Miracle Cure (21 page)

Eyeing him, she folded her arms across her chest. He noticed her makeup was understated and expertly applied. Her nails were manicured and polished a glistening scarlet.
If Phil Gianatasio was intimidated by Teri Sennstrom, then this woman must be absolutely terrifying to him.

“Well, Brian,” she began, clearly choosing her words carefully, “here we are again, talking about things that need to be done for the good of Boston Heart Institute.”

“So it seems.”

“Dr. Weber tells me you are well aware of the identity of our mystery guest.”

“Senator Louderman is not easy to overlook.”

Jessup’s smile was noncommittal.

“Yes, I agree,” she said, unfolding her arms, but never taking her dark eyes off his. “The senator was referred to me some time ago for ill-defined chest pains. I did a treadmill, expecting it to be negative, but it wasn’t. He clearly had cardiovascular disease. Given the … 
delicate
nature of his political position and plans, he was catheterized secretly by me, at which time a ninety-percent occlusion of his left anterior descending artery was documented, along with lesser blockages in the right and circumflex. He was begun on Vasclear immediately and has had such a remarkable result that I would doubt his health will be an issue at all—private
or
public—should he seek national office.”

“Ninety percent,” Brian said. “That’s a fantastic result. I’m sure it means a great deal to have Vasclear work so well on a man as powerful as the senator.”

“It always helps to have friends in high places,” Jessup replied calmly. “A little like the BHI friends you have in Dr. Pickard and myself.”

The threat was thinly veiled and Brian responded quickly.

“I told you before, Dr. Jessup, I’m very grateful to Dr. Pickard and to you for giving me the chance to get back on my feet. The last thing I would ever want is to jeopardize
my position here. There’s just too much at stake for me.”

“Well said. In that case, Brian, in the interests of that career of yours and a great deal more, you must promise to refrain from mentioning Senator Louderman to anyone. And I mean
anyone
. Word getting out of his treatment here could be disastrous—to him
and
to us.”

“I understand.”

“Excellent.”

Jessup glanced over her shoulder.

“Art, do you have anything to add?”

Weber stepped to the doorway of the carrel.

“I just want to applaud you, Brian, for appreciating the seriousness of this situation,” he said. “If there’s ever anything either of us can do to thank you, you need only say so.”

Brian hesitated a moment, but knew he was not going to be able to remain silent.

“Actually, there is one thing,” he said. “I … assume Senator Louderman wasn’t randomized into the beta Vasclear group.”

Weber and Jessup exchanged glances.

“Brian, we’re talking about a man who might well be our next president,” Jessup said. “There was no way we could take the chance of including him in the double-blind study.”

“Right,” Brian replied. “But as important as the senator is, the most important man in the world to me is my father.”

“Of course. And you want him to be placed in the beta group.”

“That was my desire all along, and it still is. But whatever your decision is about that, I want to assure you again that I understand the need for secrecy as far as the senator is concerned.”

There was a surprising but unmistakable look of respect—of admiration—in Carolyn Jessup’s eyes.
Welcome to the club, Dr. Holbrook
, they seemed to be saying.
It would appear you have what it takes to succeed here
.

“Well, Brian,” she said, “that’s not too much to ask, not at all. Suppose we start your father’s treatment tomorrow afternoon, say, at five. I’ll notify the nurses that he has been randomized into the beta group.”

“I think the trip into the city may be a bit much for him right now. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to start his treatments at home.”

“As long as you know that my recommendation is still surgery, and as quickly as possible.”

“I understand. I haven’t looked at her films, Dr. Jessup, but from your description, Nellie Hennessey’s arteriograms were just as bad as my father’s. I saw her today in the clinic. She’s nearly six years older than Jack and looks and acts a decade younger. I want to give him at least a reasonable try with Vasclear.”

“In that case, beta Vasclear it is. Art will deliver a week’s supply to you tomorrow.”

“I’m very grateful.”

The esteem in Carolyn Jessup’s eyes yielded to a steely coolness.

“I hope so, Brian,” she said.

U
NTIL A
S
ATURDAY IN
N
OVEMBER NEARLY EIGHTEEN
years ago, autumn had always been Brian’s favorite season. Since then, although the scent of mulching leaves and damp soil, the splendid colors, and the cool, crystalline New England air still pleased him, autumn inevitably brought bittersweet feelings as well. From the beginning of his life, he had been raised to play football, and it was rare that any experience off the field, even in medicine, could match the rush of dropping back to throw the first pass of a game.

Today, however, Brian was feeling everything special about autumn, plus an additional excitement as well. Teri Sennstrom had called, and in less than an hour, he would be meeting her for dinner. It was time for a break—time to put some things on the back burner, if only for a few hours.

The days following Jack’s official beginning on full-dose Vasclear had gone smoothly enough, but Brian seriously doubted that his father had improved. And now, ten days had passed since he had actually received his first
beta dose. Brian had started keeping a careful count of the nitroglycerin tablets and had set up a log book so that the home health aides and neighbors could record Jack’s level of activity each day. The emotional ups and downs were exhausting—grasping at the slim, subjective straws of improvement one moment, then fretting over the equally subjective setbacks the next. Three more days, Brian had decided. Three more days would bring Jack to Nellie Hennessey’s magic mark of two weeks. After that, he would begin pushing for a visit to Laj Randa.

Teri had requested that they meet someplace where it was unlikely anyone from BHI would be. Brian had chosen a small blues place that had just opened in Burlington, one town over from Reading. It was nearly six when he signed out at the hospital and made a check-in call to Jack.

“How’re you doing, Pop?”

“Not so well tonight.”

The roller coaster took a downward dip.

“Chest pain?”

“Not really. I don’t know what’s wrong. I just, I don’t know—I feel scared.”

Jack Holbrook, the undersized lineman who had once broken a bone in his leg during a game and played an entire quarter on it, was not only frightened about his condition, but was admitting it. He was wearing down.

“You want me to come home?”

“I thought you were going out to dinner with someone.”

“I was. But it’s not that important if you’re not feeling well.”

“Nonsense, I’m fine. Just a little bored and jittery is all. The playoffs are on in an hour. You have a good time.”

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I have Sally from next door here,
and a lasagna someone dropped off. As long as I get my Vasclear tonight—”

“As soon as I get home. Ten-thirty, eleven at the latest. Last chance. You sure you don’t want me to come now?”

“Positive.”

“I’ve got my beeper.”

“Perfect. You don’t have to worry. I won’t be calling.”

“Okay, enjoy the game. And Pop?… I love you.”

There was a brief silence.

“You have a great time,” Jack said.

Brian listened to the dial tone for half a minute before setting the receiver down.
I love you
. His recovery program encouraged fearlessness when it came to expressing feelings, but this was the first time, the absolute first time, he had said that to his father since … since ever, maybe.

I love you
.

Why now?

Feeling excited at the thought of seeing Teri again, but at the same time strangely drained by the brief conversation with Jack, Brian changed into jeans and a plaid shirt, and headed for the hospital garage.

Teri was waiting for him at a table inside the Blues Barn, a rough-hewn space rehabilitated from what remained of an old farm. Looking absolutely at ease in a denim jacket and gold T-shirt, she greeted Brian warmly and kissed him on the cheek.

“No trouble finding the place?” he asked.

“Nope. You give great directions.” She gestured at the crowded, gritty place. “This is just the sort of restaurant I wanted to be at tonight.”

“The music starts at eight,” Brian said. “I never heard of the group.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve been working nonstop on you know what. This evening is equivalent to a two-week vacation for me.”

The bar waitress came over. Brian ordered his staple, Diet Coke with lemon. Teri ordered the same.

“I hope you’re not avoiding alcohol because of me,” he said.

“If I am, it doesn’t matter. I can take alcohol or leave it.”

“That’s one thing I really can’t say. I can’t remember ever having a drink that wasn’t a step on the pathway to a buzz, or, just as often, oblivion. That was true even before my problems with painkillers began.”

“You’re doing something about it with meetings and counseling. That’s all that matters.”

“Oh, yes, the file. You already know my life’s history.”

“I’m very embarrassed about that.”

She brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead, but it instantly fell back. Brian had to battle his instinct to reach over and repeat the gesture for her.

“Well,” he said, “maybe you should play catch-up. Tell me about yourself.”

“If my file really does exist somewhere in D.C., it’s much less interesting than yours. Younger of two girls from Indiana. First in my family ever to go to college, much less medical school. Father still works his butt off in a steel mill, drinks way too much, gets verbally and physically abusive when he does. Mother cooks and cleans and smiles a strained smile all the time, takes most of the abuse, and never has a harsh word for anyone.”

“Mayhem and martyrdom. Sounds like a fun household.”

“Oh, yeah. My older sister, Diane, was pregnant and married before she was eighteen. The old escape route.”

“Nice guy at least?”

“What do you think? Give him thirty years and change his brand of beer, and he’s Dad.”

“And you?”

“I waited until I was almost nineteen to run off and get married. He was a med student. That’s how I got interested in it all.”

“What happened?”

“Everyone in a skirt happened. Peter was incredibly insecure. He needed more reassurance than he could get from me—or from the Rockettes, for that matter. I’d catch him, he’d lie, I’d catch him again, he’d get abusive and blame me. I had been accepted at Princeton out of high school and turned them down to go with Peter, work in a department store, and take courses on the side at the local community college. The admissions people at Princeton were kind enough to accept me again when I contacted them. They even offered me a scholarship. When Peter found out, he decided he needed someone with more time to fold his socks.”

The waitress came to take their orders.

“You look too healthy for this,” Brian said, “but I recommend the ribs.”

She reached into her purse and held up a pack of chocolate chip cookies.

“For emergencies,” she said. “In case I’m trapped in a mine cave-in. I’ll take the ribs and an order of fries.”

Waiting for dinner, they watched the band set up and talked about Boston and Washington, music, books, and movies, and traded stories about their jobs. Then, for a time, they ate in a pleasant, comfortable silence.

“So, what about you?” Teri asked finally.

“What
about
me? Isn’t the file complete enough?”

“How did you get hurt?”

“Playing football. You know that from the file.”

“No, I mean how? I think it’s only fair to warn you
that a girlfriend and I own two nosebleed-seat season tickets to the Redskins. I love the game.”

“I believe I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

“So, how did you get hurt?”

“First, you need to know that my father was my coach. In peewees, in high school, and in college. I went to UMass because they hired him. Black Jack Holbrook. I don’t know how he got the name, except that he likes to bet on things.”

“Father and coach. I imagine the line can get a little blurred.”

“That’s an understatement. I still don’t even know what to call him. We were—
are
—both pretty headstrong. Sometimes, especially when I was younger, I’d purposely misthrow a pass if he said something that upset me. But mostly, I lived and died over what he thought of me and the way I played. I got hurt during homecoming my junior year. I was a preseason all-American mention in some magazines even though I didn’t go to a big football factory. And I was having a very good year and a very good game, even though we were losing by five points and there were only six seconds left in the game.…”