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“Who do you think could have done it?” asked Joan.

Cupping her hand over her mouth, Cassi whispered. “I think it might have been Thomas.”

Joan was shocked. She was not a fan of Thomas’s, but this statement smacked of pure paranoia. She wasn’t sure how to react. It was becoming obvious that Cassi needed professional help, not just advice from a friend. “What makes you think it was Thomas?” Joan finally asked.

“I awoke in the middle of the night and smelled his cologne.”

If Joan had had the slightest concern that Cassi was schizophrenic, she would not have challenged her. But she knew Cassi was an essentially normal person who’d been placed under extreme stress, Joan felt it was advisable not to let Cassi build on her delusional thought patterns. “I think, Cassi, that smelling Thomas’s cologne in the middle of the night is awfully weak evidence.”

Cassi tried to interrupt, but Joan told her to let her finish. “I think that under the circumstances, you are confusing a dream state with reality.”

‘Joan, I’ve already considered that.”

“Furthermore,” said Joan, ignoring Cassi, “insulin reactions include nightmares. I’m sure you know that better than I. I think you experienced an acute delusional psychosis. After all, you’ve been under enormous stress, what with your own surgery and Robert’s unfortunate death. I think in that state it’s entirely possible you gave yourself the injection and then afterward suffered all sorts of nightmares you now think may be real.”

Cassi listened hopefully. She’d had trouble sorting out the real from insulin-induced dreams in the past.

“But it is still very difficult for me to believe that I could have given myself an overdose of insulin,” she said.

“It might not have been an overdose. You could have just given yourself your usual dose. You may have thought it was time for your evening shot.”

It was an attractive explanation. Certainly an easier one to accept than that Thomas wanted her to die.

“My real concern,” Joan went on, “is whether you are depressed now.”

“I guess a little, mostly about Robert. I suppose I should be happy about the results of the surgery, but under the circumstances, it’s difficult.

But I can assure you, I don’t feel self-destructive. Anyway, they’ve taken away all my insulin.”

“It’s just as well,” said Joan, standing up. She was convinced Cassi was not suicidal. “Unfortunately I’ve got two legitimate consultations to do. I’ve got to get a move on. You take care and call if you need me, promise?”

“I promise,” said Cassi. She smiled at Joan. She was a good friend and a good doctor. She trusted her opinion.

“Was that lady a psychiatrist?” asked one of Cassi’s roommates after Joan left.

“Yes,” said Cassi. “She’s a resident like I am, but further along in her training. She’ll be finishing this spring.”

“Does she think you’re crazy?” the woman asked.

Cassi thought about the question. It wasn’t as stupid as it sounded. In a way Joan did think she was temporarily crazy. “She thought I was very upset,” said Cassi. Euphemisms seemed easier. “She thought that I might have tried to hurt myself in my sleep. If I start doing anything weird, you’ll call the nurses, won’t you?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll scream my bloody head off.”

Cassi’s other roommates, who had been listening, enthusiastically concurred.

Cassi hoped she hadn’t scared the three women, but in a way it made her feel more comfortable that they would be watching her. If it were true that she had given herself an overdose without knowing it, she could use a little nervous concern.

She closed her eyes and wondered when Robert’s funeral was. She hoped she’d be released in time to go. Then she thought of the SSD project and wondered what would happen to it. Remembering the printouts she’d taken from his room, she decided to see if someone could locate them for her.

She rang for the nurse, who promised to check Cassi’s former room. A half-hour later, the nurse returned and said that the two LPNs who had helped move Cassi had not seen the computer printout. The nurse added that she’d checked all the drawers herself without success.

Maybe the SSD data had been a hallucination, too, thought Cassi. She seemed to recall going into Robert’s room, picking up the material, and then bumping into Thomas. But perhaps it was all a dream. Cassi wondered how she could check. The easiest way would be to ask Thomas, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to do that.

Glancing around the room, Cassi was glad to see her three roommates getting ready for dinner. Just having them there made her feel safe.

Thomas stopped short of the bridge over the marsh inlet. He switched off the engine and checked for any traffic before opening the door. Getting out of the car, he walked out onto the arched wooden bridge, his shoes making a hollow noise on the old planks. The tide was on its way out and the current rushed beneath the small bridge, swirling in frenetic eddies about the support pilings.

Thomas needed a breath of air. The two Talwin he’d taken before leaving the office had had disappointingly little effect on his mood. He’d never felt such anxiety before. The Friday afternoon conference had been a disaster. And on top of that were the mushrooming problems with Cassi.

Thomas stood on the deserted bridge for almost half an hour, letting the damp breeze chill him to the bone. The discomfort was therapeutic, making it possible for him to think. He had to do something. Ballantine and his cohorts were intent on destroying everything Thomas had carefully built.

In his hand he gripped a drug vial, intending to throw it into the water. But he didn’t. Instead he returned it to his coat.

Slowly Thomas felt better. He had an idea, and as the idea took form, he began to smile. Then he laughed, wondering why he hadn’t thought of it before. With a new surge of energy he returned to his car and warmed his fingers by holding them over the defroster vent.

After pulling into the garage, he crossed the courtyard to the house at a run. He moved the drug container to his suit pocket when he took off his coat and, feeling better than he had all day, went in to greet his mother.

“I’m so glad you’re on time,” she said. “Harriet is just putting dinner on the table.” She took his arm and led him into the dining room. He knew she was in a good mood because she had him to herself, but she managed to inquire politely about Cassi before serving herself from the platter of Yankee pot roast.

When Harriet had gone back into the kitchen, she began asking about Thomas’s day.

“Are things going better at the hospital?”

“Hardly,” said Thomas, not eager to discuss the worsening hospital situation.

“Have you spoken with George Sherman?” asked Patricia with disgust.

“Mother, I don’t want to talk about hospital politics.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes, but Patricia could not contain herself and again spoke up. “You’ll know what to do with the man when you become chief.”

Thomas put down his fork.

“Mother, can’t we talk about something else?”

“It’s hard to avoid the issue when I can see how much it is bothering you.”

Thomas tried to calm himself with a series of deep breaths. Patricia could see him tremble.

“Look at you, Thomas, you’re like a spring wound too tightly.” Patricia reached over to stroke her son’s arm, but Thomas evaded her touch by pushing back his chair and standing up.

“The situation is driving me crazy,” admitted Thomas.

“When do you think you’ll be chief?” asked Patricia, watching her son begin to pace back and forth like a caged lion.

“God, I wish I knew,” said Thomas through clenched teeth. “But it better be soon. If not, the department will be in shambles. Everyone seems to be going out of their way to destroy the cardiac vascular program I set up. Boston Memorial is famous because my operating team made it so. Yet instead of letting me expand, they are constantly cutting down my time in the OR. Today I learned that my surgical time is being reduced again. And you know why? Because Ballantine made arrangements for the Memorial Teaching Service to have free access to a large state mental institution out in the western part of the state. Sherman went out there and said the place was a cardiac surgical gold mine. What he didn’t say was that the average mental age of the patients was less than two years. Some of them are actually deformed monsters. It makes me furious!”

“Well, won’t you be backing the house staff on those cases?” asked Patricia, trying to think of the positive side of the issue.

“Mother, they are mentally defective pediatric cases, and Ballantine plans to recruit a full-time pediatric cardiac surgeon.”

“Well, then, that won’t affect you.”

“But it will,” shouted Thomas. “It will put more pressure on me to cut back my OR time.” Thomas felt his temper rising. “My patients will either have dangerous delays before surgery or will have to go elsewhere.”

“But surely your patients will be scheduled first, dear.”

“Mother, you don’t understand,” said Thomas, making an effort to speak slowly. “The hospital doesn’t care that I only take on patients who not only have a good chance of survival but are worth saving. To build the reputation of the teaching school, Ballantine would rather sacrifice valuable OR time for a bunch of imbeciles and defectives. Unless I become chief I won’t be able to stop them.”

“Well, Thomas,” said Patricia, “if they don’t give you the position, you’ll just have to go to another hospital. Why don’t you sit down and finish your dinner?”

“I can’t just go to another hospital,” shouted Thomas.

“Thomas, calm down.”

“Cardiac surgery requires a team. Don’t you understand that?” Thomas threw his napkin into his halfeaten food. “You’ve upset me!” he shouted irrationally. “I come home for once expecting a little peace and you upset me!” He stormed out of the room, leaving his mother wondering what on earth she had done.

Walking down the upstairs corridor, Thomas could hear the surf breaking on the distant beach. The waves must be four to six feet high. He loved the sound. It reminded him of his childhood.

Snapping on the light in the morning room, he looked around. The white furniture had a harsh, cold appearance. He hated the way Cassi had insisted on redecorating the room. There was something brazen about it despite the lace curtains and flowered cushions.

He stayed for only a short time before going back to his study. With trembling hands he found his Percodan. For a while he entertained the idea of returning to town to see Doris. But soon the Percodan began to make him feel calmer. Instead of going out into the frigid night, he poured himself a Scotch.

CHAPTER 13

CASSI HAD HOPED that she’d become accustomed to the ophthalmologist's light, but each time Obermeyer examined her was as uncomfortable as the last. It had been five days since her surgery, and except for the insulin reaction, the postoperative course had been smooth and uneventful. Dr. Obermeyer had come by each day to peer into her eye for a moment, always saying that things were looking good. Now on the day of her scheduled discharge, Cassi had been escorted over to Dr. Obermeyer’s office for one last “good” look, as he called it. To her relief, he finally moved the light away.

“Well, Cassi, that troublesome vessel is in good shape, and there’s no rebleeding. But I don’t have to tell you that. Your vision has improved dramatically in that eye. I want to follow you with fluorescein studies and at some point in the future you may need laser treatments, but you’re definitely out of the woods.”

Cassi was not certain what laser treatments involved, but it didn’t dampen her enthusiasm for getting out of the hospital. Convinced that her fear of Thomas had been imaginary and that a good deal of their problems were at least partially her own fault, she was anxious to get home and try to put her marriage back on course.

Although Cassi was entirely capable of walking, the green-smocked volunteer who came to escort her back to her room in the Scherington Building insisted that she ride in a wheelchair. Cassi felt silly. The volunteer was almost seventy and had a disturbing wheeze, but she wouldn’t give in, and Cassi had to allow the woman to push her back to the room.

After she was packed, Cassi sat by her bed and waited for her formal discharge. Thomas had canceled his office hours and was going to drive her home around one-thirty or two. Since she had been admitted, his loving attention had not faltered. Somehow he’d managed to find time to visit four or five times a day, often eating dinner in the room along with Cassi’s roommates, whom Thomas had charmed. He’d also completed plans for their vacation, and now with Dr. Obermeyer’s blessings they were to leave in a week and a half. The thought of the vacation alone was enough to make Cassi feel enormously happy. Except for their honeymoon in Europe, during which Thomas had taken time out to operate and lecture in Germany, they’d never been away together for more than a couple of days. Cassi was anticipating the trip like a five-year-old waiting for Christmas.

Even Dr. Ballantine had visited Cassi during her hospital stay. Her insulin overdose seemed to have particularly unnerved him, and Cassi wondered if he felt responsible because of their talks. When she tried to bring up the subject, he refused to discuss it.