As evening approached, Cassi let the pale, wintry light fade without turning on the lamp. She watched the windswept sea change from pale blue to gunmetal gray. The airplane tickets still in her lap, she hoped that once they were away she and Thomas could honestly discuss his addictive problem. She knew that recognition and acknowledgment were more than half the problem. Trying to take a positive attitude, Cassi closed her eyes and conjured up visions of long talks on the beach and the beginning of a whole new relationship. Still tired from her ordeal in the hospital, she fell asleep.
   It was completely dark when she awoke. She could hear the wind rattling the storm windows and the steady beat of the rain on the roof. True to form, the New England weather had made another about-face. She reached up and snapped on the floor lamp. For a moment the light seemed glaringly bright, and Cassi shielded her eye to look at her watch. She was surprised to see that it was almost eight o’clock. Irritated at herself, she tossed off the comforter and got to her feet. She did not like to be so late with her insulin.
   In the bathroom, Cassi noted that she was showing two-plus sugar. Returning to the morning room, she went to the refrigerator and took out her medicine. Carrying the paraphernalia over to her desk, she meticulously drew up the correct amounts, fifty units of the regular and ten units of the Lente. Deftly she injected herself in her left thigh.
   She carefully broke off the needle and dropped the syringe into the wastebasket, then put the insulin containers back into the refrigerator. Cassi kept the regular and Lente insulins on different shelves just to make sure she did not confuse them. Then she unpacked her eye medication, removed her eye patch, and managed to put the drops in her left eye. She was on her way down to the kitchen when she felt the first wave of dizziness.
   She stopped, thinking it would pass quickly. But it didn’t. Cassi felt perspiration break out on her palms. Confused as to why eyedrops would cause such a rapid systemic effect, she returned to the morning room and checked the label. It was an antibiotic as she’d suspected. Putting the eye medication down, Cassi wiped her hands; they were drenched. Then her whole body began to sweat, accompanied by a rush of unbelievable hunger.
   Cassi knew then that it wasn’t the eyedrops. She was having another insulin reaction. Her first thought was that she’d misread the calibration on the syringe, but retrieving it from the wastebasket proved that to be false. She checked the insulin bottles, but they were just as they’d always been, U100. Cassi shook her head, wondering how her diabetic balance could have been thrown off so much.
   In any case the cause of the reaction was less important than treating it. Cassi knew she’d better eat without delay. Halfway down the hall to the kitchen, she felt streams of perspiration began to run down her body and her heart began to beat wildly in her chest. She tried to feel her pulse, but her hand was shaking too much. This was no mild reaction! This was another overwhelming episode like the one in the hospital.
   In a panic Cassi dashed back to the morning room and threw open the closet. The black leather doctor’s bag she’d gotten in medical school was somewhere there. She had to find it. Desperately she pushed the clothes to the side, searching the shelves in the back. There it was!
   Cassi pulled the bag down and ran over to her desk. Undoing the catch, she dumped out the contents, which included a container of glucose in water. With shaking hands, she drew some up and injected herself. There was little or no effect. The shaking was getting worse. Even her vision was changing.
   Frantically Cassi snatched up several small IV bottles of fifty-percent glucose which had also been in the doctor’s bag. With great difficulty she got a tourniquet around her left arm. Then with a spastic hand managed to jam a butterfly needle into one of the veins on the back of her left hand. Blood squirted out of the open end of the needle, but she ignored it. Loosening the tourniquet, she connected the tubing from the IV bottle. When she held the bottle above her head, the clear fluid pushed the blood slowly back into her hand, then started to run freely.
   Cassi waited for a moment. With the glucose running she felt a little better and her vision immediately returned to normal. Balancing the bottle between her head and shoulder, Cassi put a few pieces of adhesive tape over the site where the butterfly needle entered her skin. The adhesive did not stick too well because of the blood. Then, taking the IV bottle in her right hand, she ran into the bedroom, lifted the telephone receiver, and dialed 911.
   She was terrified she would pass out before anyone answered. The phone was ringing on the other end. Someone answered, saying “911 emergency.”
   “I need an ambulance…” began Cassi, but the person on the other end interrupted her, saying, “Hello, hello!”
   “Can you hear me?” asked Cassi.
   “Hello, hello!”
   “Can you hear me?” screamed Cassi, her panic returning.
   Cassi could hear the person on the other end of the line say something to a colleague. Then the line went dead.
   Cassi tried again with the same result. Then she dialed the operator. It was the same maddening problem. She could hear them, but they couldn’t hear her.
   Grabbing the second IV bottle in her left hand and carrying the running bottle above her head, Cassi ran on wobbly legs down the corridor to Thomas’s study.
   To her horror his phone also wasn’t working. She could hear the other party vainly saying hello, but it was obvious they couldn’t hear her. Bursting into tears, she slammed the phone down and picked up the second IV bottle.
   Cassi’s panic mounted as she struggled to descend the stairs without falling. She tried the phones in the living room and kitchen without success.
   Fighting against a powerful drowsiness, she ran back through the hall to the foyer. Her keys were on the side table, and she clutched them along with the unused IV bottle. Her first thought was to try to drive to the local hospital, which wasn’t far—ten minutes at most. With the IV running, the insulin reaction seemed to be controlled.
   Getting the front door open was an effort that ultimately required Cassi to put down her IV bottle for a moment. Blood backed up into the IV but cleared again when she raised the bottle over her head.
   The cold, rainy night seemed to revive her as she ran for the garage. Juggling the IV, she managed to open the car door and slide behind the wheel. Tilting the rearview mirror, Cassi slipped the ring of the IV bottle over it she pushed the key into the ignition.
   The engine turned over and over, but it would not start. She took out the key and closed her eyes. She was shivering violently. Why wouldn’t the car start! She tried again with the same result. Looking at the IV she realized the bottle was almost empty. Shaking, she removed the cover, from the second bottle. Even during the few minutes it took to make the exchange she could feel the effect. There was no doubt in her mind that when the glucose ran out, she’d most likely lose consciousness.
   She decided her only chance now was Patricia’s phone. Emerging from the garage into the rain, Cassi rounded the building and ran to Patricia’s door. Still holding the IV bottle above her head, she rang the buzzer.
   As on her previous visit, Cassi was able to see Patricia descend the stairs. She came slowly, warily peering out into the night. When she recognized Cassi and saw her holding aloft an IV bottle, she quickly fumbled with the door and threw it open.
   “My God!” said Patricia, noticing Cassi’s pale, perspiring face. “What happened?”
   “Insulin reaction,” managed Cassi. “I have to call an ambulance.”
   Patricia’s face registered concern, but seemingly paralyzed with shock, she did not get out of the way. “Why didn’t you call from the main house?”
   “I can’t. The phones are out of order. Please.”
   Cassi blundered forward, pushing clumsily past Patricia. The movement caught Patricia by surprise and she stumbled back. Cassi didn’t have time to argue. She wanted a phone.
   Patricia was incensed. Even if Cassi wasn’t well, she didn’t have to be rude. But Cassi had turned a deaf ear to her mother-in-law’s complaints and was already dialing 911 when Patricia caught up to her in the living room. To Cassi’s relief, this time she could be heard by the emergency operator. As calmly as she could, she gave her name and the address and said she needed an ambulance. The dispatcher assured her that one would be there immediately.
   Cassi lowered the receiver with a trembling hand. She looked at Patricia, whose face reflected confusion more than anything else. Exhausted, Cassi sank to the couch. Patricia did the same, and the two women sat quietly until they heard the sirens coming down the drive. The years of unspoken antagonism made communication difficult, but Patricia helped Cassi, who was now nearly unconscious, down the stairs.
   As Patricia watched the shrieking ambulance race back across the salt marsh, she had a moment’s real sympathy for her daughter-in-law. Slowly she went back upstairs and called Boston Memorial. She felt her son should try to meet his wife at the local hospital. But Thomas was in surgery. Patricia left word that he should call as soon as possible.

   Thomas glanced down at the clock on the instrument panel. It was 12:34 A.M. The charge nurse had given him Patricia’s message the moment he came out of the OR at 11:15. When he’d spoken to his mother she’d been very upset, telling him what had happened. She chided him about having left Cassi alone and urged him to go to the local hospital as fast as he could.
   Thomas had called Essex General, but the nurse hadn’t been able to say yet how Cassi was doing. She just told Thomas that she’d been admitted. Thomas didn’t need any urging to hurry. He was desperate to find out Cassi’s condition.
   At the red light the block before the hospital, Thomas slowed but did not stop. When he reached the hospital grounds, he turned so sharply the wheels of his car squealed in protest.
   The front desk of the hospital was deserted. A small sign said


Inquiries Go to Emergency

   Thomas sprinted down the hall.
   There was a tiny waiting area and a glassed-in nurses’ station. A nurse was having coffee and watching a miniature TV set. Thomas pounded on the glass.
   “Can I help you?” she asked with a strong Boston accent.
   “I’m looking for my wife,” said Thomas nervously. “She was brought in here by ambulance.”
   “Would you mind sitting down for a moment.”
   “Is she here?” asked Thomas.
   “If you’ll sit down, I’ll get the doctor. I think you’d better talk to him.”
   Oh God, thought Thomas as he turned and obediently sat down. He had no idea what was coming. Luckily he didn’t have to wait long. An Oriental man in a crumpled scrub suit appeared, blinking in the bright fluorescent light.
   “I’m sorry,” he said, introducing himself as Dr. Chang. “Your wife is no longer with us.”
   For a moment Thomas thought the man was telling him Cassi was dead, but then the doctor went on to say Cassi had signed herself out.
   “What?” shouted Thomas.
   “She was a doctor herself,” apologized Dr. Chang.
   “What are you trying to say?” Thomas tried to stifle his fury.
   “She arrived suffering from an insulin overdose. We gave her sugar and she stabilized. Then she wanted to leave.”
   “And you allowed her to.”
   “I didn’t want her to leave,” said Dr. Change. “I advised against it. But she insisted. She checked out against medical advice. I have her signature. I can show you.”
   Thomas grabbed the man’s arms. “How could you let her leave! She was in shock. She probably wasn’t thinking clearly.”
   “She was lucid and signed a release form. There wasn’t much I could do. She said she wanted to go to the Boston Memorial. I knew she’d get better care there. I’m not a specialist in diabetes.”
   “How did she go?” asked Thomas.
   “She called a taxi,” said Dr. Chang.
   Thomas ran back down the corridor and out through the front door. He had to find her!
   Thomas drove recklessly. Luckily there was almost no traffic. After a brief stop at home, he headed back into Boston. When he pulled into the parking garage at the Memorial it was just before 2:00 A.M. He parked and ran into emergency.
   In contrast to Essex General, the ER at the Memorial was flooded with patients. Thomas ran straight to the admitting office.
   “Your wife hasn’t come into the ER,” one of the clerks told him.
   The other clerk punched Cassi’s name into the computer. “She hasn’t been admitted either. It shows she was discharged this morning.”
   Thomas felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his abdomen. Where could she be? He had only one other thought. Maybe she’d gone up to Clarkson Two.
   Although he’d never stopped to wonder why, Thomas did not like to be on the psychiatry floor. It made him feel uncomfortable. He didn’t even like the sound the heavy fire door made when it closed behind him with its airtight seal.
   As he walked down the dark corridor, his heels echoed loudly. He passed the common room where the TV was still on although no one was watching. At the desk a nurse who’d been reading a medical journal looked up at him as if he were one of the patients.
   “I’m Dr. Kingsley,” said Thomas.
   The nurse nodded.
   “I’m looking for my wife, Dr. Cassidy. Have you seen her?”
   “No, Dr. Kingsley. I thought she was on medical leave.”
   “She is, but I thought she might have come in here.”
   “Nope. But if I see her I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.”
   Thomas thanked the woman and decided to go to his office while he tried to figure out what to do.
   As soon as he opened the door he went to his desk to get several Talwin. He took them with a splash of Scotch, then sat down. He wondered if he were getting an ulcer. He had a boring pain just below his sternum that he also felt in his back. But the pain he could live with. What was worse than the pain was the pervasive anxiety. He felt as if he were about to shatter into a million pieces. He had to find Cassi. His life depended on it.
   Thomas pulled over the phone. Despite the hour, he called Dr. Ballantine. Cassi had spoken to him before, and there was a chance she’d approach him again.
   Dr. Ballantine, groggy with sleep, answered on the second ring. Thomas apologized and asked if he’d heard from Cassi.
   “I haven’t,” said Dr. Ballantine, clearing his throat. “Is there some reason I should?”
   “I don’t know,” admitted Thomas. “She was discharged today, but after I took her home I had to come back to the hospital for an emergency. When I got out of surgery there was a message to call my mother. She told me Cassi had apparently given herself another overdose of insulin. An ambulance took her to the local hospital but by the time I got there she’d signed herself out. I have no idea where she is or what state she’s in. I’m worried sick.”
   “Thomas, I’m so sorry. If she calls, I’ll get in touch with you immediately. Where will you be?”
   “Just call the hospital. They’ll have my number.”
   As Dr. Ballantine replaced the receiver, his wife rolled over and asked what the trouble was. As chief of service, Ballantine got few emergency calls at night.
   “It was Thomas Kingsley,” said Ballantine, staring into the darkness. “His wife is apparently very unstable. He’s afraid she may have tried to kill herself.”
   “The poor man,” said Mrs. Ballantine as she felt her husband throw off the covers and get up. “Where are you going, dear?”
   “No place. You go back to sleep.”
   Dr. Ballantine put on his robe and walked out of the bedroom. He had an awful feeling that things were not happening the way he’d planned.

Fourteen

   Cassi awoke with the same violent headache she’d had in the intensive care unit. The difference now was that her mind was clear. She remembered everything that had happened the previous night. After checking out of Essex General she headed into Boston thinking she should call Dr. McInery, but when she reached the hospital she no longer felt she needed emergency care. But before she could face her fears about what had happened, she knew she needed sleep. She’d gone to the empty on-call room on Clarkson Two and stretched out on the cot.
   As she fell asleep she knew she’d have to find someone to talk to about Thomas. Had he been involved in her second insulin overdose? She didn’t see how since she had taken her regular medicine herself. But the fact that all the phones except Patricia’s were out seemed too much of a coincidence to be an accident, and her car had never in the past failed to start. What if her fears about Thomas’s connection to the SSD cases were true? What if she hadn’t been hallucinating and he was responsible for Robert’s death?
   If it were true, he had to be ill, mentally ill. He needed help. Dr. Ballantine had said he would do anything he could if Thomas needed counseling. Cassi decided to see him in the morning. For the moment she was safe.
   Checking her urine a final time, she decided she might as well fall asleep. Hopefully Patricia couldn’t alarm Thomas until morning.
   When she awoke well before dawn, the psychiatry ward was still deserted. Cassi washed up as best she could and ran down to the lab where she persuaded a sleepy technician to draw some blood for a sugar level, only to have the night lab supervisor refuse to run it because Cassi didn’t have her hospital card with her. Not up to arguing, Cassi left the sample and told the man to do whatever his conscience dictated. She said she’d stop back later. Then she went up to Ballantine’s office and parked herself in the hall opposite his door.
   An hour and a half passed before he appeared. He saw Cassi as he came down the hall.
   “If you have a moment, I’d like to talk to you,” she said.
   “Of course,” said Dr. Ballantine, turning to unlock his door. “Come in.” He acted as if he’d expected her.
   Cassi walked into the office, looking out the window to avoid meeting Dr. Ballantine’s gaze. She could see over the Charles River to the MIT building directly opposite. Although she wasn’t sure why, Cassi thought that Dr. Ballantine seemed somewhat annoyed to see her.
   “Well, what can I do for you?” he asked.
   “I need help,” said Cassi. Dr. Ballantine was standing before his desk. He was not making her feel comfortable, but she didn’t know who else to turn to.
   “And what kind of help do you need?” asked Dr. Ballantine. He made no gesture for Cassi to sit down.
   “I’m not entirely sure,” said Cassi slowly. “But before dealing with anything else I must get Thomas into therapy. I know he’s abusing drugs.”
   “Cassi,” said Dr. Ballantine with patience. “Since we last talked, I’ve checked Thomas’s prescribing habits. If he errs, he errs on the side of caution as far as narcotics are concerned.”
   “He doesn’t get pills under his own name,” said Cassi. “But drugs are only part of the story. I think Thomas is ill. Mentally ill. I know that I haven’t been on psychiatry long, but Thomas is definitely sick. I’m afraid he considers me a threat.”
   Ballantine didn’t respond immediately. He looked at Cassi with surprise and, for the first time since he’d seen her, concern. His expression softened and he put an arm around her shoulders. “I know you’ve been under a lot of stress. And I think the problem has gone beyond my capabilities. What I’d like you to do is sit down and rest for a few minutes. There is someone else I think you should talk to.”
   “Who?” asked Cassi.
   “Please sit down,” said Dr. Ballantine softly. He moved his wing chair from the corner and placed it in front of the desk, facing the window. “Please.” He took Cassi’s hand and gently encouraged her to sit down. “I want you to be comfortable.”
   This was the Dr. Ballantine Cassi had remembered. He would take care of her. He would take care of Thomas. Gratefully she sank into the soft leather cushions.
   “Let me get something. Coffee? Something to eat?”
   “I could use something to eat,” said Cassi. She felt hungry and guessed her blood sugar was still low.
   “All right, you wait here. I’m sure everything is going to work out fine.”
   Dr. Ballantine left the room, closing the door quietly.
   Cassi wondered whom Dr. Ballantine was calling. It had to be someone in a position of authority who would have some influence over Thomas. Otherwise he wouldn’t listen. Cassi began to rehearse her story in her mind. She heard the door open behind her and glanced around expecting to see Dr. Ballantine. But it was Thomas.
   Cassi was stunned. Thomas pushed the door shut with his hip. In his hands he had a plate of scrambled eggs and a carton of milk. He came over and handed her the food. He was unshaven and his face looked haggard and sad. “Dr. Ballantine said you needed something to eat,” he said softly. Cassi took the plate automatically. She was hungry but too shocked to eat. “Where is Dr. Ballantine?” she asked hesitantly.
   “Cassi, do you love me?” asked Thomas in a pleading voice.
   Cassi was nonplussed. It wasn’t what she’d expected to hear. “Of course I love you, Thomas, but…”
   Thomas reached out and touched her lips, interrupting her.
   “If you do, then you should understand that I’m in trouble; I need help, but with your love I know I can get better.”
   Cassi’s heart turned over. What had she been thinking? Of course Thomas had nothing to do with the terrible events of the previous night. His sickness was making her equally crazy.
   “I know you can,” said Cassi with encouragement. She’d not thought Thomas was capable of having such insight into his own problems.
   “I have been taking drugs,” said Thomas, “just as you suspected. I’ve been better this last week, but it’s still a problem, a major problem. I’ve been fooling myself, trying to deny it.”
   “Do you really want to do something about it?” asked Cassi.
   Thomas’s head shot up. Tears streaked his cheeks.
   “Desperately, but I can’t do it alone. Cassi, I need you with me, not against me.”
   All at once Thomas appeared like a helpless child. Cassi put the plate down and took his hands in hers.
   “I’ve never asked for help before,” said Thomas. “I’ve always been too proud. But I know I’ve done some awful things. One thing has led to another. Cassi, you must help me.”
   “You need psychiatric attention,” said Cassi, watching Thomas’s response.
   “I know,” said Thomas. “I just never wanted to admit it. I’ve been so afraid. And instead of admitting it, I just took more drugs.”
   Cassi stared at her husband. It was as if she’d never known him. She struggled with the desire to ask if he’d been responsible for her insulin overdose, or if he had anything to do with Robert’s death, or with any of the cases in the SSD series. But she couldn’t. Not then. Thomas was too broken.
   “Please,” he begged. “Stand beside me. It’s been so difficult to admit all this.”
   “You’ll have to be hospitalized,” said Cassi.
   “I understand that,” said Thomas. “It just cannot be here at the Memorial.”
   Cassi stood up and put her hands on his shoulders.
   “I agree, the Memorial would not be a good idea. Confidentiality is important. Thomas, as long as you agree to professional care. I’ll stand beside you for as long as it takes. I’m your wife.”
   Thomas clasped Cassi in his arms, pressing his wet face against her neck.
   Cassi hugged him reassuringly. “There’s a small, private hospital in Weston called the Vickers Psychiatric Institute. I think we should go there.”
   Thomas nodded in silent agreement.
   “In fact I think we should go immediately. This morning.” Cassi pushed Thomas away so she could see his face.
   Thomas looked directly at her. His turquoise eyes seemed clouded with pain. “I’ll do anything you think I should, anything to relieve the anxiety I feel. I can’t bear it any longer.”
   The doctor in Cassi conquered all other reservations. “Thomas, you’ve driven yourself so hard. You wanted to succeed so much that the process of winning became more important than the goal. I think it’s a common problem with doctors, particularly surgeons. You mustn’t think you are alone.”
   Thomas tried to smile. “I’m not sure I understand, but as long as you do and you won’t leave me, it doesn’t matter.”
   “I wish I’d understood sooner.”
   Cassi pulled Thomas back into her arms. Despite everything, she felt she had her husband back. Of course she’d stand by him. She of all people knew what it was like to be ill.
   “Everything is going to be all right,” she said. “We’ll get the best doctors, the best psychiatrists. I’ve done some reading about impaired physicians. The rate of rehabilitation is almost one hundred percent. All it takes it commitment and desire.”
   “I’m ready,” said Thomas.
   “Let’s go,” said Cassi, taking his hand.

   Like lovers, Thomas and Cassi ignored the morning crowds pouring into the Boston Memorial. Walking arm in arm to the garage in the early morning light, Cassandra kept up a steady stream of enthusiastic conversation about the Vickers Psychiatric Institute. She even told Thomas she had a specific psychiatrist in mind who’d had lots of experience treating other doctors.
   After they’d climbed into the Porsche, Cassi asked Thomas if he felt well enough to drive. Thomas assured her that he was fine. Cassi reached up and pulled down her seat belt. As usual she had the urge to tell Thomas to do the same, but she thought better of it. She had the feeling that his emotions were so volatile, he would explode at the slightest frustration.
   Thomas started the car and carefully backed out of the parking lot. After they’d passed through the automatic gate, Cassi asked how Dr. Ballantine had found Thomas so quickly.
   “I called him during the night when I couldn’t find you,” said Thomas, stopping for a red light. “I had a feeling you might go to see him. I asked him to call me in my office if he heard from you.”
   “Didn’t he think it was a little odd? What exactly did you say?”
   The light changed and Thomas accelerated toward Storrow Drive. “I just told him you had another insulin reaction.”
   Cassi considered her own behavior. She recognized that her actions would appear irrational, especially signing out of a hospital against medical advice when she had barely been stabilized. Then hiding from everyone.
   As usual Thomas drove recklessly, and when they reached Storrow Drive Cassi braced herself against the door for the sharp left turn that would take them toward Weston. Instead Thomas swung the wheel to the right, and Cassi had to grab the dash to keep from falling against him. He must have turned out of habit, thought Cassi.
   “Thomas,” she said. “We’re heading home rather than to Vickers.”
   Thomas didn’t answer.
   Cassi turned to look at him. He seemed to be holding the wheel in a death grip as the speedometer gradually inched upward. Cassi reached over and put her hand on his neck, massaging the tight muscles. She wanted to get him to calm down. She could sense that he was becoming enraged.
   “Thomas, what is the matter?” asked Cassi, trying to keep her fear in check.
   Thomas did not respond, driving the car as if he were an automaton. They rose up the ramp, banked, and merged into the multiple lanes of Interstate 93. At that time of the morning there was no outbound traffic, and Thomas let the car go.
   Cassi turned toward him as much as her seat belt would allow. She let her hand trail down Thomas’s side, at a loss as to what to do. Her fingers hit something sharp in Thomas’s jacket pocket. Before he could react, Cassi reached in and pulled out an opened package of U500 insulin.
   Thomas snatched the package away, returning it to his pocket.
   Cassi turned and watched the road rush toward her in a bewildering blur. Her mind was racing as she began to understand the cause of her last insulin reaction. There could only be one reason for Thomas to have U500 insulin. It was a rarely used drug. He must have replaced her U100 insulin with the more concentrated drug, forcing her to give herself five times her normal dosage. It would have been easy enough to do, forcing a syringe through the sealed cap in the same way that she drew out her regular dosage. If it had not been for her glucose solution, she’d have been in a coma now, or maybe worse. And the hospital episode? She hadn’t been dreaming when she smelled the Yves St. Laurent cologne. But why? Because she, like Robert, was analyzing the sudden death data. Suddenly it was clear that Thomas’s performance before they left the hospital had been a trick. With horror she realized that Ballantine must have thought she was the mentally troubled person, not Thomas.
   Cassi felt the emergence of a new emotion: anger. For a moment it was directed almost as much at herself as at Thomas. How could she have been so blind?
   Turning, she studied Thomas’s sharp profile, seeing it in a different light. His lips looked cruel and his unblinking eyes appeared deranged. It was as if she were with a stranger… a man whom she intuitively despised.
   “You tried to kill me,” hissed Cassi, tightening her hands into fists.
   Thomas laughed with such harshness that Cassi jumped.
   “Such clairvoyance! I’m impressed. Did you really think the broken phones and your car not starting were coincidences?”
   Cassi looked out at the blur of scenery. Desperately she tried to control her anger. She had to do something. The city was falling behind them.
   “Of course I tried to kill you,” snapped Thomas. “Just like I got rid of Robert Seibert. Jesus Christ! What did you think I was going to do, sit and let you two destroy my life?”
   Cassi’s head shot around.
   “Look,” shouted Thomas, “all I want to do is surgery on people who deserve to live, not a bunch of mental defectives or people who are going to die of other illnesses. Medicine has to understand that our resources are limited. We can’t let worthy candidates wait while people with multiple sclerosis or gays with autoimmunal deficiencies take valuable beds and OR time.”
   “Thomas,” said Cassi, trying to control her fury, “I want you to turn this car around immediately. Do you understand?”
   Thomas stared at Cassi with unconcealed hatred. He smiled cruelly, “Did you really think I would go to some quack hospital?”
   “It’s your only hope,” said Cassi, while she tried to tell herself that he was sick crazy. But all she felt was an overwhelming loathing.
   “Shut up!” screamed Thomas, his eyes bulging, his skin flushed with anger. “Psychiatrists are full of shit, and no one is going to sit in judgment of me. I’m the best goddamn cardiac surgeon in the country.”
   Cassi could feel the irrational power of Thomas’s narcissistic rage. She had little doubt as to what was in store for her, especially since everyone thought she’d already given herself two overdoses of insulin.
   Ahead, Cassi could see the Somerville exit rapidly approaching. She knew she had to do something. Despite the speed at which they were traveling, she reached across and grabbed the steering wheel, pulling the car sharply to the right, hoping to force them off the interstate.
   Thomas struck out and slapped the side of Cassi’s head, throwing her forward with the force of his blow. She released her hold on the steering wheel to protect herself. Thomas, thinking she still had hold of the wheel, jerked it back with all his strength, and the car, which was already out of control, careened wildly to the left. Thomas desperately swung the wheel to the right and the Porsche skidded sideways, then rammed into the concrete abutment in a crescendo of broken glass, twisted metal, and blood.

Fifteen

   Cassandra could hear someone calling her name from a great distance. She tried to answer but couldn’t. With a great effort, she opened her eyes. Joan Widiker’s concerned face emerged as if from a dense fog.
   Cassi blinked. Slowly glancing upward, she could see a tangle of IV bottles. To her left she heard the incessant beep of a cardiac monitor. She took a deep breath and felt a stab of pain.
   “Don’t try to talk,” said Joan. “It may not feel like it, but you’re doing fine.”
   “What happened?” whispered Cassi with great difficulty.
   “You were in a car accident,” said Joan, smoothing back the hair from Cassi’s forehead. “Don’t try to talk.”
   As if recalling a dream, Cassi remembered the nightmare ride with Thomas. She could remember her anger and grabbing the wheel. She had a vague memory of being slapped and then bracing herself against the dash. But after that, it was as if a curtain had been dropped over the scene. It was blank.
   “Where is Thomas?” said Cassi, struggling up in fear.
   “He was hurt too,” said Joan, urging her to lie quietly.
   Cassi suddenly knew that Thomas was dead.
   “Thomas didn’t have his seat belt on,” said Joan.
   Cassi hesitated, then said the word aloud. “Dead?”
   Joan nodded.
   Cassi let her head fall to the side. But as the tears poured down her cheeks, the memory of her last conversation with Thomas returned. She thought of Robert and all the others. Gripping Joan’s hand, she said, “I thought I loved him, but thank God…”

Epilogue
(six months later)

   Dr. Ballantine pushed through the swinging door into the surgical lounge. He’d finished his only case for the day and it hadn’t gone smoothly. Perhaps it really was time to slow down. Yet he loved to operate. He loved the triumphant feeling that came at the end of a successful case.
   Pouring himself a cup of steaming black coffee, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he found himself looking into the smiling face of George Sherman.
   “You’ll never guess who I had dinner with last night,” said George.
   Dr. Ballantine examined George’s worn face. Since Thomas’s death, the inpatient load was taking its toll on all the staff, but George was perhaps the most overworked. Under the pressure he had matured. Although he still had a ready smile and ready joke for his colleagues, he seemed increasingly thoughtful. But now he looked at Ballantine with the old roguish grin.
   “So who did you have dinner with?” the chief asked.
   “Cassandra Kingsley.”
   Dr. Ballantine’s eyebrows lifted in a gesture of admiration. “Very good. How is that one-sided romance coming?”
   “I think the opposition is weakening,” smiled George. “I have her convinced to go down to the Caribbean come January. That would be wonderful. She really is a fabulous person.”
   “How’s that eye of hers doing?” said Dr. Ballantine.
   “Just fine. And every one of those bones healed flawlessly. She’s really got courage, especially getting back to work so fast. And she seems to be making quite a name for herself on Clarkson Two. One of the attendings told me she has all the makings of a chief resident.”
   “Does she ever talk about Thomas?” asked Dr. Ballantine on a more serious note.
   “On occasion. I have a feeling there is part of that story that no one but Cassi knows. She’s still confused as to what she should do, but personally I think she’s going to let it go.”
   Dr. Ballantine sighed with relief. “God, I hope so. At our last meeting I thought I’d convinced her that making Thomas’s story public would do more harm than good. But I wasn’t sure.”
   “She doesn’t want to hurt the hospital,” said George. “Her main point is that she thinks peer review doesn’t work. People like Thomas are allowed to go on destroying themselves and their patients because their colleagues won’t take action.”
   “I know. At least I contacted the Drug Enforcement Administration and suggested they force the medical licensing board to contact them whenever a physician dies. That way no one can abuse a dead physician’s license.”
   “That’s a good idea,” said George. “Did they do it?”
   Dr. Ballantine shrugged. “I don’t know. To tell you the truth, I never followed up on it.”
   “You know,” said George, “the thing about Thomas that bothers me the most is that he seemed so normal. But he must have been taking a lot of pills. I wonder how it got out of hand. I take a Valium now and then myself.”
   “So do I,” said Ballantine. “But not every day like Thomas apparently did.”
   “No, not every day,” admitted George, shaking his head. “You know I never could understand why he wouldn’t face the fact the whole department was going full-time. Maybe the pills did blunt his sense of reality. After that late-night meeting with the trustees, he could have written his own ticket. The money men were wild to keep him happy. Even if they did want him to give up an independent practice.”
   “As good a surgeon as Thomas was,” said Dr. Ballantine, “he had trouble seeing beyond his own nose. He was like the subject of all those jokes. You know, the doctor who plays God.”
   George was silent for a minute, thinking they all made decisions affecting their patients’ lives. “What about that triple valve replacement you mentioned last week,” George said, following his train of thought. “What have you decided to do?”
   Ballantine took a careful sip of his coffee: “I’m not even going to present the case. The woman’s got questionable kidneys; she’s over sixty; and she’s been on welfare for years. Some of Thomas’s objections to our teaching cases were valid, and I don’t even want the committee to know about her. If that goddamn philosopher hears about this woman, he’ll probably insist we operate.”
   George nodded, ostensibly agreeing. But in his mind he recognized they all played God to a degree, and he knew that was Cassi’s real concern. He’d promised her that when he became chief, which he’d already been guaranteed, he’d let such decision-making rest with the committee, including the philosopher.
   George broke off from Ballantine and passed through the crowded lounge into the locker room. Passing by the phone he realized he felt more and more uncomfortable concerning Ballantine’s decision about the triple valve case. Abruptly he picked up the phone, called the operator, and put in a page for Rodney Stoddard.

Mindbend

Robin Cook

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Author’s Note

Mindbend
by Robin Cook

   For Barbara

Prologue

Fetal Research Banned
New Regulations for Medical Research
By Harold Barlow
Special to The New York Times


   Washington, July 12, 1974—President Richard M. Nixon signed into law today the National Research Act (Pub. L. 93-348). The law calls for the creation of a National Commission for the Protection of Human Subjects in Biomedical and Behavioral Research. There has been growing concern about the ethics of research involving children, retarded persons, prisoners, the terminally ill, and particularly fetuses.
   It is hoped that by creating appropriate guidelines some of the shocking abuses that have been exposed of late can be obviated, such as the purposeful infecting of a large number of retarded children with hepatitis in order to study the natural progession of the disease, or the discovery a few months ago at a Boston hospital of a dozen dismembered aborted fetuses.
   The first phase of implementing the law includes a moratorium on “research in the United States on a living human fetus, before or after induced abortion, unless such research is done for the purpose of assuring the survival of such fetus.” Obviously the fetal issue is intimately tied to the highly emotional abortion issue.
   Response to the new legislation in scientific circles has been mixed. Dr. George C. Marstons of Cornell Medical Center welcomed the new law, stating that “guidelines for ethical behavior in human experimentation are long overdue. The competitive economic pressure for research breakthroughs creates an atmosphere where abuse is inevitable.”
   Dr. Clyde Harrison of Arolen Pharmaceuticals disagreed with Dr. Marstons, saying that “anti-abortion politics are holding science hostage, preventing needed health care research.” Dr. Harrison went on to explain that fetal research has resulted in many significant scientific gains. Among the most important is a possible cure for diabetes. Fetal tissue injected into the pancreas has been proven to repopulate the islet cells that produce insulin. Equally important is the experimental use of fetal tissue to heal previously incurable paralysis resulting from spinal cord injuries. Injected into the site of the trauma, the tissue causes spontaneous healing by generating growth of new, healthy cells.
   It is too early to judge the impact of this bill until the various commissions mandated by law make their recommendations to Secretary Caspar Weinberger. In the area of research the new law will have an immediate impact by severely limiting the supply of fetal tissue. Apparently planned abortions have been the primary source of such tissue, though it is not known whether or not this need played a role in doctors’ decisions to abort.



November 27, 1984
Julian Clinic, New York City

   Candice Harley felt the needle pierce the skin of her lower back, followed by a sharp burning sensation. It was like a bee sting, only the pain rapidly evaporated.
   “I’m just putting in some local anesthetic, Candy,” said Dr. Stephen Burnham, a swarthy, good-looking anesthesiologist, who had assured Candy that she was not going to feel a thing. The trouble was that she had already felt pain—not a lot but enough to make her lose a certain amount of faith in what Dr. Burnham had told her. She had wanted to be put to sleep. But Dr. Burnham had informed her that epidural anesthesia was safer and would leave her feeling better after the abortion and the sterilization procedure were over.
   Candy bit her lower lip. There was another stab of pain. Again it wasn’t severe, but she felt vulnerable and ill prepared for what was happening. At thirty-six, Candy had never been in a hospital, much less had an operation. She was terrified and had told Dr. Burnham as much. She felt the burning sensation again, and by reflex she straightened her back.
   “Don’t move now,” admonished Dr. Burnham.
   “I’m sorry,” blurted Candy, afraid that if she didn’t cooperate they would not take care of her properly. She was sitting on the side of a gurney in an alcove next to an operating room. A nurse was standing in front of her and to the right was a curtain which had been pulled to isolate the alcove from the busy OR corridor. Behind the curtain, Candy could hear muted voices and the sound of running water. Directly ahead was a door with a small window through which she could see the operating room.
   Candy’s only covering was a flimsy hospital gown, open in the back where the doctor was busy doing whatever he was doing. He had elaborately explained to Candy what was going to happen, but her ability to concentrate was severely limited by the intimidating surroundings. Everything was new and frightening.
   “Tuohy needle, please,” said Dr. Burnham. Candy wondered what a Tuohy needle was. It sounded awful. She heard a cellophane package being torn open.
   Dr. Burnham eyed the three-inch needle in his gloved hand, sliding the stylet up and down to make sure it moved freely. Stepping to the left so that he could make sure that Candy was sitting straight, he positioned the needle over the area he had injected with the local anesthetic.
   Using both hands, he pushed the needle into Candy’s back. His experienced fingers could feel the needle break through the skin and slide between the bony prominences of Candy’s lumbar vertebrae. He stopped just short of the ligamentum flavum, the barrier covering the spinal canal. Epidural anesthesia was tricky and that was one reason Dr. Burnham liked to use it. He knew not everybody could do it as well as he could and that knowledge gave him satisfaction. With a flourish he pulled out the stylet. As expected, no cerebrospinal fluid came out. Replacing the stylet, he advanced the Tuohy needle another millimeter and felt it pop through the ligamentum flavum. A test dose of air went in easily. Perfect! Replacing the empty needle with one filled with tetracaine, Dr. Burnham gave Candy a small dose.
   “I feel a strange sensation on the side of my leg,” said Candy with concern.
   “That just means we’re where we are supposed to be,” said Dr. Burnham. With deft hands he removed the syringe with the tetracaine and then threaded a small plastic catheter up through the Tuohy needle. Once the catheter was in place, he removed the needle. A piece of paper tape went over the puncture site.
   “That’s that,” said Dr. Burnham, stripping off his sterile gloves and putting a hand on Candy’s shoulder to urge her to lie down. “Now you can’t say that hurt very much.”
   “But I don’t feel the anesthetic,” said Candy, fearful they would go ahead with the surgery even if the anesthetic wasn’t working.
   “That’s because I haven’t given you anything yet,” said Dr. Burnham.
   Candy allowed herself to be lowered to the gurney, the nurse helping by lifting her legs, then covering her with the thin cotton blanket. Candy clutched the cover to her chest as if it would afford some protection. Dr. Burnham fussed with a small plastic tube that snaked out from beneath her.
   “Do you still feel as nervous?” questioned Dr. Burnham.
   “Worse!” admitted Candy.
   “I’ll give you a little more sedative,” said Dr. Burnham, squeezing Candy’s shoulder reassuringly. While she watched, he injected something into her IV line.
   “OK, let’s go,” said Dr. Burnham.
   The gurney with Candy on it rolled silently into the OR, which was bustling with activity. Candy’s eyes scanned the room. It was dazzlingly white with white tile walls and floor and white acoustical ceiling. X-ray view boxes lined one wall, futuristic electronic monitoring equipment another.
   “OK, Candy,” said the nurse who’d been helping Dr. Burnham. “We’d like you to scoot over here.” She was on the other side of the operating table, which she patted encouragingly. For a moment Candy felt irritation at being ordered about. But the feeling passed quickly. She really had no choice. She was pregnant with an eighteen-week-old fetus. She preferred to use the word “fetus.” It was easier to think about than “baby” or “child.” Dutifully, Candy moved to the operating table.
   Another nurse pulled up Candy’s gown and attached minute electrodes to her chest. A beeping noise began, but it took Candy a while to realize that the sound corresponded to the beating of her heart.
   “I’m going to tilt the table,” said Dr. Burnham as Candy felt herself angle so that her feet were lower than her head. In that position she could feel the weight of her uterus in her pelvis. At the same time she felt a fluttering which she had noticed over the previous week and which she thought might be the fetus moving within her womb. Thankfully, it stopped quickly.
   The next instant the door to the corridor burst open and Dr. Lawrence Foley backed in, holding up his dripping hands just like surgeons did in the movies. “Well,” he said in his peculiarly inflectionless voice, “how’s my girl?”
   “I don’t feel the anesthetic,” said Candy anxiously. She was relieved to see Dr. Foley. He was a tall man with thin features and a long straight nose that sharply tented the front of his surgical mask. Soon all Candy could see of his face were his gray-green eyes. The rest was hidden, including his silver-white hair.
   Candy had been seeing Dr. Foley on an infrequent basis for her routine gynecological care and had always liked and trusted the man. She had not had a checkup for eighteen months prior to her pregnancy, and when she had gone to his office a few weeks ago she had been surprised to see how much Dr. Foley had changed. She’d remembered him as being outgoing and not without a touch of dry humor. Candy wondered how much of his “new” personality was due to his disapproval of her unmarried pregnant state.
   Dr. Foley looked at Dr. Burnham who cleared his throat: “I just gave her 8 milligrams of tetracaine. We’re using continuous epidural.” Stepping down to the end of the table, he lifted the blanket. Candy could see her feet, which appeared exceptionally pale in the bright fluorescent light from the X-ray view boxes. She could see Dr. Burnham touch her, but she felt nothing as he worked his way up her body until he was just under her breasts. Then she felt the prick of a needle and told him so. He smiled and said, “Perfect!”
   For a moment Dr. Foley stood in the center of the room without moving. No one said anything; everyone just waited. Candy wondered what the man was thinking about, since he seemed to be looking directly at her. He’d done the same thing when she’d seen him in the clinic. Finally, he blinked and said, “You’ve got the best anesthesiologist in the house. I want you to relax now. We’ll be finished before you know it.”
   Candy could hear some commotion behind her, then the snap of latex gloves as she watched Dr. Burnham fit a wire frame over her head. One of the nurses secured her left arm to her side with the sheet covering the OR table. Dr. Burnham taped her right arm securely to a board that stuck out from the table at right angles. That was the arm with the IV. Dr. Foley reappeared in Candy’s sight, gowned and gloved, and helped one of the nurses spread large drapes over her, effectively blocking nine-tenths of her view. Straight up she could see her IV bottles. Behind her, if she rolled her head back, she could see Dr. Burnham.
   “Are we ready?” asked Dr. Foley.
   “You’re on,” said Dr. Burnham. He looked down at Candy and winked. “You’re doing fine,” he reassured her. “You may feel a little pressure or some pulling, but you shouldn’t feel any pain.”
   “Are you sure?” asked Candy.
   “I’m sure.”
   Candy could not see Dr. Foley, but she could hear him, especially when he said, “Scalpel.” She heard the sound of the scalpel slapping the rubber glove.
   Closing her eyes, Candy waited for the pain. Thank God it didn’t come. All she could feel was the sensation of people leaning over her. For the first time she allowed herself the luxury of thinking that this whole nightmare might actually pass.
   It had all started about nine months previously when she had decided to go off the pill. She’d been living with David Kirkpatrick for five years. He had believed she was as devoted to her dancing career as he was to his writing, but sometime after her thirty-fourth birthday she had begun nagging David to marry her and start a family. When he refused, she decided to try getting pregnant, certain he would change his mind. But he had remained adamant when she had told him of her condition. If she continued the pregnancy, he would leave. After ten days of weeping and countless scenes she had finally agreed to this abortion.
   “Oh!” gasped Candy as she felt a stab of white-hot pain somewhere deep in her being. It was akin to the feeling when a dentist finds a sensitive spot in a tooth. Thankfully, the stab didn’t last long.
   Dr. Burnham glanced up from his anesthesia chart, then stood to look over the ether screen at the operative site. “Are you guys pulling on the small bowel?”
   “We just packed it away out of the operative field,” admitted Dr. Foley.
   Dr. Burnham sat back down and gazed directly into Candy’s eyes. “You’re doing just great. It’s common for someone to feel pain when the small intestine is manipulated, but they’re not going to do that anymore. OK?”
   “OK,” said Candy. It was a relief to be reassured that everything was going as it should. Yet she wasn’t surprised. Although Lawrence Foley’s manner seemed to lack the old warmth, she still had every confidence in him as a doctor. He’d been wonderful to her from the start: understanding and supportive, especially in helping her decide about the abortion. He’d spent several sessions just talking to her, calmly pointing out the difficulties of raising a child as a single parent and underlining the ease of having an abortion, though Candy was already in her sixteenth week.
   There was no doubt in Candy’s mind that it had been Dr. Foley and the people at the Julian Clinic who had made it possible for her to go through with the abortion. The only thing that she had insisted upon was that she be sterilized. Dr. Foley had tried unsuccessfully to change her mind about the sterilization. She was thirty-six years old and she did not want to be tempted again to beat the biological clock by becoming pregnant, since it was obvious marriage was not in her immediate future.
   “Kidney dish,” ordered Dr. Foley, bringing Candy’s attention back to the present. She heard the clank of metal against metal.
   “Babcock clamp,” demanded Dr. Foley.
   Candy rolled her eyes back and glanced up at Dr. Burnham. All she could see were his eyes. The rest of his face was hidden by his surgical mask. But she could tell he was smiling down at her. She let herself drift and the next thing she heard was Dr. Burnham saying, “It’s all over, Candy.”
   With some difficulty she blinked and tried to make sense of the scene slowly coming into focus before her eyes. It was like an old-fashioned TV warming up: first there were sounds and voices, then slowly the picture and meaning emerged. The door to the corridor opened, and an orderly pulled an empty gurney into the room.
   “Where’s Dr. Foley?” asked Candy.
   “He’ll see you in the recovery room,” said Dr. Burnham. “Everything went perfectly.” He moved Candy’s IV bottle to the gurney.
   Candy nodded as a tear ran down her cheek. Fortunately, before she could dwell on the fact that she would remain childless forever, one of the nurses took her hand and said, “Candy, we’re going to move you over onto the gurney now.”
   In the adjoining auxiliary room, Dr. Foley directed his attention to the stainless-steel pan neatly covered by a white towel. To be certain that the specimen was unharmed, he lifted a corner of the towel. Satisfied, he picked up the pan, walked down the corridor, and descended the stairs to the pathology department.
   Ignoring the residents and technicians, though several of them spoke to him by name, he walked through the main surgical area and entered a long corridor. At the end he stopped in front of an unmarked door. Balancing the specimen pan in one hand, he got out his keys and opened the door. The room beyond was a small and windowless laboratory. Dr. Foley moved slowly but deliberately as he stepped into the room, closed the door behind him, and put down the pan.
   For a few moments he stood paralyzed until a sharp pain in his temples made him stagger backward. He bumped the countertop and steadied himself. Glancing at the large institutional clock on the wall, he was surprised to notice that the minute hand seemed to have jumped five minutes.
   Swiftly and silently Dr. Foley performed several tasks. Then he stepped over to a large wooden crate in the center of the room and opened it. Within was a second, insulated container. Releasing the latch, Dr. Foley raised its lid and looked in. Resting on a bed of dry ice were a number of other specimens. Dr. Foley carefully placed the newest addition on the ice and closed the lid.
   Twenty minutes later, an orderly dressed in a white shirt and blue pants pushed a dolly into the small unmarked laboratory and picked up the ice chest and packed it in a wooden crate. Using the freight elevator, he took it down to the loading dock and put it into a van.
   Forty minutes after that, the wooden crate was taken off the van and placed in the luggage section of a Gulf Stream jet at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey.

Chapter 1

   Adam Schonberg’s eyes blinked open and in the darkness of his bedroom he heard the undulating scream of a siren announcing yet another catastrophe. Gradually, the noise diminished as the police car or ambulance or fire truck or whatever it was receded into the distance. It was morning in New York City.
   Snaking a hand out from beneath the warm blankets, Adam groped for his glasses and then turned the face of the clock radio toward him: 4:47 A.M. Relieved, he flipped off the alarm, which was scheduled to go off at 5:00, then pulled his hand back under the covers. He had fifteen more minutes before he had to haul himself out of bed and into the icy bathroom. Normally, he’d never take the chance of turning off the alarm for fear he’d oversleep. But as charged up as he was this morning that was not a possibility.
   Rolling onto his left side, he pressed against the sleeping form of Jennifer, his twenty-three-year-old wife of one and a half years, feeling the rhythmical rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Reaching down, Adam ran his hand lightly up her thigh, which was slim and firm from her daily dance workouts. Her skin was soft and remarkably smooth with hardly a freckle to mar its surface. It had a delicate olive tone that suggested southern European descent, but that was not the case. Jennifer insisted that her genealogy was English and Irish on her father’s side of the family, German and Polish on her mother’s side.
   Jennifer straightened out her legs, sighed, and rolled over onto her back, forcing Adam to move out of her way. He smiled; even in her sleep she had a forceful personality. Although her strong character could at times present itself to Adam as frustrating stubbornness, it was also one of the reasons Adam loved her so much.
   Glancing at the clock, which now said 4:58, Adam forced himself out of bed. As he crossed the room to shower he stubbed his toe on an old Pullman trunk Jennifer had covered with a throw to serve as a table. Gritting his teeth to keep from crying out, he hobbled to the edge of the tub where he sat down to survey the damage. He had a remarkably low tolerance for pain.
   The first time Adam had realized this was during his disastrously short high school football career. Because he was one of the larger boys, everyone including Adam himself had expected him to be on the team, especially since David, Adam’s deceased older brother, had been one of the town stars. But such was not to be the case. Everything had gone well until Adam had been given the ball and told to run a play he had dutifully memorized. The instant he was tackled he had felt pain, and by the time everybody had gotten back on his feet, Adam had decided this was just another area where he could not compete with his brother’s reputation.
   Shaking off the memory, Adam quickly showered, shaved his heavy beard which would shadow his chin by five that afternoon, and brushed his thick black hair. He whipped on his clothes, barely glancing in the mirror, oblivious to his dark good looks.
   Less than ten minutes after getting out of bed he was in the two-by-four kitchen, heating up his coffee. He glanced about the cramped, badly furnished apartment, vowing again that the minute he finished medical school he would find Jennifer a decent place to live. Then he went over to the desk in the living room and glanced at the material he’d been working on the night before.
   A wave of anxiety passed through his body. In less than four hours he was going to be standing in front of the imposing Dr. Thayer Norton, chief of Internal Medicine. Grouped around would be the rest of the third-year medical students who were currently rotating on Internal Medicine with Adam. A few of the students, like Charles Hanson, might be rooting for him. But the rest would be more or less hoping that he’d make a fool of himself, which was a distinct possibility. Adam had never functioned well in front of a group, another disappointment for his father, who was a recognized and much-sought-after speaker. At the beginning of the rotation Adam had drawn a blank in the middle of presenting a case, and Dr. Norton had never let him forget it. Consequently, Adam had postponed his major case presentation until the end of this rotation, hoping that he’d grow more confident with time. He did, but not a lot. It was going to be tough and that was why he’d gotten up before the sun. He wanted to go over the material yet again.
   Clearing his throat and trying to shut out the bustling noise of a New York morning, Adam began his presentation once again. He spoke out loud, pretending he was standing in front of Dr. Norton.

   Jennifer would have slept until ten if it hadn’t been for two things: one, she had a doctor’s appointment at nine, and two, by seven-fifteen the temperature in the bedroom had climbed to a tropical level. Perspiring she kicked off the covers and lay still for a moment until the shock of yesterday’s discovery had again settled in. Yesterday—after a month of trying to deny the possibility—Jennifer had finally gone out and bought a home pregnancy test. Not only had she missed two periods, she had developed morning sickness. It was the nausea more than anything else that had driven her to buy the test. She did not want to upset Adam, who had been irritable and tense for the last few months, until she was absolutely sure. The home pregnancy test had been positive, and today she was seeing her gynecologist.
   Carefully she got out of bed, wondering if anyone realized that dancers, despite their limber grace on stage, were always stiff and sore in the morning. Stretching out her leg muscles, she felt the panic wash over her, obliterating the nausea.
   “Oh, God,” she moaned to herself. If she really was pregnant, how would they manage? The money she earned from the Jason Conrad Dancers was their only income, except for the money her mother sneaked to her behind her dad’s and Adam’s backs. How would they ever support a baby? Well, maybe the test was wrong. She was using an IUD, which was supposed to be the most effective contraceptive device next to the pill. At least Dr. Vandermer would end the suspense. Jennifer knew that it was only because Adam was a medical student that the doctor had agreed to fit her into his crowded schedule.
   She turned to glance at the Sony clock radio her mother had given her. She hadn’t told Adam about the gift because Adam had become touchy over her parents’ generosity, or, as he termed it, their interference. Jennifer suspected this had become a sore spot with Adam only because of his own father’s stinginess. It was no secret to Jennifer that Dr. David Schonberg had been so set against Adam’s marrying her that when Adam had willfully gone ahead and done it, he’d been essentially disinherited. In one way Jennifer thought that she’d get a bit of pleasure knowing how mad the old doctor would be if she really was pregnant. Reluctantly, pulling her stiff joints into a steady position, she brushed out her lustrous long brown hair and carefully checked her face in the mirror to make sure its attractive oval planes and clear blue eyes did not reveal her anxiety. No need to upset Adam before she had to.
   Forcing a cheerful smile, she sallied into the living room where Adam was going over his speech for the tenth time.
   “Isn’t talking to oneself the first sign of dementia?” teased Jennifer.
   “Clever!” acknowledged Adam. “Especially since I didn’t think Sleeping Beauty could cogitate before noon.”
   “How are you doing with the presentation?” she asked, putting her arms around him and turning her face up for a kiss.
   “I got it down to the required fifteen minutes. That’s about all I can say.” He bent and kissed her.
   “Oh, Adam. You’ll do just fine. I tell you what: Why don’t you give the presentation to me?” She poured some coffee and then took a seat in the living room. “What disease does the patient have?”
   “Tardive dyskinesia is the current diagnosis.”
   “What on earth is that?” asked Jennifer.
   “It’s a neurological disorder involving all sorts of involuntary movements. It’s associated with certain drugs given for psychiatric problems…”
   Jennifer nodded, trying to appear interested, but Adam was only a minute into his speech when her attention turned back to her possible pregnancy.

Chapter 2

   Dr. Clark Vandermer’s office was just off Park Avenue on Thirty-sixth Street. Jennifer got there by taking the Lexington Avenue subway to Thirty-third Street and walking north. The building was a large apartment house complete with awning and liveried doorman. Entrance to the professional suites was to the right of the building’s main entrance. As Jennifer opened the front door, the slight smell of medicinal alcohol made her flinch. She had never enjoyed going to the gynecologist, and the idea that she might be pregnant made this particular visit especially upsetting.
   Jennifer walked down a carpeted hallway, reading the names painted with gold leaf on the doors. She passed the entrances to the offices of two dentists and a pediatrician, and came to a door on which was written “GYN Associates.” Below this was a list of names. The second name was Dr. Clark Vandermer’s.
   Jennifer took off the coat that she’d purchased secondhand in Soho for thirty-five dollars and draped it over her arm. Under the coat she was dressed quite well in a smart Calvin Klein shirt-dress that her mother had recently bought for her at Bloomingdale’s.
   As she opened the door, Jennifer remembered the office from her previous visits. On the wall opposite the entrance was a sliding glass panel beyond which sat the receptionist.
   There were a number of women in the waiting room. Jennifer didn’t count but there had to be more than twelve. All were well dressed and most were either reading or doing needlepoint.
   After checking in with the receptionist, who admitted that she had no idea how long the wait would be, Jennifer found a seat near the window. She picked up a recent copy of The New Yorker from the coffee table and tried to read, but all she could do was worry about Adam’s reaction if she were really pregnant.
   It was two hours and fifteen minutes before Jennifer was finally called. She followed the nurse to an examining room.
   “Take off all your clothes and put this on,” the woman said, handing Jennifer a paper cover-up. “I’ll be back and then the doctor will be in.”
   Before Jennifer could ask any questions, the nurse was gone and the door closed.
   The room was about ten feet square with a curtained window at one end, a second door to the right, and bare walls. The furniture included a scale, a wastepaper basket which was full to overflowing, an examination table with stirrups, an open locker, and a sink. It was hardly cozy, and Jennifer remembered that Dr. Vandermer was brusque to the point of rudeness. Adam had sent her to him because he was supposed to be the best, but “best” did not seem to include an evaluation of bedside manner.
   Not knowing how soon the nurse would be back, Jennifer hurried. She deposited her large coat and bag on the floor and used the locker for her clothes. Once naked, she tried to figure out the cover-up. She couldn’t tell if it should go on with the opening in the front or the back. She opted for the front. Then she tried to decide what she should do with herself. Should she lie down on the examination table or just stand? Her feet were getting cold from the tile floor. She lifted herself onto the examination table and sat on the edge.
   A moment later the nurse returned in a rush.
   “I’m so sorry for the long wait,” she said in a pleasant but harried tone. “We seem to be getting busier and busier. Must be a new baby boom.” She quickly began checking Jennifer’s weight and blood pressure and then sent her to the bathroom for a urine specimen. When Jennifer returned, Dr. Vandermer was waiting.
   Jennifer had always been leery of handsome gynecologists, and Dr. Vandermer evoked that old reservation. He looked more like an actor playing a role than a real doctor. He was tall with dark hair silvering on his temples. His face was square with a sharp chin line and a straight mouth. He wore a pair of reading glasses on the end of his nose and looked over them at Jennifer.
   “Good morning,” he said in a voice that did not invite conversation. His blue eyes swept over her, then her chart. The nurse shut the door behind them and then busied herself with the contents of a stainless-steel pan by the sink.
   “Ah, yes. You’re Mrs. Schonberg, the wife of Adam Schonberg the third-year medical student,” Dr. Vandermer said.
   Jennifer didn’t know if it were a statement or a question, but she nodded and said that she was Adam’s wife.
   “I wouldn’t think this was a good time for you to be having a baby, Mrs. Schonberg,” said Dr. Vandermer.
   Jennifer was shocked. If she hadn’t been naked and vulnerable, she would have been angry. Instead she felt defensive.
   “I hope I’m not pregnant,” said Jennifer. “That’s why you put in an IUD a year ago.”
   “What happened to the IUD?” asked Dr. Vandermer.
   “I think it’s still there,” said Jennifer.
   “What do you mean you think it is still there?” questioned Dr. Vandermer. “You don’t know?”
   “I checked just this morning. The strings are there.”
   Shaking his head, Dr. Vandermer indicated to Jennifer that he thought her less than responsible. He leaned over and quickly wrote something on the chart. Then he raised his eyes, took off his reading glasses. “On the history you filled out a year ago you indicated that you had a brother who’d only lived for several weeks.”
   “That’s right,” said Jennifer. “He was a mongoloid baby.”
   “How old was your mother at the time?” asked Dr. Vandermer.
   “I think she was around thirty-six,” said Jennifer.
   “That’s something you should know about,” said Dr. Vandermer with thinly veiled exasperation. “Find out for sure. I want that information on the chart.”
   Putting down his pen, Vandermer took out his stethoscope and gave Jennifer a rapid but thorough physical examination, peering into her eyes and ears and listening to her chest and heart. He tapped her knees and ankles, scratched the bottoms of her feet, and inspected every inch of her body. He worked in total silence. Jennifer felt as if she were a piece of meat in the hands of a very competent butcher. She knew Dr. Vandermer was good, but she could have used some warmth.
   When he finished, the doctor sat down and quickly wrote his findings on the chart. Then he asked Jennifer about her menstrual history and the date of her last period. Before she could ask any questions he motioned her into a prone position and began the pelvic.
   “Just relax now,” said Dr. Vandermer, finally remembering that his patient was probably anxious. Jennifer felt an object enter her. It was done smoothly and expertly. There was no pain, just an unpleasant fullness. She could hear Dr. Vandermer speak with the nurse. She heard the door open and saw the nurse leave.
   Dr. Vandermer stood up so that Jennifer could see him. “The IUD is still in place, but it looks like it is low. I think it should be removed.”
   “Is that difficult?” asked Jennifer.
   “Very simple,” said Dr. Vandermer. “Nancy went to get me an instrument. It will only take a second.”
   Nancy returned with something that Jennifer could not see. She felt a fleeting twinge of pain. Dr. Vandermer stood up holding a coil of plastic in his gloved hand.
   “You definitely are pregnant,” he said, sitting down at the desk and writing anew on the chart.
   Jennifer experienced a rush of panic similar to the one she had felt the moment she saw that the home pregnancy test was positive.
   “Are you sure?” she managed with a quivering voice.
   Dr. Vandermer did not look up. “We’ll confirm it by laboratory tests, but I’m sure.”
   Nancy finished writing labels on the specimen tubes and came around to help Jennifer remove her feet from the stirrups. Jennifer swung around so that she was sitting on the side of the examination table.
   “Is everything all right?” she asked.
   “Everything is perfectly normal,” assured Dr. Vandermer. He completed the chart, then spun around to face her. His expression was as neutral as when he’d first entered.
   “Can you give me some idea of what to expect?” asked Jennifer. She folded her hands to steady them and put them on her lap.
   “Of course. Nancy Guenther will be your nurse practitioner,” Dr. Vandermer said, nodding at the nurse. “She’ll go over things like that with you. I’ll be seeing you for routine visits monthly for the first six months, then every two weeks until the last month. Then weekly unless there’s a complication.” Dr. Vandermer got up and prepared to leave.
   “Will I be seeing you each time I come?” asked Jennifer.
   “Generally,” said Dr. Vandermer. “Occasionally I might have a delivery. Then you would be seen by one of my associates or Nancy. In either case they would report directly to me. Any other questions?”
   Jennifer had so many questions she didn’t know where to begin. She felt like her life was coming apart at the seams. She also had the feeling that Dr. Vandermer wanted to leave now that the exam was over. “What about when it comes time for my delivery?” she asked. “I don’t mind seeing someone else for a routine visit, but when it comes to delivering, I feel differently. You’re not planning a vacation around my due date, are you?”
   “Mrs. Schonberg,” began Dr. Vandermer. “I haven’t taken a vacation in five years. I go to an occasional medical meeting and I’m planning to lecture at a cruise seminar in a couple of months. But that certainly will not conflict with your due date. Now if you have no more questions, I’ll turn you over to Nancy.”
   “Just one more thing,” said Jennifer. “You asked about my brother. Do you think it is significant that my mother gave birth to a defective child? Does it mean I might do the same?”
   “I sincerely doubt it,” said Dr. Vandermer, edging toward the door. “Leave the name of your mother’s doctor with Nancy and we’ll call and find out the details. Meanwhile, I plan to do a simple chromosomal study on you. But I don’t think there is anything to worry about.”
   “What about an amniocentesis?” asked Jennifer.
   “At this point I don’t think there is any need for such a procedure, and even if there were, it couldn’t be done before your sixteenth week. Now if you’ll excuse me, we’ll see you in a month.”
   “What about an abortion?” asked Jennifer anxiously. She didn’t want Dr. Vandermer to leave. “If we decide not to have this child, is it difficult to arrange for an abortion?”
   Dr. Vandermer, who’d had a hand on the door, stepped back in front of Jennifer, towering over her. “If you are interested in an abortion, I think that you are seeing the wrong doctor.”
   “I’m not saying that I want one,” said Jennifer, cowering beneath his glare. “It’s just that this isn’t a good time for me to be pregnant, as you said yourself. I haven’t told Adam yet and I don’t know what his reaction will be. We depend on my income.”
   “I don’t do abortions unless there’s a medical reason for it,” said Dr. Vandermer.
   Jennifer nodded. The man obviously felt strongly about the issue. To change the subject she asked, “What about my working? I’m a dancer. How long will I be able to continue to work?”
   “Nancy will discuss such questions with you,” said Dr. Vandermer, glancing at his watch. “She knows more about that kind of stuff than I do. Now, if there is nothing else…” Dr. Vandermer moved away from the examination table.
   “There is one other thing,” said Jennifer. “I’ve been nauseous in the morning. Is that normal?”
   “Yes,” said Dr. Vandermer, opening the door to the corridor. “Such nausea is present in at least fifty percent of pregnancies. Nancy will give you some suggestions on handling it by altering your diet.”
   “Isn’t there something I could take?” asked Jennifer.
   “I don’t believe in using medication for morning sickness unless it’s interfering with the mother’s nutrition. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see you in a month.”
   Before Jennifer could say another word, Dr. Vandermer was out the door. He closed it behind him, leaving Jennifer with Nancy.
   “Diet is a very important part of pregnancy,” said Nancy, handing Jennifer several sheets of printed material.
   Jennifer sighed and let her eyes drop from the closed door to the sheets of paper in her hands. Her mind was a whirl of conflicting thoughts and emotions.

Chapter 3

   Adam turned west on Twelfth Street, heading directly into the wind and rain. It was pitch dark already, despite the fact that it was just seven-thirty. Only a half block to go. He had an umbrella, but it was in sad shape and he had to wrestle with it to keep the wind from inverting it. He was cold and damp, but worse, he was exhausted, mentally and physically. The all-important presentation had not gone well. Dr. Norton had stopped him not once but twice for grammatical errors, interrupting Adam’s train of thought. Consequently, Adam had left out an important part of the case history. At the end Dr. Norton had merely nodded and asked the chief resident about another patient.
   Then, to round out the day, Adam had been called down to the emergency room because it was understaffed and had been given the job of pumping out the stomach of a young attempted suicide. Inexperienced in such a procedure, Adam had made the girl vomit, and he’d caught it smack in the chest. And if that weren’t bad enough, fifteen minutes before he was to be off duty, he got a complicated admission: a fifty-two-year-old man with pancreatitis. That was the reason he was so late coming home.
   Passing the alley that communicated with the scenic airshaft outside their apartment, Adam saw the assortment of trash cans that the sanitation department noisily emptied three mornings a week. Today the cans were full to overflowing, and a couple of scrawny alley cats had braved the rain to investigate.
   Adam backed through the front door to their building and closed the worthless umbrella. For a moment he stood in the ancient foyer and dripped onto the tiled floor. Then he unlocked the inner door and began mounting the three flights of stairs to their apartment.
   To announce his arrival he pressed the doorbell as he pushed the key into the first of several locks. They’d been broken into twice during the year and a half they’d lived there. Nothing had been stolen, though. The thieves probably realized they’d made a mistake as soon as they saw the beat-up furniture.
   “Jen!” called Adam as he opened the door.
   “I’m in the kitchen. I’ll be out in a second.”
   Adam raised his eyebrows. Since his hospital hours were so irregular, Jennifer usually waited until he was home to start dinner. Sniffing the savory aroma, he went into the bedroom and took off his jacket. When he walked back to the living room, Jennifer was waiting. Adam gasped. At first it appeared that she was only wearing an eyelet apron. Naked legs stretched from the bottom edge of the apron to high-heeled mules. Her hair was brushed straight but held back from her face with combs. Her oval face seemed to be illuminated from within.
   Lifting her arms and positioning her fingers as if dancing a classical ballet, Jennifer slowly revolved. As she turned, Adam saw that under the apron she was wearing a lavender teddy edged in lace.
   Adam smiled. Eagerly he reached out to lift the front edge of the apron.
   “Oh, no!” teased Jennifer, avoiding his grasp. “Not so fast.”
   “What’s going on?” laughed Adam.
   “I’m practicing to be the Total Woman,” quipped Jennifer.
   “Where in heaven’s name did you get that… thing?”
   “This thing is called a teddy.” Jennifer lifted the front of the apron and pirouetted again. “I bought it at Bonwit’s this afternoon.”
   “What on earth for?” asked Adam, wondering how much it cost in spite of himself. He didn’t want to deny Jennifer something she wanted, but they had to be careful on their budget.
   Jennifer stopped dancing. “I bought it because I always want to be attractive and sexy for you.”
   “If you were any more attractive and sexy for me I’d never get through medical school. You don’t have to dress up in frilly stuff to turn me on. You’re plenty sexy the way you are.”
   “You don’t like it.” Jennifer’s face clouded over.
   “I like it,” Adam stammered. “It’s just that you don’t need it.”
   “Do you really like it?” asked Jennifer.
   Adam knew he was on thin ice. “I love it. You look like you belong in Playboy. No, Penthouse.”
   Jennifer’s face brightened. “Perfect! I wanted it to be right on the border between sexy and raunchy. Now, I want you to march right back into the bathroom and take a shower. When you come out, we’ll have a dinner that I hope will make you feel like a king. Go!”
   Jennifer forcibly propelled Adam back into the bedroom. Before he could say anything, she shut the door in his face.
   When he was finished showering, he discovered that the living room had been transformed. The card table had been brought from the kitchen and laid for dinner. Two empty wine bottles with candles stuck in them provided the only light. The silverware sparkled. They only had two place settings. Each had been a present from Jennifer’s parents, one on their wedding day, the other on their first anniversary. They rarely used them, leaving the pieces wrapped in tinfoil and hidden in the freezer compartment.
   Adam walked over to the kitchen and leaned against the door. Jennifer was working feverishly, in spite of the handicap afforded by her high-heeled slippers. Adam had to smile. This woman tottering around his kitchen did not look like the Jennifer he knew. If she noticed him, she gave no indication.
   Adam cleared his throat. “Jennifer, I’d like to know what’s going on.”
   Jennifer didn’t respond. Instead she uncovered a pot and stirred the contents. Adam could see from the spoon when she placed it on the counter that it was wild rice. Adam wondered how much that cost. Then he spotted the roast duck cooling on the carving board.
   “Jennifer!” called Adam a bit more forcibly.
   Jennifer turned around and thrust a wine bottle and corkscrew into Adam’s arms. He was forced to grab both lest they fall to the floor. “I’m making dinner,” she said simply. “If you want to make yourself useful, open the wine.”
   Stunned, Adam carried the bottle into the living room and pulled out the cork. He poured a little wine into a glass, and held it up to the candlelight. It was a deep, rich ruby color. Before he could taste it, Jennifer called him into the kitchen.
   “I need a surgeon in here,” she said, handing him a large knife.
   “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked.
   “Cut the duck in half.”
   Adam tried a few tentative thrusts with little success. Finally, he put all his strength behind the blow and sliced the duck in two.
   “Now how about telling me what this is all about.”
   “I just want you to relax and enjoy a good dinner.”
   “Is there an ulterior motive for all this?”
   “Well, I do have something to tell you, but I’m not going to do so until after we have this feast.”
   And feast it was. Although the snow peas were slightly overdone and the wild rice slightly underdone, the duck was sensational and so was the wine. As the meal progressed, Adam found himself growing sleepy. Jerking himself awake, he fastened his attention on his wife. Jennifer looked extraordinarily beautiful in the candlelight. She’d removed the eyelet apron and was now clothed only in the provocatively sheer lavender teddy. Her image blurred in Adam’s mind, and for a brief moment he fell asleep sitting at the card table.
   “Are you all right?” asked Jennifer, who was just beginning to describe the home pregnancy test.
   “I’m fine,” said Adam, unwilling to admit he’d been asleep.
   “So,” continued Jennifer, “I followed the directions. And guess what?”
   “What?”
   “It was positive.”
   “What was positive?” Adam knew that he must have missed some key phrase.
   “Adam, haven’t you been listening to me?”
   “Of course I’ve been listening. I guess my mind wandered for a moment. I’m sorry. Maybe you’d better start again.”
   “Adam, I’m trying to tell you that I am pregnant. Yesterday I did one of those home pregnancy tests and this morning I went to Dr. Vandermer.”
   For a minute Adam was too shocked to speak.
   “You’re kidding,” he said at last.
   “I’m not kidding,” said Jennifer, meeting his eyes. She could feel her heart beating out a rapid rhythm. Involuntarily she’d clenched her hands into fists.
   “You’re not kidding?” said Adam, uncertain whether he was about to laugh or cry. “You’re serious?”
   “I’m serious. Believe me, I’m serious.” Jennifer’s voice shook. She’d hoped that Adam would be happy, at least at first. Later they could deal with the host of problems the pregnancy would bring. Jennifer got up, walked around to Adam, and put her hands on his shoulders.
   “Honey, I love you very much.”
   “I love you, too, Jennifer,” said Adam. “But that is not the issue.” He stood up, shrugging off her hands.
   “I think it is the issue,” said Jennifer, watching him move away. More than anything she wanted to be held and reassured that everything was going to be all right.
   “What about your IUD?” asked Adam.
   “It didn’t work. I guess we should think of this baby as some sort of miracle.” Jennifer forced herself to smile.
   Adam began to pace the small room. A baby! How could they have a baby? They were just barely keeping their heads above water as it was. They were already close to twenty thousand dollars in debt.
   Jennifer watched Adam silently. From the moment she’d left Dr. Vandermer’s office she had feared Adam’s reaction. That was why she had dreamed up the idea of the celebration dinner. But now that the meal was over she was left with the reality that she was pregnant and her husband was not very pleased.
   “You always wanted to have children,” she said plaintively.
   Stopping in the middle of the threadbare carpet, Adam looked at his wife. “Whether I want to have children is also not the issue. Of course I want children, but not now. I mean, how are we going to live? You’ll have to stop dancing immediately, right?”
   “Soon,” admitted Jennifer.
   “Well, there you have it! What are we going to do for money? It’s not as if I can get a newspaper route after school. Oh God, what a mess. I don’t believe it.”
   “There’s always my family,” said Jennifer, fighting back tears.
   Adam looked up. His lips had narrowed.
   Jennifer saw his expression and quickly added, “I know how you have felt about accepting support from my family, but if we have a child it will be different. I know they would adore helping us.”
   “Oh, sure!” said Adam sarcastically.
   “Really,” said Jennifer. “I went home this afternoon and spoke to them. My father said that we are welcome to come and live in their house in Englewood. Goodness knows, it’s big enough. Then as soon as I can get back to dancing or you start your residency, we can move out.”
   Adam closed his eyes and hit the top of his head with a closed fist. “I don’t believe this is happening.”
   “My mother will enjoy having us,” added Jennifer. “Because of the baby she lost, she’s particularly concerned about me.”
   “There’s no connection,” snapped Adam. “She had a Down’s baby because she was well into her thirties.”
   “She knows. It’s just the way she feels. Oh, Adam! It wouldn’t be so bad. We’ll have plenty of space, and you could use the attic room as a study.”
   “No!” shouted Adam. “Thank you very much but we are not accepting charity from your parents. They already interfere in our life too much. Everything in this goddam dump is from your parents,” he said, gesturing around the room.
   In the midst of her anxiety Jennifer felt anger stirring. At times Adam could be so frustratingly obstinate, and certainly less than grateful. Right from the beginning of their relationship his rejection of her parents’ generosity had been out of proportion. She’d gone along with it to a point, recognizing his special sensitivities, but now that she was pregnant it seemed unreasonably self-centered.
   “My parents have not been interfering. I think it is time for you to control your pride or whatever it is that gets you so angry anytime my parents try to help us. The fact of the matter is we need help.”
   “You can call it what you will. I call it interfering. And I don’t want it, today, tomorrow, ever! We’re on our own and we’ll handle this by ourselves.”
   “OK,” said Jennifer. “If you can’t accept help from my family, then ask your father for help. It’s about time he did something.”
   Adam stopped pacing and stared at Jennifer. “I’ll get a job,” he said softly.
   “How can you get a job?” asked Jennifer. “Every second you’re awake you’re either studying or at the hospital.”
   “I’ll take a leave from school,” said Adam.
   Jennifer’s mouth dropped open. “You can’t leave school. I’ll get another job.”
   “Sure,” said Adam. “What kind ofjob? Cocktail waitress? Be serious, Jennifer. I don’t want you working while you’re pregnant.”
   “Then I’ll get an abortion,” said Jennifer defiantly.
   Adam wheeled around so that he was facing his wife. Slowly he raised his hand and pointed his index flnger at her nose. “You’re not going to get an abortion. I don’t even want to hear that word.”
   “Then go to your father,” said Jennifer.
   Adam clenched his teeth. “We wouldn’t have to go to anybody if you just didn’t get yourself pregnant.”
   The tears that Jennifer had been holding back all day ran down her cheeks. “It takes two, you know. I didn’t do this by myself,” she said, and broke into sobs.
   “You told me not to worry about babies,” snapped Adam, ignoring her tears. “You said that was your department. You did a great job!”
   Jennifer didn’t even try to answer. Choking, she ran into the bedroom and slammed the door.
   For a moment Adam stared after her. He felt sick. His mouth was dry from all the wine he’d drunk. He looked at the cluttered table with the remains of their dinner spread out in front of him. He didn’t have to look into the kitchen. He already knew what condition it was in. The apartment was a mess, and it seemed frighteningly symbolic of his life.