Blood Test

She looked good, though considerably thinner than I remembered. Years ago, she’d been a cheerful, rather innocent trainee, full of enthusiasm. The kind voted Miss Bubbly in high school. She had to be thirty by now, and some of the pixie cuteness had turned to womanly determination. She was petite and fair, with rosy cheeks and straw-colored hair worn in a long soft perm. Her round open face was dominated by hazel saucer eyes and untouched by makeup. She wore no jewelry and her clothes were simple — knee-length navy skirt, short-sleeved blue-and-red plaid blouse, penny loafers. She carried an oversized purse, which she swung up on the desk.

“You look svelte,” I said.

“Running. I’m doing long distance, now.” She flexed a muscle and laughed.

“Very impressive.”

“It helps center me.” She sat on the edge of the desk. “What brings you around here after all this time?”

“Raoul wants me to help out with the Swopes.”

Her expression changed without warning, the features hardening and gaining a few years. With forced amiability she said, “Good luck.”

Raoul stood up and started to lecture.

“Alex Delaware is an expert in the psychosocial care of children with malignant—”

“Raoul,” I interrupted, “why don’t you let Beverly fill me in on the case. There’s no need for you to spend any more time at this point.”

He looked at his watch.

“Yes. Of course.” To Beverly: “You’ll give him a comprehensive rundown?”

“Of course, Dr. Melendez-Lynch,” she said sweetly.

“You want me to introduce you to Woody?”

“Don’t bother. Bev will handle it.”

His eyes darted from me to her and then back to his watch.

“All right. I’m off. Call if you need me.”

He removed the stethoscope from around his neck and swung it at his side as he left.

“I’m sorry,” I said to her when we were alone.

“Forget it, it’s not your fault. He’s such an asshole.”

“You’re the second person he’s riled this morning.”

“There’ll be plenty of others before the day’s up. Who was the first?”

“Nona Swope.”

“Oh. Her. She’s angry at the world.”

“It must be rough for her,” I said.

“I’m sure,” she agreed, “but I think she was an angry young lady long before her brother got cancer. I tried to develop a rapport with her — with all of them — but they shut me out. Of course,” she added, bitterly, “you may do much better.”

“Bev, I’ve got no stake in being a miracle worker. Raoul called me in a panic, gave me no background, and I tried to do a friend a favor, okay?”

“You should pick your friends with greater care.”

I said nothing, just let her listen to the echoes of her own words.

It worked.

“Okay, Alex, I’m sorry for being such a bitch. It’s just that he’s impossible to work for, gives no credit when you do a good job, and throws these incredible tantrums when things go wrong. I’ve put in for a transfer, but until they find a sucker to replace me, I’m stuck.”

“No one can do this type of work for very long,” I said.

“Don’t I know it! Life’s too short. That’s why I got into running — I come home all burnt out and after a couple of hours of pushing my body to the limit I’m renewed.”

“You look great.”

“Do I? I was starting to worry about getting too thin. Lately I’ve been losing my appetite — oh, hell, I must sound like a real egomaniac, griping like this when I’m surrounded by people in real crises.”

“Griping is a God-given right.”

“I’ll try to look at it that way.” She smiled and pulled out a notebook. “I suppose you want a psychosocial rundown on the Swopes.”

“It would help.”

“The name of the game is weird — these are strange people, Alex. The mother never talks, the father talks all the time, and the sister can’t stand either of them.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The way she looks at them. And the fact that she’s never around when they are. It’s like she feels out of place. She doesn’t pay much attention to Woody when she’s here, keeps strange hours — shows up late at night, or really early in the morning. The night staff says she mostly sits and stares at him — usually he’s asleep, anyway. Once in a while she’ll go in the unit and read him a book, but that’s about it. The father doesn’t do much in the way of stimulation, either. He likes to flirt with the nurses, acts like he knows it all.”

“Raoul told me the same thing.”

“Raoul’s not totally incapable of insight.” She laughed maliciously. “Seriously, Mr. Swope is a different kind of guy. Big fellow, gray-haired with a beer gut and a little goatee. Kind of like Buffalo Bill without the long hair. He’s really cut off from his feelings — I know it’s denial and I know it’s not unheard of, but he goes beyond what we normally see. His son’s diagnosed with cancer and he’s laughing and joking with the nurses, trying to be one of the gang, talking about his orchard and his precious plants, throwing around horticultural jargon. You know what can happen to guys like that.”

“Sudden breakdown.”

“Exactly. All at once it hits them and pow! Pathological grief reaction.”

“Doesn’t sound like the boy has much support.”