One of the secrets to Michael’s academic success was that he could speed-read with remarkable retention. He had worked laboriously on the skill from early childhood, always careful to keep his developing proficiency a secret from his friends, particularly his male friends and particularly in high school. In the social circles he ran in, being a good student and the effort it took weren’t assets. On the contrary, they were suspect.
As far back as Michael could remember, his hardworking mother, who cleaned houses and washed other people’s clothes, had harped on the belief that education was the express train out of the ghetto poverty trap, and that speed-reading was the ticket. Michael had taken the advice to heart, and, thanks to good genetics inherited from his mother and the father he had never really known, he had had the ability to master it. Now, with his medical residency in the bag, suffering through a two-hour marathon review of material he had already been sufficiently exposed to was a ball-buster. The reality was that he could relearn what was being presented on his own in a fraction of the time and with better recall. It was also true that his mind was wandering. He couldn’t stop thinking about Lynn, Carl, and, of all people, Ashanti Davis.
Michael glanced around at his classmates. It was obvious that just about the whole team was suffering. Those students who weren’t sleeping had glazed eyes, suggesting to him that only a handful of neurons in their brains were functioning. “Fuck this,” Michael said to himself. “I’m breaking out!”
Taking advantage of the dimming of the lights for yet another series of computer-generated images, Michael impulsively got to his feet and left. It took only a moment since he had taken an aisle seat in the rear, near the exit. Still, he knew he risked being noticed. As a black man entering into a profession where the percentages of black male physicians were low and falling, anonymity for him was rarely an option.
The clinic was in full swing. Every available chair was occupied by a patient. A number of them looked up hopefully when they glimpsed Michael and his white coat in hopes that their waiting was about to end. None of them had any idea their waiting was due to a lecture. Many of the white patients quickly averted their gaze. It was similar to the lack of eye contact with the attending physicians, the vast majority of whom were white, that had bothered Michael during his first year, when there was an introduction to patient contact. Now he took it in stride. He correctly realized it was their problem, not his.
Michael had good rapport with patients white and black once they got over the initial hesitation his blackness occasionally engendered. In fact sometimes the white patients adjusted faster. Some blacks would assume that Michael was an “Oreo,” a black-vernacular label for someone overly assimilated, or “black on the outside and white on the inside.” But that surely wasn’t the case. Michael fully identified with his roots and the black community, and intended to serve it by bringing Harvard know-how back to Beaufort, South Carolina.
Intending to head over to his dorm room to search for Ashanti’s anesthesia record, Michael left the clinic by the same exit that Lynn had used earlier. As if further mimicking her, he stopped in the landscaped courtyard at just about the same spot that she had and gazed at the Shapiro Institute for the same exact reasons. He wondered if Ashanti Davis was still in there, being kept alive by the wizardry of modern medicine. He also worried whether Carl was destined to be transferred in there as well. He knew that would be a major stumbling block for Lynn.
Michael was well aware, at least theoretically, that a patient in a vegetative state could be kept alive almost indefinitely. He knew there had been a patient who had been kept alive for thirty-seven years. What it required was not rocket science but merely a careful balance of the body’s internal environment, meaning proper hydration and electrolyte balance, appropriate nutrition, and careful skin care. For long-term nutritional needs, the best solution was a percutaneous gastrostomy tube, placed by surgery through the abdominal wall directly into the stomach.
Of course, another major requirement was to keep all the various microorganisms at bay, such as bacteria, fungi, and viruses, since it was often the case with such patients that their immune systems weren’t up to snuff. Appropriate drugs such as antibiotics and antivirals were used when needed, but the main defense was accomplished with reverse precautions, meaning to keep the bad bugs away from the patients. Prevention of infectious disease was the reason visits to the institute were restricted to immediate family, and even these were discouraged for the patients’ collective benefit. Immediate family had to view their stricken loved ones through a plate-glass window.
From his rotation in the ICU during third-year surgery, Michael was well aware that the biggest threats for long-term care of unconscious patients were pneumonia and the lowly bedsore. Patients had to be turned constantly to avoid being in one position for too long, because that was how infections and pneumonia were fostered. The more mobilization, the better, which was why such care was generally considered labor intensive, except in the Shapiro Institute. On Michael’s one and only visit during the second year, he had learned that the Shapiro’s secret was computerization and automation. What that really meant, he wasn’t sure, because he and his classmates didn’t get to see any real patients. The visit had been limited to a didactic lecture and a short stint in a family visitation area, where a dummy had been used for demonstration purposes.
Thinking about Ashanti Davis and her ignominious end reminded Michael of his own success at having defied the odds. Here he was, about to finish medical school and head up to a medical residency in the lofty Ivy League while most of his childhood acquaintances were either already dead or in prison, or with severely compromised futures, like Ashanti. About a week earlier, as a way to chill out after the anxiety of the residency matching program, he had hidden in his room and social-surfed himself to near brain death, looking up as many of his old friends as he could, using multiple sources. It had been a depressing pastime, and it made him really question how he had been so lucky.
Mostly Michael gave credit to his mother and the way she ragged on him about education and reading skills. But he also gave himself some credit for not falling prey to the culture in which he had found himself immersed. Things could have worked out very differently, and he very well could have ended up a hashtag in Beaufort, South Carolina’s, homicide statistics. As a young, skinny teenager he had dealt drugs for a while, as it was an easy way to help support the family. He was also good in sports, and both activities pushed him to the head of the pack. But being at the head also meant trouble, and protecting his honor required quick response to threats. At first going to blows with fisticuffs was adequate, but by the eighth grade it meant having to pack.
For Michael, the meld of pistols and passion was what changed the game. He was judicious enough to understand that packing heat was a no-win situation, especially after his cousin had been shot dead by a supposed friend and fellow hoopster who had mistakenly become enamored with the flighty Ashanti. From that moment Michael had no more truck with drugs, would-be gangstas, guns, or hot spots. He was no longer interested in running wild. He avoided all situations that could lead to confrontation, like messing with any girls who dated gang members, or even trash-talking opponents on the b-ball court, or gloating over accomplishments of any sort.
As if waking up from the trance that his reverie had spawned, Michael found himself sprawled out on one of the many park benches that lined the quadrangle’s walkways, still transfixed by the Shapiro Institute. He was taken aback by what his thinking about Ashanti had engendered. And as he reflected some more, he found himself wondering if it had been his mother’s words or his own inclinations that had kept him from being killed or killing someone who he might have felt had somehow slighted him. He didn’t know the answers. But it all certainly raised the question in his mind of how his life might have been different had he not learned to speed-read or if he had a father, and if he had, whether it would have helped or hindere
d. One way or the other, Michael felt he was one lucky dude.
10.
Monday, April 6, 2:20 P.M.
After applying her bike brakes, Lynn turned into the brick driveway that ran alongside Carl’s house and led to the carriage house in the back. She had not come to the house directly as she had originally planned. As she had ridden south, she’d come to question whether going to Carl’s was appropriate. So instead she had biked down to the base of East Battery Street and spent some time sitting on the seawall to try to come to terms with her roiling thoughts and emotions. From that vantage point, looking out over Charleston Harbor, she could just make out Fort Sumter in the distance at the easternmost end of James Island. It was a comforting place, as she’d gone there often with Carl. She knew it was his favorite place in the city.
Something had occurred to her that shocked her as she had cycled. She had tried to put it out of her mind but couldn’t. Unwelcome, it kept coming back to torment her and demand her attention like the mental equivalent of a toothache. It was the idea of her sudden freedom stemming from the realization that if Carl ended up as she feared, being shut away in the Shapiro Institute, the whole reason she had decided to abandon an academic career and stay at the Mason-Dixon Medical Center for her residency training was moot. And even if he wasn’t shut away but needed around-the-clock care, was she cut out for such a role? Hell, she thought, they weren’t even engaged, and she truly didn’t know if it had been in the cards. Whenever she’d brought up the issue of the future, Carl always changed the subject, which had made her plans for her residency extremely difficult.
These were disturbing thoughts and made her wonder if she was a selfish and bad person to be thinking such things, and so soon. Yet as she sat at the Battery, the peaceful scene and its association with Carl ultimately convinced her it would be good to be around all the things that helped define Carl as the person he was before that morning’s events. It also convinced her that it would be far worse emotionally for her to return to her dorm room knowing that a comatose Carl was nearby, suffering from recent brain damage for which she felt she bore some responsibility. Had Carl gone to Roper Hospital, he’d probably be watching TV now and itching to be discharged.
Lynn had garage and house keys on a key ring along with her dorm key. She put her bike inside the garage next to Carl’s red Jeep Cherokee. Then she headed for the house.
By far Carl’s favorite arena of law was real estate, and the real estate scene in Charlestown was booming. A large number of the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century homes had been renovated, and those that had yet to be redone were in high demand. Carl had participated in many of the sales, and his intimate knowledge of the market and personal acquaintance with a number of the owners had given him the opportunity to buy one of the most coveted properties. The house was on Church Street, a particularly scenic lane. The style was called a single house. Because Charleston property taxes in the early days were determined by footage on the street, the original Charleston inhabitants built their houses with the long axis perpendicular to the street and only a single room wide. Along one side of the house, long verandas called piazzas were built on each floor. Before air-conditioning, Charlestonians lived as much outdoors as they did indoors during the long, muggy summers.
What made Carl’s house so desirable were two things. Although it needed modern renovation, its period detail had not been lost over the years as its infrastructure had been slowly improved. And second, its original owners had acquired the neighboring lot and turned it into a large, formal garden, complete with a lily pond, a gazebo, shade trees, and various types of palms. Although the garden had not been tended for nearly a half century, it was an invaluable asset of which Carl had schemed to take full advantage.
After walking back around to the front of the house, Lynn keyed open what, for all intents and purposes, looked like the front door. Yet the only location the locked door led to was an open veranda, which, according to its design, a visitor could access as easily by climbing over the balustrade. It was another curious characteristic of a Charlestonian single house. She had to walk along the ground-floor piazza to the true front door located in the middle of the lengthwise porch. To her left was the tangled, overgrown garden, which sounded like an aviary, as it was a haven for a good portion of the local bird population.
Once inside, Lynn closed the second door and stood for a moment, listening to the silence of the house and smelling its familiar aroma. In contrast to herself, Carl was a meticulous housekeeper and had the place cleaned twice a week. Because of the tall shade trees, little sun managed to get inside, which was a distinct benefit during the hot months, but as a consequence it was quite dark. Lynn had to wait to allow her eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight outside. Slowly the details of the interior emerged from the relative gloom of the high-ceilinged room. Suddenly she jumped and let out a small scream. Something had brushed up against her leg.
“Oh, my God,” Lynn said in relief. Mildly embarrassed at her reaction, Lynn reached down to pet Pep and apologize to the cat for scaring it. “I forgot about you,” she added. Pep pressed up against Lynn’s hand as she stroked the animal. “I guess you’re lonely. I’m afraid it’s going to be just you and me tonight.”
The first thing that Lynn did was go into the kitchen to check if there was dry food and water for the cat. There was, and there was a note addressed to Frank Giordano about how much food to put in the cat’s bowl. She made a mental note to give Frank a call to let him know that he was off the hook as far as the cat was concerned. She was not looking forward to that conversation as she anticipated that Frank would undoubtedly be full of questions that she would be unable to answer.
With the cat issue taken care of, Lynn returned to the front hall and mounted the main stairs to the second floor. She was dreading going into the master bedroom.
As she stepped into the room, she marveled that Carl had taken the time to make the bed. It was so typical of him. It had been the one difference between them that Lynn had been mildly worried about, wondering whether her casualness about such details would wear on him or his compulsiveness on her. She was fastidious about her person and her work, but with mundane things such as making the bed, or folding and hanging her bath towel, or dealing with her soiled clothes she wasn’t so exacting.
On the bureau was a picture of her that had been taken the same weekend at Folly Beach as her picture of him. She appeared to be as happy as he did in his, and she wondered whether she would ever feel that way again. Just as she had done back in her dorm room, she turned the photo over. Looking at it could only bring pain when she came back to the room later that night. She was going to sleep there to feel close to Carl and help convince herself she wasn’t as selfish as she worried.
Next, Lynn made her way down the second-floor hallway to one of the smaller bedrooms that Carl had turned into a study. It was a large house with another three bedrooms up on the third floor, and two more in the dormered attic space. The bedroom Carl had turned into his work space had a door out onto the veranda, as most of the bedrooms did. The room had a very masculine feel. It was paneled in dark mahogany. One wall had floor-to-ceiling bookcases in which one shelf was filled with sports trophies he had won, starting with Pee Wee Football and Little League Baseball.
Lynn sat down at Carl’s very neat, expansive desk and turned on his PC. She got her cell phone, legal tablet, and pencils out of her backpack. As the PC was warming up, she scrolled through her contacts in her phone until she got to Giordano and tapped his work number. Knowing herself and her tendency to put off unpleasant chores, she wanted to get it over with so that she could concentrate on immersing herself in Carl’s medical situation.
The phone was answered by a secretary. Lynn gave her name and said that the call was personal. A moment later Frank was on the line.
“What’s up?” Frank asked. Lynn sensed his concern. She knew he had taken Carl to the hospital tha
t morning.
“I’m afraid there has been a complication . . . ,” Lynn began.
“Don’t tell me!” Frank interrupted. “Carl had a premonition things were not going to go right. What happened?”
“There was a problem with the anesthesia,” Lynn said. “His oxygen level dropped during the surgery, and he hasn’t woken up. He’s in a coma.”
“Oh, fuck!” Frank blurted out. “What’s going to happen?”
“I spoke briefly with a neurology resident who was on the case. He’s convinced there was brain damage. There’s going to be an MRI this afternoon.”
“Double fuck! Holy shit!”
“I’m sorry to lay this on you,” Lynn continued. “I can’t tell you any more. I’m in the dark myself. I didn’t know enough to even ask the right questions, but I’m going to rectify that tonight. Maybe tomorrow I’ll know more. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Please do! Jesus Christ! Do his parents know?” Frank and gone to elementary school and high school with Carl and knew the parents well.
“They know.”
“Oh, my God! You must be devastated. I’m so sorry, Lynn. How are you doing?”
“I’m a basket case,” Lynn admitted. “On top of everything else I feel responsible, since I recommended the surgeon.” Her concern about her being selfish went through her mind, but she didn’t mention it.
“That’s crap!” Frank said without hesitation, mirroring Michael’s reaction. “This is not your fault. No fucking way! I mean, I could just as much say it was my fault because I was the one who drove him to the hospital. That’s bullshit! Give yourself a break!”