weekend. Now, you two better get on that plane before the pilot leaves without you,” Rory called, desperate that they leave before she fell to pieces.

“With all those kids on board? He's not leaving without me.” Chan
leaned in for one last kiss and one last searching look before taking Misty's hand and leading her onto the jet.

Two years earlier, Rory and Chan had adopted the three children of their best friends and neighbors, who'd perished in a car crash—Karen, ten; Misty, eight; and Tyler, seven. With both sets of grandparents in nursing homes, no other family, no will, no provisions of any kind for the children, they'd intervened so that the county would not separate them. Ever since, they'd done the best they could to integrate the kids into their chaotic household, but there was still the occasional emotional crisis. They had five biological kids: Emily, 14; Becky, 13; ten-year old twins, Chip and Charlie; Ricky, seven, the same age as Tyler. Three plus five made eight noisy, active kids.

The kids had had a fantastic week at Disney, one that had been promised ever since the family merger. One that had been put off twice. Two years earlier when Vivian Parnell died, and the past November because of Paul's imminent death. When Meredith had called insisting that Rory put the trip off again to help Carla, Rory had refused. However, her reason had nothing to do with the children's trip.

Rory lingered until the plane became a tiny dot in the sky. Now, she was alone for the first time since she had made a crucial decision. It was important to her that she not cry in front of Chan or the kids. But now, alone in that parking lot in a rental car, pent-up fear unleashed wracking sobs.

Five years earlier, just months before her mother was diagnosed with malignant melanoma, her father had started construction on the compound in Longboat Key, Florida. He'd envisioned a winter retreat big enough for the whole family. A ten-bedroom main house, a guesthouse with two full suites, a gym, spa, tennis courts, pool, and pool house. But when her mother became ill, he'd lost interest, and delegated the completion to the builder and a local designer and hired a couple, the Tallys, to manage the property. No one in the family had actually stayed in the place except Frank during his political travels.

Now as Rory headed for Sarasota, she couldn't stop thinking about her parents. The bone metastases that made her mother's last two years
so painful. And her father's pancreatic cancer diagnosis came just three months after her mother had died. Try as he might to fight the cancer with radiation and chemo, the disease marched relentlessly, invasively forward. He tried alternative medicine, nutritional cocktails, magnet therapy, acupuncture, even Laetrile from Mexico before denial progressed to acceptance and he'd put together that perplexing will.

As for her biological father, Rory rarely thought of him, but when she did, it was with an ambiguous mix of resentment for leaving her and relief that he had, so that her mother could go on to marry Paul Parnell. Where was Tony Barricelli now? What type of illnesses ran in his family?

“Mrs. Stevens, I'm Leo Tally.” A tall black man with a military crew cut whom she judged to be about forty met Rory at the rental return in Sarasota and ushered her into the waiting Mercedes. Leo wore a simple white golf shirt and pressed tan slacks that made him look efficient and competent and his bright smile signaled confidence. “So glad to meet you, ma'am.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tally,” Rory said in a voice hoarse from crying. “I'm glad to be here.”

“The missus has been getting ready all week.”

Rory knew immediately that she liked this man. His dialogue kept her distracted as he proudly filled her in on the Longboat Key property affairs. As they proceeded through the second of two security gates, Tally suggested, “Once we get there, Mrs. Tally will get you settled and then we can tour the property. Make sure everything's to your specifications.”

“Sounds good, but there's somewhere I have to go first,” she said. “Could I use one of the cars?”

“Why you could drive this one or the Land Rover or the Porsche?”

“The Rover will be fine,” Rory said, not in the mood for a sports car.

“No, I've never seen Dr. March.” An overweight woman with brassy hair guarded the entrance to the inner sanctum. So far, she had not looked at Rory. “No one in particular referred me.”

“Insurance?”

“Yes, I have United Healthcare, but I want to pay in cash.”

“Well, that's not necessary, ma'am.” The woman looked up at her for the first time. “We'll send in the paperwork.”

“Still, I want to pay in cash.”

“As you wish, but the doctor may want tests.”

“That's okay,” Rory said with finality. She needed to see the doctor quickly before she lost her nerve.

“Wait over there.” The receptionist pointed toward a row of vinyl chairs by a fish tank. “The doctor will see you soon.”

Rory knew it was stupid, just finding a doctor in the yellow pages. The guy could be a real idiot. But this was how she'd chosen to do it. She had refused Meredith's insistent demand that she be in Manhattan to help Carla, and had come to Sarasota alone so that Chan, a very skilled, very busy, and very popular family doctor would not know.

“Mrs. Stevens?”

The man calling her name was thin, balding, with a sparse handle-bar moustache. His white coat was wrinkled and a stethoscope dangled around his scrawny neck. Rory judged him to be in his early forties. That was good. Not too young. Not too old.

“Hope we didn't keep you waiting too long,” he said, ushering her into a cubicle with just enough space for an examining table and a chair. “April's still busy in Florida. I'm a solo practitioner. Not many of us left, I'm afraid. My wife is always after me to take a partner.”

Rory had cautioned Chan to do the same thing. Maybe this guy was okay.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, glancing at her chart. “All I know so far is that you're thirty-eight years old; your temperature, ninety-nine point eight degrees, borderline high; pulse one twenty, too high, but not unusual for a first visit; and blood pressure one ten over seventy, excellent. So, you'll have to take it from here.”

“I don't think it's anything,” Rory said as he motioned her up on the examining table. “I'm probably wasting my time and yours.”

“Let me be the judge.”

“I've never been a hypochondriac,” she continued, “But lately I have been abnormally tired.”

“How long have you felt this way?”

“My father died recently. I took care of him during the last weeks of his life. I guess it's been four months.”

“Were you close to your father?”

“Yes, very close. I miss him terribly.”

“Must have been exhausting, caring for him at the end.”

“Yes, it was. He died of pancreatic cancer. You know how horrible that can be. He had hospice care and they were wonderful, but still. Then the funeral. I must be just run down.”

“Tell me more about how you feel.”

“Just tired, very tired. My energy level is so low.”

“How about sadness?” he asked. “Are you very sad?”

“Yes, about my father, but I have so much to live for, I need to get on with my life. I don't think that's what's making me tired, but I know that depression certainly makes people feel like I do.”

“Feelings of hopelessness?”

“No, I feel guilty that I'm not myself, but not hopeless. Worried, maybe. Certainly not hopeless.”

“Feelings of worthlessness?”

“I feel I'm not doing as much as I should for my family. I mean, feeling like this, so tired.”
When was he going to stop these useless questions?

“Mrs. Stevens, have you ever thought about ending your life?”

“What?” Rory clutched the edge of the examining table.
He was asking her about suicide?
“No, Dr. March. Quite the opposite, I'm worried that I may have something seriously and physically wrong with me.”

“Ever think about whether life is worth living?”

“Of course not.”

Suddenly, tears tumbled down Rory's cheeks.

Dr. March pulled out a tissue and handed it to her. “I'm really not depressed,” she said, dabbing away the tears. “Worried, yes.”

“Okay, Mrs. Stevens,” the doctor said, reaching for more tissues. “Let's do a physical exam.”

Without even asking her to undress, Dr. March listened to her heart and lungs. He had her lie down and he palpated her abdomen.

“Rapid heart rate,” he pronounced. “Otherwise healthy, physically.”

Rory was about to ask him about the purplish bruises on her arms and legs and the red spots on her arms. When Chan had asked about
the bruises, she'd told him she'd tripped over a skateboard in the back yard. Dr. March hadn't asked.

“I think that you have a touch of depression,” he diagnosed. “I'm going to give you a prescription for an antidepressant. It's called Paxil. I'd like to see you back in a week to make sure you aren't having any side effects, and to see if I need to increase the dose. What you have is called situational depression. Depression triggered by the recent death of your father. It's very common, but we should treat it before it becomes severe. Okay?”

Rory blew her nose on fresh tissues.

“Okay,” she said to placate him. She did not intend to fill the Paxil prescription. “But, Dr. March, I'd like you to do a complete blood count including a platelet count. And a chemistry panel and thyroid test.” Please, let it be low thyroid, she thought. But deep in her nurse's mind, she knew there was some other, more serious, cause for her symptoms.

His eyes narrowed as he looked up from writing the prescription. “I'm not sure that's indicated. I like to do my part to keep medical costs down by not ordering unnecessary tests.”

“If you would just humor me, doctor. Maybe I'm just paranoid. I'll pay for the tests so there's no insurance impact.”
Just do it
, she wanted to scream.
This is my life
.

“If you insist.” He frowned, but did reach for her chart and began to write.

“How soon will you have the results?” Rory asked. He was obviously rushing to terminate the fifteen-minute visit he'd allocated.

“Call me next week,” he said.

“But I have to go out of the country,” she lied. “Could you make it STAT? Can I call you tomorrow for the results? It's really important to me.”

“STAT?” He pivoted to face her. “Yes, if you're leaving the country. You can call late in the day.”

Rory wondered if he was having second thoughts about his diagnosis. Depressed people don't usually take international trips. She also thought about her husband with a surge of appreciation. Chan would never slap somebody with her complaints on an antidepressant without a comprehensive evaluation.

Rory headed directly to Sarasota Memorial Hospital to have her blood drawn. The skies had turned dark and rain fell in sheets as she darted between the parking garage and the entrance. Wet, chilled by the blast of air-conditioning, Rory's body started to shake. Always surrounded by family and friends, she felt totally alone. At home, she knew all the lab techs at Doylestown Hospital. She was “Dr. Stevens's wife?” Most people there didn't realize that she was a nurse since she hadn't worked after Emily was born.

As Rory held out her arm, a thin young black man stretched the rubber tubing around her upper arm. “Ouch,” she said as he tightened it securely, squeezing her arm. She wasn't worried about the pain, just the bruise it would leave.

“Make a fist,” the technician said with a reassuring smile. “I'm good, so it's not going to hurt.”

“Okay,” she said trying, unsuccessfully, to return the smile.

Rory thought about her days in the hospital. Where she'd met Chan on the pediatric floor of Jefferson when he was a resident. They'd often laughed at how prophetic it was—now that they have eight kids. Maybe someday she would go back.

“Done.” She hardly felt the prick as the needle went in. With a swift move, the tech released the tourniquet. When the tubes were filled, he slipped out the needle and slapped on a gauze pad. “Your job is to hold this on that hole I made.”

Then he stared at her forearm. Looking up, he seemed to pause before speaking. “Mrs. Stevens, you see these red marks?” He pointed to the bright red spots, the size of a pinprick, scattered all over the surface of her forearm. “Make sure you check on your lab results right away. Your doctor ordered them STAT.”