Blood Test

“The mother. She’s got to be the most unliberated thing I’ve ever seen — Garland Swope is the king of his castle — but she does seem to be a good mother — nurturant, gives lots of hugs and kisses, goes into the unit a lot, and without any hesitation. You know how scary the spacesuit can be for lots of parents. She jumped right in. The nurses see her go off into the corner and cry when she thinks no one’s looking, but when Garland comes around she puts on a great big smile, lots of ‘Yes, Dears’ and ‘No, Dears.’ It’s really sad.”

“Why do you think they want to pull the kid out?” I asked.

“I know Raoul believes it was those people from the Touch — he’s so paranoid about anything holistic — but how can he be so sure? Could be he’s to blame for the whole thing. Maybe he screwed up communication with them — he’s very aggressive when he describes the treatment protocols and lots of people are put off.”

“He seemed to think the Fellow was at fault.”

“Augie Valcroix? Augie marches to his own drummer but he’s a good guy. One of the few docs who actually takes time to sit down with the families and act like a human being. He and Raoul hate each other’s guts, which makes sense if you know them. Augie thinks Raoul’s a fascist and Raoul sees him as a subversive influence. It’s been great fun working in this department, Alex.”

“What about those cultists?”

She shrugged.

“What can I say? Another group of lost souls. I don’t know much about them — there are so many fringe groups it would take a specialist to understand all of them. Two of them showed up a couple of days ago. The guy looked like a teacher — glasses, scuzzy beard, wimpy manner, brown oxfords. The lady was older, in her forties or fifties, the kind who was probably a hot number when she was younger but lost it. Both of them had that glazed look in their eyes — the I-know-the-secret-of-the-universe-but-I-won’t-tell-you trance. Moonies, Krishnas, esties, Touchers, they’re all the same.”

“You don’t think they turned the Swopes around?”

“They may have been the straw that broke it,” she conceded, “but I don’t see how they could be entirely responsible. Raoul’s looking for a scapegoat, for easy answers. That’s his style. Most of the docs are like that. Instant fix-its for complex issues.”

She looked away and folded her arms across her chest.

“I’m really tired of all of it,” she said softly.

I steered her back to the Swopes.

“Raoul wondered if the parents’ being older had anything to do with it. You pick up any hints the boy was an unwanted accident?”

“I didn’t get close enough to even touch on stuff like that. I was lucky to get enough for a bare-bones intake. The father smiled and called me “dear” and made sure I never got enough time alone with his wife to develop a relationship. This family’s armored. Maybe they’ve got lots of secrets they don’t want coming out.”

Maybe. Or maybe they’re terrified at being in a strange environment so far from home with a gravely ill child and don’t want to strip themselves bare in front of strangers. Maybe they don’t like social workers. Maybe they’re simply private people. Lots of maybes...

“What about Woody?”

“A cutie pie. He’s been sick since he got here, so it’s hard to judge what kind of kid he really is. Seems like a little sweetie — isn’t it always the sweet ones who suffer?” She took out a tissue and blew her nose. “Can’t stand the air in here. Woody’s a nice little boy who’s agreeable and kind of passive. A people pleaser. He cries during procedures — the spinal tap really hurt him — but he holds still and gives no serious problems.” She stopped for a moment and fought tears.

“It’s a goddamn crime, their pulling him out of treatment. I don’t like Melendez-Lynch, but goddamn it, he’s right this time! They’re going to kill that little boy because somehow we screwed up, and it’s driving me nuts.”

She pounded a small fist on the desk, snapped herself to a standing position, and paced the cramped office. Her lower lip quivered.

I stood up and put my arms around her and she buried her head in the warmth of my jacket.

“I feel like such a fool!”

“You’re not.” I held her tightly. “None if it is your fault.”

She pulled away and dabbed at her eyes. When she seemed composed I said, “I’d like to meet Woody.”

She nodded and led me to the Laminar Airflow Unit.

There were four modules, placed in series, like rooms in a railroad flat, and shielded from one another by a wall of curtain that could be opened or drawn by pushing buttons inside each room. The walls of the units were transparent plastic and each room resembled an oversized ice cube, eight feet square.