Blood Test

“Hi.” She spoke sullenly and regarded us with with boredom. As if to underscore her apathy, she gazed past us and sucked on her cigarette.

“Nona, this is Dr. Delaware.”

She nodded, unimpressed.

“He’s a psychologist, an expert in the care of children with cancer. He used to work here, in Laminar Flow.”

“Hello,” she said, dutifully. Her voice was soft, almost whispery, the inflection flat. “If you want him to talk to my parents, they’re not here.”

“Uh, yes, that is what I wanted. When will they be back?”

The girl shrugged and flicked ashes onto the floor.

“They didn’t tell me. They slept here so they probably went back to the motel to clean up. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow.”

“I see. And how have you been doing?”

“Fine.” She looked up at the ceiling and tapped her foot.

Raoul raised his hand to offer the classic physician’s pat on the back, but the look in her eyes stopped him and he immediately lowered it.

Tough kid, I thought, but then, this was no day at the beach for her.

“How’s Woody?” he asked.

The question infuriated her. Her lean body tensed, she dropped the cigarette and ground it under her heel. Tears collected in the inner corners of the midnight eyes.

“You’re the damned doctor! Why don’t you tell me!” She tightened her face, turned, and ran away.

Raoul avoided eye contact. He picked up the crushed butt and deposited it in an ashtray. Covering his forehead with one hand he took a deep breath and gave a migraine grimace. The pain must have been excruciating.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go in.”

A hand-scrawled sign in the nurses’ office said “Welcome to Space Age Medasin.”

The bulletin board was tacked with layers of paper — shift schedules, cartoons cut out of magazines, chemotherapy dosage charts, and an autographed picture of a famous Dodger with a young bald boy in a wheelchair. The child held a bat with both hands and gazed up at the baseball player, who looked slightly ill at ease among the I.V. lines.

Raoul picked a medical chart out of a bin and flipped through it. He grunted and pushed a button on a panel above the desk. Seconds later a heavyset woman dressed in white stuck her head in.

“Yes — oh, hi, Doctor Melendez.” She saw me and gave a nod with a question mark stuck to the end of it.

Raoul introduced me to the nurse, whose name was Ellen Beck-with.

“Good,” she said, “we could use you around here.”

“Dr. Delaware used to coordinate psychosocial care on this unit. He’s an international expert on the psychological effects of reverse isolation.”

“Oh. Great. Pleased to meet you.”

I took the proferred fleshy hand.

“Ellen,” said Raoul, “when are Mr. and Mrs. Swope due back on the unit?”

“Gee, I dunno, Doctor. They were here all last night and then they left. They usually come in every day, so they should be around sometime.”

He clenched his teeth.

“That’s very helpful, Ellen,” he said sharply.

The nurse grew flustered and her meaty face took on the look of an animal corralled in an unfamiliar pen. “I’m sorry, Doctor, it’s just that they’re not required to tell us—”

“Never mind. Is there anything new with the boy that hasn’t been charted?”

“No sir, we’re just waiting for—” she saw the look on his face and stopped herself. “Uh, I was just going to change the linens in unit three, Doctor, so if you have nothing more—”

“Go. But first get Beverly Lucas over here.”

She glanced at a chalkboard across the room.

“She’s signed out to page, sir.”

Raoul looked up and stroked his mustache. The only evidence of his agony was the slight tremble beneath the bristly hairs.

“Then page her, for God’s sake.”

She hurried off.

“And they want to be professionals,” he said. “Working hand in hand with the doctor as equal partners. Ludicrous.”

“Do you use anything for the pain?” I asked.

The question threw him.

“What — oh, it’s not so bad,” he lied, and forced a smile. “Once in a while I take something.”

“Ever tried biofeedback or hypnosis?”

He shook his head.

“You should. It works. You can learn to vaso-dilate and constrict at will.”

“No time to learn.”

“It doesn’t take long if the patient’s motivated.”

“Yes, well—” he was interrupted by the phone. He answered it, barked orders into the receiver, and hung up.

“That was Beverly Lucas, the social worker. She’ll be here shortly to fill you in.”

“I know Bev. She was a student here when I was an intern.”

He held out his hand palm down and moved it side to side. “Soso, eh?”

“I always thought she was pretty sharp.”

“If you say so.” He looked doubtful. “She wasn’t much use with this family.”

“That may be true of me as well, Raoul.”

“You’re different, Alex. You think like a scientist but can relate to patients like a humanist. It’s a rare combination. That’s why I chose you, my friend.”

He’d never chosen me but I didn’t argue. Maybe he’d forgotten the way it really started.