Of Flesh and Blood (30 page)

“That meeting was this morning, wasn’t it?”

Tyler looked down and spoke to the countertop. “I didn’t put Keisha’s case forward today,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t?”

“For one thing, the department head, Alice Wright, suspended the Vintazomab trial at our site pending a mortality review of Nate’s death. And it was the right thing to do, too.”

Nikki nodded, but she didn’t buy his explanation. She knew from firsthand experience that the oncologists had considerable leeway in deciding the best treatment for their patients. She suspected Tyler was using the technicality as an excuse. “What else?” she asked gently.

He looked up at her, defeat clouding his features. “Craig Stafford came to see me.”

Nikki tensed. “He was angry, I take it?”

“I sensed that, yeah.” Tyler grunted a humorless laugh. “Nikki, he’s been doing all kinds of Internet searches on the Vintazomab study. He knows that the deaths were exclusively linked with the kids who got intrathecal doses of the med.”

“In other words, the very sickest patients! The ones whose leukemia had already spread to their brains.” She shook her head in frustration. “That only makes sense, Tyler.”

“Not to Craig, it doesn’t. He is going to sue me.” He cleared his throat. “And that’s not the worst of it.”

“No?”

“He plans to go to the press.”

Nikki threw her hands up. “For what? You were just trying to do the best for his son.”

“But it didn’t work out that way.” His chin dropped lower. “I withheld information from them. He’s within his rights.”

Eager to ease his pain somehow, she reached out and gripped his forearm. “Listen to me, Tyler. We both know this is how Craig responds to loss. He’s been furious with the world ever since Nate was diagnosed. He’s lashed out at every step of the way, always desperate for somewhere to place all that blame. That’s what this is about. It has nothing to do with informed consent.”

Tyler cracked a grateful smile. “Maybe.”

“Definitely,” she said. “You can’t let Craig’s overdeveloped sense of vengeance affect the care of other patients.”

“I have to learn from my mistakes,” he said in a subdued tone.

She met his gaze without releasing her grip on his arm. “So you’ll be more careful with the consent next time around. But you didn’t make any mistakes with the treatment.”

His expression softened slightly, but he didn’t reply.

“Tyler, aside from Vintazomab, are there any other possible protocols to start Keisha on?”

“Nikki, you know as well as I do.” He sighed. “She’s failed her bone marrow transplant and multiple rounds of chemo.”

“So you have no option but to start her on Vintazomab.”

“No. I suppose not.”

“Tyler?” a woman’s voice called from behind them.

Nikki immediately released his arm and glanced over her shoulder. Though she had never met Jill Laidlaw, she recognized her from sightings in the cafeteria and parking lot. But Nikki had never been in such close proximity to her. Jill had high cheekbones and striking blue eyes. The blond neurologist wore a sleeveless silky blue shirt and black hip-huggers so chic that Nikki felt self-conscious in her hospital-issue scrubs. Not only was she beautiful, but up close she appeared younger.

Jill’s eyes lingered on Nikki’s hand for a moment, long enough to convey that she didn’t appreciate the way the nurse was touching her husband’s arm, before she broke into a smile and extended her hand. “I’m Tyler’s wife, Jill.”

“Nikki,” she said, meeting Jill’s cool palm.

Tyler rose from his seat. He smiled awkwardly at his wife. “Hey, Jill, what brings you by?”

“I work here at the Alfredson,” she said with a hint of sarcasm. “Matter of fact, just a couple of buildings over.”

Tyler eyed his wife with an expression Nikki couldn’t discern. “And it’s only taken you fifteen months to circumvent those buildings,” he said.

“Touché.” Jill smiled. Her voice dropped lower. “Tyler, did you hear about the senator?”

Nikki knew she was referring to Calvin Wilder. The hospital rumor mill had been working overtime with the news of how the VIP had fallen ill from the scourge sweeping through the complex.

“I heard,” Tyler said.

“He was just about to consent to my study,” Jill said.

Tyler shook his head.

“He’s a very decent man, Ty.”

Tyler reached out and touched the back of his wife’s hand. “I’m sorry, hon.”

Nikki felt an irrational pang of jealousy. She had a sudden longing for another hydromorphone pill. Fighting off a blush, she backed away from the couple. “I’ve got meds to dispense,” she said.

Lorna stared down at the cubes of ice rattling around the bottom of her empty glass. The third drink had hit her hard. The oak-paneled room swam a little, and her words had begun to slur. She resolved to resist another refill, despite Dot’s coaxing. She could not afford to have her judgment impaired further, especially since her great-aunt seemed to be feeding off the alcohol, growing more animated and articulate with each fresh glass.

Lorna cradled her glass close to her chest, trying to hide its emptiness. “So it’s that simple, is it? Marshall Alfredson built the hospital to appease his daughter and push Evan McGrath out of the city? End of story.”

Dot laughed. “My
Gawd
, when is life ever
that
simple?”

“So what happened?”

Dot’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “If poor Evan McGrath thought 1895 was an eventful year, nothing could have prepared him for the year that followed.”

“What do you mean?”

Dot rolled her hand and watched her chunky gold bracelet slide down her arm. “Olivia married Arthur Grovenor on New Year’s Eve in front of two hundred guests as planned. I doubt that started Evan’s year off on the right foot.”

“Olivia was the love of his life, wasn’t she?”

“Whatever the hell
that
means.” Dot sighed. “She was undoubtedly the love of the moment.”

Remembering Dot had plowed through four failed marriages, Lorna understood her great-aunt’s skepticism.

“On a more promising note,” Dot went on, “my grandfather was not a man to dillydally. The plans for the Alfredson Clinic were drawn up quickly
by the
noted
Seattle architect, Samuel Firestone. By early May, Marshall’s laborers had cleared enough trees off the land to break ground.”

“Did Evan and Marshall agree on the design?”

Dot absentmindedly laid her hand on the back of the fornicating ceramic samurai on the end table beside her. “Those two agreed on very little, but I don’t believe Evan was given, or even asked for, much input into the clinic’s design.”

“Really?” Lorna frowned. “On his dream project?”

Dot shook her head. “Virginia had not fared well that winter. By spring, she was bed-bound. Evan hardly left her side. I imagine he had little time for anything else.”

“Was she dying?”

Ignoring the question, Dot nodded toward Lorna’s glass. “The rate these glasses leak is
frankly
abominable. Let me patch yours for you.”

Tempted as she was, Lorna covered the top of her glass. “I think I’ve finally stemmed my leak.”

“Suit yourself, darling.” Dot sprang to her feet and marched off toward the bar.

Lorna marveled at the spryness of her tiger-stripe-clad ancient relative. It occurred to her that longevity ran in the Alfredson family. And yet she remembered that Olivia had not lived very long. She watched Dot pour a generous helping of vodka with a steady hand. She added a small splash of tonic and a couple of ice cubes to the glass, but manners aside, the old girl might as well have drunk directly from the bottle for what little dilution she achieved.

“Dot, how did Olivia die?”

Her great-aunt took a sip and nodded her satisfaction. “Spring of 1896 was an overwrought time for poor old Evan,” she said, again evading Lorna’s question.

“How so?”

“Because, darling, the events that would shape the rest of his life all happened that spring.”

After losing Virginia, Evan assumed he would never remarry. He relocated to Oakdale for the sole purpose of helping to oversee the construction of the clinic, and instead met the love of his life there.

—
The Alfredson: The First Hundred Years
by Gerald Fenton Naylor

Sleep deprived and emotionally numb, Evan McGrath stood and watched the men, horses, and steam-powered machines burrow deeper through the rocky soil where the clinic’s foundation would soon be laid.

Four days earlier, Evan had stood by a different hole and watched another crew, but those men were filling, not digging, and the plot was much smaller—big enough only for Virginia’s casket. From a medical point of view, the only unexpected feature of his wife’s terminal pneumonia was how long she had lasted. However, when Evan saw that final breath catch in her throat and the light extinguish from her eyes, he felt as shocked as if Ginny had died in a fall from a horse.

The attendees had filled the small church for her subdued funeral service, but only a handful, including Mrs. Shirley and Moses Brown, braved the torrential rain and watched the grave diggers race to backfill the plot before the loose soil turned into a mud bath. Evan’s sudden tears had surprised and embarrassed him. He cried for more than just Virginia’s loss. He mourned the time and opportunity her illness had stolen from them both, and the children they could never have. He also wept for Ginny’s final years of suffering and the indignity that Fate had cruelly saddled on her. And he spent a little of his sorrow on himself and the happiness of which he had also been cheated.

Now, as Evan stood and watched the laborers excavate, he wondered what was to become of his life. He had invested so much energy into caring for Virginia, especially in the last few months when she had grown so helpless. As a doctor, he had long known that she had no hope of recovery, but as a husband, he had never given up. And while Virginia’s death might have been a mercy for her, he had difficulty imagining life without her.

Respecting Evan’s moment of introspection, Moses Brown stood a couple yards away and watched the crew at work. Wearing the same undersized suit as always, Moses had accompanied Evan on the indirect four-and-a-half-hour train ride—punctuated by multiple stops—from Seattle to Oakdale.

Evan had marveled at Moses’s handiwork in patching, and improving, the rickety hospital on Fifth Avenue; the man was a brilliant carpenter who innately understood all aspects of building. Though Evan had little interest
in and even less aptitude for construction, he did not trust Marshall enough to leave the project entirely in the hands of his men. He envisioned a building that would survive a hundred years or more, and he had brought Moses to the site to help ensure that it was built to last.

Evan turned to his friend. “Moses, how deep do they need to go to lay the foundation?”

Moses stroked his chin with an index finger as he considered the question. “For a three-story brick building of this size, I expect they’ll have to dig out a few more feet still.”

Evan had originally envisioned a five-story structure. Though he had never ridden an elevator in his life, he had read that they were all the rage in new buildings in New York. He had hoped to see one installed at the clinic, to transport the bed- and wheelchair-bound patients between floors. Samuel Firestone had argued that it was wildly impractical and too expensive for such a remote site. Marshall agreed with his architect and arbitrarily set the height of the clinic at three stories with only stairways between the floors.

Marshall had assumed more of a hands-on approach to the project than Evan anticipated. The businessman pored over the plans with Firestone, arguing over even the finer architectural details such as the window sizes and finishing. Most of Marshall’s decisions were unilateral. Evan had put up little opposition because Virginia had grown so ill during the days when the plans were being finalized, and he was too consumed with her health to focus on anything else. Evan now regretted allowing Marshall to take absolute control of the clinic’s design. He intended to make up for the oversight by remaining nearby as it was built.

“I am surprised Mr. Alfredson has not shown up here to tell everyone what to do and how to do it,” Evan muttered, as much to himself as Moses.

Moses glanced at Evan out of the corner of his eye. “Dr. McGrath, I expect Mr. Alfredson doesn’t think he can leave his daughter right now.”

“No?” Evan kept his tone casual though his heart began to thud at the mention of Olivia. “Why is that?”

Moses looked in both directions and then dropped his voice to a hush. “Well, Theodora told me that Mrs. Grovenor is having early labor pains. And she’s supposed to stay in bed.”

Bile welled in his throat, as Evan fought to keep the surprise from his
voice and the pain off his expression. “Olivia is pregnant?” he said. “I had not heard.”

Moses shuffled on the spot. “I’m sorry . . . um . . . Dr. McGrath, I thought you already knew that Mrs. Grovenor is with child.”

Not trusting his voice to cooperate, Evan simply shook his head.

“The baby is due to arrive in the early fall,” Moses said. “But now with the pains, Theodora is worried the child will come too early. Dangerously so.”