Coma

Bellows hadn’t planned on asking Susan out quite so soon and in such a fashion. But he was pleased because it had come so apparently spontaneously and consequently it would be easy to deal with a refusal if it occurred. It sounded more like an offer to get together than an actual date.

“Dinner’s fine, can’t pass up an offer for a dinner even with an invertebrate. But really, Mark, what were the names of the two deaths today?”

“Crawford and Ferrer. They were patients on Beard 6.”

Susan pursed her lips as she wrote the names down in her notebook. “I’ll have to look into those in the morning. In fact ...” Susan looked at her”

watch “... maybe tonight. If they were going to do an autopsy on these cases, when would it be?”

“Probably tonight or first thing in the morning,” shrugged Bellows.

“Well then I better check tonight.”

Susan refolded her printout.

“Thanks, Mark, old boy; you’ve been a help again.”

“Again?”

“Yeah. Thanks for those articles you Xeroxed for me. You’ll make a good secretary someday.”

“Up yours.”

“Tut, tut. See you tomorrow night. How about the Ritz? I haven’t eaten there for several weeks,” teased Susan, heading for the door.

“Not so fast, Susan. I’ll see you at rounds in the morning at six-thirty.

Remember our deal. I’ll cover for you another day if you come to rounds.”

“Mark, you’ve been such a dear, really. Let’s not louse it up so soon.”

Susan smiled and pulled some of her hair across her face with coquettish exaggeration. “I’ll be up till all hours reading all this material you got for me. I need one more full day. We’ll discuss it further tomorrow night.”

Then she was gone. Again Bellows felt encouraged about Susan as he sipped his coffee. Then he got up. He had plenty of work to do.

Monday, February 23, 8:32 P.M.

The pathology lab was in the basement of the main building. Susan descended the stairs and emerged in the middle of a basement corridor which disappeared into utter darkness to the right and twisted out of view to the left. Stark bare light bulbs glowed from the ceiling at intervals of twenty to thirty feet. The light from each bulb met the light from the next in an uneasy penumbra, causing a strange interplay of shadows from the tangle of pipes along the ceiling. In a vain attempt to provide color to the dim subterranean world, angled stripes of bright orange paint had been painted on the walls.

Directly opposite Susan, partially hidden from view, was an arrow pointing to the left, with the word Pathology stenciled above it. Susan turned down the corridor, her shoes making hollow noises on the concrete floor, competing with the hiss of the steam pipes. The atmosphere was oppressive; the location within the bowels of the hospital was sinisterly appropriate. She was not heading for the pathology lab with any favorable anticipation. As far as Susan was concerned pathology represented the black side of medicine, the specialty that seemed to derive its nourishment from medical failure, death. Arguments about the benefits of biopsies which the pathologists analyzed or the obvious beneficial spinoffs for the living from the autopsies the pathologists performed were all lost on Susan. She had only seen one autopsy done during her course in pathology, and that had been one too many. Life had never seemed quite so fragile nor had death seemed quite so final as when Susan had watched the two overweight pathologists disembowel the body of a recently deceased patient.

The memory of that event slowed Susan’s steps but it did not halt them. She was determined. But she had seemingly been walking for a hundred yards as the corridor twisted first in one direction then in another. She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder, wondering if she could have missed the door to the lab. With increased misgivings she continued. At several places, the light bulbs were not functioning and Susan’s shadow would appear in front of her and lengthen. Then as she moved into the sphere of influence of the next functioning light her shadow would pale and disappear.

Finally she faced two swinging doors. The upper portion of each contained opaque windows.

“Unauthorized Entry Forbidden” was lettered boldly across the cracked, frosted glass on each door. Stenciled in peeling gold paint below the window on the right door was “Pathology Laboratory.” Susan hesitated at the door, building up her confidence, wondering what sort of scene to prepare herself for. Cracking the door, she got a glimpse of the interior. A long black stone table dominated the room, running most of its length. Cluttered about on the table were microscopes, slides, slide boxes, chemicals, books, and an array of other equipment. Susan pushed open the door and stepped into the lab. The acrid smell of formaldehyde hung over the room.