Public Anatomy (15 page)

Liza put her hand on top of the console and stroked the smooth surface as if it were the hood of a Mercedes-Benz. The front of the console was cut out to accommodate a screen, robotic hand controls, and a bucket seat.

“This simulator is like the real thing, Cate. I want you to come here and practice on it any time you wish.”

Cate approached the machine. Not because she wanted to, but because her mentor insisted. She looked at a pair of leather straps that crossed the operating table. In this room, the simulator looked more like a device for torture than a means to save lives.

“I can’t believe you have all this in your house,” Cate said.

“It doesn’t exactly fit with the Victorian décor, does it?” Liza laughed. “So I keep all the high-tech stuff in this third-story office. Here,” she said, pointing to the console, “have a seat.”

Standing between the console and the operating table, Cate had a flashback from the operation. How she’d glanced at Dr. French when the anesthesiologist announced the plummeting blood pressure. How the video screen had filled with the image of spurting blood.

Cate took a seat inside the console. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead. Her hands shook as Dr. French told her to take the controls.

“I want you to feel comfortable with the instruments.”

Cate felt Liza lean over her shoulder.

“By the time you start residency, you will be well above your peers.”

Cate sensed the delicate positioning of the hand controls, felt Liza’s breath on her hair, smelled the sweat soaked into her teacher’s running clothes.

Cate wanted to be the good medical student, to show her utmost appreciation and dedication to what Dr. French was offering her. She knew this opportunity was afforded to few students. But her pulse was pounding, and for the first time in her life she felt claustrophobic. Cate stepped out of the console and bumped into Liza, knocking her back. She crossed the room and opened the door to the staircase.

“I’m sorry.” Cate tried to slow her rapid breathing. “It’s too soon. I’m just not ready.”

Liza followed her down the stairs. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have shown you this yet. It was inconsiderate of me.”

Layla met them in the parlor. “What’s wrong, darling?”

“Nothing. I just need some fresh air,” she said. “Thank you, Dr. French.”

“You will overcome this, Cate,” Liza called from the doorway. “You will be a fine surgeon. I hope you know that.”

Cate ran from the house down the walkway. Relieved, she took in a full breath of the humid night. She looked back at her mentor’s stately mansion. The front door was closed, the porch light already turned off.

Secret Lives of Doctors
.

The newest in reality-based television shows. The premise: What former lives had doctors given up to pursue a career in medicine? World-class cellist, Broadway actress, pitcher in triple-A minor league baseball, lingerie model?

The doctors chosen for each episode of this show were in their first years of training for specialties such as OB/GYN and surgery. Only a few years before, each had faced the decision to pursue the professional life of an artist, an athlete, or the profession of medicine. One more performance, another competition, could have pushed them into celebrity status.

So what happened?

Do they still hold to these dreams once pursued through obsessive hours of practice and training? Or did the stress and demands of medical school and residency force them to drop their preoccupying desires? Or had they simply replaced these activities with something less admirable? A vice, perhaps?

This is what the producers were hoping for. The hook. The dirty laundry. They were looking for someone like Thomas Greenway. The man was six foot three, had the body of a swimmer: broad shoulders, trim waist. In fact, he was a swimmer, spent his evenings and weekends, when he wasn’t on call for OB/GYN service, training for triathlons. He had been paying his way through college and medical school working as a model for magazine ads.

He was handsome enough, but his main attribute had not been
captured through facial photography. That was part of the deal. No pictures of his face. He thought he would never get into medical school if his identity in the pictures was known. The photos that had paid for an expensive medical education were pure torso shots. He had a rolling set of abs that led the eyes below the waist. What started as advertisements for men’s boxer shorts soon went to men’s briefs, and then the Speedo-like mini briefs in which his abdominal muscles were not the only prominent organ displayed.

The modeling gigs paid good money for a while, but gradually the work opportunities became more infrequent. He faced big-time debt to get through four years of medical school. Then another modeling opportunity came to him. This time no underwear was required. The magazine wanted not only full frontal but a head shot as well. He refused to put his anonymity at risk. The magazine editor compromised by allowing him to wear a surgical mask that at least partially hid his face. This seemed to work.

After a year of this, Greenway left the modeling world behind him. Now two things consumed his life: training to be an OB/GYN, and training for the triathlon. He had replaced showing his body with training his body—and for one of the most grueling competitions known to the individual athlete. The Annual Memphis Wolfpack Triathlon was only three weeks away.

Then a girlfriend found a proof of one of the photos in his apartment. She could see beyond the mask—and more. She liked the idea of dating a male model. And she promised not to tell anyone. Except one of her medical school girlfriends. Then everyone knew. Including the producers of
Secret Lives of Doctors
. Greenway refused to meet with them. So they went to him.

Shelby Farms is an expansive park in the center of Shelby County. More than four thousand acres, it is the largest urban park in the United States. In the mid-1990s, the farm supported prisoners from the county penal system who grew their own food and sold the surplus. The park boasts activities such as riding horses, taking aim at a pistol and rifle range, or windsurfing on sixty-acre Patriot Lake. With a 10K cross-country running
course, Shelby Farms provides a superb environment to train for marathons and triathlons.

After unsuccessful attempts to arrange any interviews on the medical school campus, the staff at
Secret Lives
went looking for Thomas Greenway. They asked his fellow residents where he spent his off hours. All answers were the same, and the staff found him swimming laps in the brownish-gray water of Patriot Lake. Without his permission, they filmed his lean body cutting the water, and then waited for him on the shore.

Dressed in a dark suit and looking hot in both meanings of the word, Carol Baylor, the show’s executive producer, smiled at Greenway when he emerged from the lake. Rivulets of water streamed down his tanned, firm abdominals and dripped from a body-tight pair of swimming briefs. She said to her cameraman, “This is going to be good.”

Greenway reached into his bag, removed a shirt, and slipped it over his head. The shirt fit tight on his wet skin and he had to inch it over his chest.

The producer of the newest medical reality show watched every move. “I’m Carol Baylor from
The Secret Lives of Doctors.”

Greenway knew that a television show had been conducting interviews at the medical center. He pulled a pair of running shorts over his Speedo. “I know who you are.”

“How’s the water?”

He looked back at the lake. “Muddy.”

“We’d like to interview you about your training. A doctor who does triathlons would interest our viewers.”

“A lot of doctors do triathlons.” He picked up his bag, started to walk off. “I know what you’re after, and I’m not interested.”

She followed. “Look, I know what you’re thinking. We’ll only film your training and a few shots at the hospital.”

The look he gave her was pure skepticism.

“That’s all,” she added. “Nothing from the past.”

“And why should I agree to do this?”

“There’s good money in it for you. Enough for a year’s worth of rent.”

“How do you know I rent?”

“We’ve done our homework.”

He shrugged. “Good for you.”

“And a Cervello racing bike.”

This got his attention.

“A Cervello?”

“We know that you train with an old bike. We’ll give you a brand new P3 Carbon. It’s top of the line.”

“I know it’s top of the line.”

Then she went for the kill. “And a year’s membership at David’s Gym. Have you ever worked out there?”

Any serious athlete in Memphis knew that David’s was the best-equipped, most exclusive gym in the city.

“No, I haven’t.”

“It will put you in top form for the triathlon.”

She extended her hand. “Deal?”

He shook her hand.

“And,” she added, with a wink, “you can keep all your clothes on.”

A throng of darkly dressed adults stood on the steps of Madison Avenue Episcopal Church and slowly inched their way inside. Across the street, Eli stood beside his Bronco and watched. The two-o’clock sun seemed to melt asphalt and metal. Eli felt his shirt begin to cling to skin beneath his black suit.

He had not been to a funeral since his father’s, two years ago. Elizer Branch had not wanted a church funeral. Instead, a sterile memorial service was held at a sterile funeral home. Only a handful of people traveled to Elmwood Cemetery for brief graveside remarks before Eli’s father was buried beside his mother.

Eli crossed the street. The small crowd had entered the church. He wanted to slip in, take a seat in the back row, and pay his respects to a woman he had known ten years ago, and more recently during intense moments at Gates Memorial Hospital.

Organ music filled the church as he entered and slipped past the ushers to find an empty space in the back. The church was not full, but those attending were positioned such that the sanctuary appeared occupied. When his eyes adjusted to the darker room, he began to recognize a few of the people in attendance. Robert Largo, Gates Memorial’s Chief of Staff, sat near the front. Next to him, Eli recognized the director of nursing and the nursing supervisor from the OR. They stared at the closed casket as the organist continued to play. Across the aisle, a few pews up, a young nurse whom Eli recognized from the OR turned and looked at him. She smiled briefly and then looked away. The music stopped and the priest addressed the congregation.

As words blurred into liturgy and ritual, Eli wondered why he had come to Virginia Brewer’s funeral. He tried to convince himself that he was there as a friend of a woman who had been somewhat like a mother to him. But his mind flashed to her death and the death before her, and he became aware that the real reason he was in this church was to attempt to make sense of the two murders with which somehow he’d become involved.

The first two pews, where the family sat, had been sectioned off with gold rope. A man, who Eli assumed was Virginia’s husband, sat by an older woman with thin gray hair. Beside her were a young man and woman, both in their mid-twenties, likely Virginia’s children.

When the service was over, Eli stayed behind in his seat until most of the gathering had filed out down the center aisle. He had no desire to speak with Robert Largo, the administrator who had signed the papers that officially suspended Eli’s clinical privileges at Gates Memorial. Nor did he care to see any of the nurses or other hospital personnel whom he’d recognized during the service. He wanted to talk with no one, a plan that backfired as he left the church a few minutes later.

“Dr. Branch?”

A stocky man with red, swollen eyes walked up the steps and shook Eli’s hand. It was the man Eli had seen in the front pew, Virginia’s husband.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “Virginia spoke of you often. She thought the world of you.”

Unprepared for this confrontation, Eli searched for the right words. “Your wife was a special lady, and an incredible nurse.”

Long, awkward moments of silence followed. The small group of family members stood by cars lined up behind the hearse. The funeral attendants stood with hands clasped in front of them, watching Eli and beckoning the husband so that the procession could depart.