“Right now,” the doctor said, “I don’t think it means anything. As long as you feel strong while you’re undergoing treatment, you can continue work. In fact, it might even be good therapy.”
Suddenly, I felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room and I was suffocating.
“I want to give you the name of a hematologist,” Orenthaler said.
He went on about the doctor’s credentials, but I found myself no longer hearing him. I was thinking, Who was I going to tell? Mom had died eight years before, from breast cancer. Dad had been out of the picture since I was thirteen. I had a sister, Cat, but she was living a nice, neat life down in Newport Beach; and for her, just making a right turn on red brought on a moment of crisis.
The doctor pushed me the referral. “I know you, Lindsay. You’ll pretend this is something you can fix by working harder. But you can’t. This is deadly serious. I want you to call him today.”
Suddenly my beeper sounded. I fumbled for it in my bag and looked at the number. It was the office—Jacobi.
“I need a phone,” I said.
Orenthaler shot me a reproving look, one that read, I told you, Lindsay.
“Like you said . . .” I forced a nervous smile. “Therapy.”
He nodded to the phone on his desk and left the room. I went through the motions of dialing my partner. Jacobi’s gruff voice came on the line. “Fun’s over, Boxer. We got a double one-eight-oh. The Grand Hyatt.”
My head was spinning with what the doctor had told me. In a fog, I must not have responded.
“You hear me, Boxer? Work time. You on the way?”
“Yeah,” I finally said.
“And wear something nice,” my partner grunted. “Like you would to a wedding.
James Patterson, Cradle and All
(Series: # )
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