Blood Test

“’lo, Doc. Don’t know what got into me, jus’ wanted to say sorry, hope I dint shake you up too badly.”

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“Oh fine, jus’ fine. Got plans, gotta get myself together. I can see that. What everyone’s saying, gotta have some sense to it.”

“Good. I’m glad you understand.”

“Oh, yeah, oh yeah. I’m catchin’ on, jus’ takes me a while. Like the firs’ time I used a circular saw, supervisor tol’ me Richard — this was back when I was a kid, jus learning the trade — gotta take your time, take it slow, concentrate, ‘thwise this thing chew you up. And he’d hold up his left hand with a stump where the thumb shoulda been, said, Richard, don’ learn the hard way.”

He laughed hoarsely and cleared his throat.

“Guess sometimes I learn the hard way, huh? Like with Darlene. Mighta listened to her before she got involved with that scumbag.”

The pitch of his voice rose when he talked about Conley so I tried to ease him away from the subject.

“The important thing is that you’re learning now. You’re a young man, Richard. You’ve got a lot ahead of you.”

“Yeah. Well... old as you feel, y’know, and I’m feeling ninety.”

“This is the roughest time, before the final decree. It can get better.”

“They say that — the lawyer tol’ me too — but I don feel it. I feel shit on, y’know, shit on first class.”

He paused and I didn’t fill it in.

“Anyways, thanks for listenin’, and now you can talk to the judge and tell her I can see the kids, take ’em with me fishin’ for a week.”

So much for optimism.

“Richard, I’m glad you’re getting in touch with the situation but you’re not ready to care for your children.”

“Whythefucknot?”

“You need help to stabilize your moods. There are medications that are effective. And get someone to talk to, like you’re talking to me.”

“Yeah?” he sneered, “If they’re assholes like you, goddamn money-chasing fuckers, talkin’ to them ain’t gonna do me no good. I’m telling you I’m gonna take care of the problems now don’t give me any shit, who the fuckareyou to tell me when I can see my kids.”

“This conversation isn’t going anywhere—”

“Hunnerd procent right, Headshrinker. You listen and you listen good, they’ll be hell to pay’f I’m not set up in my rightful place as daddy...”

He emptied a bucket of verbal swill and after listening for several minutes I hung up to avoid being sullied.

In the silence of the kitchen I became aware of the pounding of my heart and the sick feeling at the pit of my stomach. Maybe I’d lost the touch — the therapist’s ability to put distance between himself and the ones who suffered so as to avoid being battered by a psychological hailstorm.

I looked down at the message pad. Raoul Melendez-Lynch. He probably wanted me to give a seminar to the residents on the psychological aspects of chronic disease or behavioral approaches to pain control. Something nice and academic that would let me hide behind slides and videotape and play professor again.

At that moment it seemed an especially attractive prospect and I dialed his number.

A young woman answered the phone, breathless.

“Carcinogenesis lab.”

“Dr. Melendez-Lynch, please.”

“He’s not here.”

“This is Dr. Delaware returning his call.”

“I think he’s over at the hospital,” she said, sounding preoccupied.

“Could you connect me to the page operator, please.”

“I’m not sure how to do that — I’m not his secretary, Dr. Delray. I’m in the middle of an experiment and I really have to run. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I broke the connection, dialed the message desk at Western Peds, and had him paged. Five minutes later the operator came and told me he hadn’t answered. I left my name and number and hung up, thinking how little had changed over the years. Working with Raoul had been stimulating and challenging, but fraught with frustration. Trying to pin him down could be like sculpting with shaving cream.

I went into the library and settled in my soft leather chair with a paperback thriller. Just when I’d decided the plot was forced and the dialogue too cute, the phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Alex!” His accent turned it into Ahleex. “So good of you to return my call.” As usual, he talked at a breakneck pace.

“I tried to reach you at the lab but the girl who answered wasn’t too helpful.”

“Girl? Ah yes, that would be Helen. My new post-doc. Brilliant young lady from Yale. She and I are collaborating on an N.I.H. study aimed at clarifying the metastatic process. She worked with Brewer at New Haven — construction of synthetic cell walls — and we’ve been examining the relative invasiveness of varying tumor forms on specific models.”

“Sounds fascinating.”

“It is.” He paused. “Anyway, how have you been, my friend?”

“Fine. And you?”

He chuckled.

“It’s — nine forty-three and I haven’t yet finished charting. That tells you how I’ve been.”

“Oh come on, Raoul, you love it.”

“Ha! Yes I do. What did you call me years ago — the quintessential type A personality?”

“A plus.”

“I will die of a myocardial infarct but my paperwork will be completed.”