The Art of Forgetting (23 page)

              Dr. Killian was conducting ward rounds with residents and medical students in tow when the group stopped at the bedside of a reedy man with thinning hair – a retired army veteran who first suspected something might be wrong with him decades earlier when as a young driver of military transport vehicles he noticed that, after a long haul, he found himself unable to release his grip on the steering wheel.

              “Mr. Felty has Myotonic Muscular Dystrophy,” Killian said with carnivalesque flair. “You can immediately see some of the typical features of this condition: the receding hairline, the drooping eyes, the blank stare that in the past was mistaken as evidence of a subnormal IQ. But I must stress, despite their outward appearance, these people are
not
retarded.” He paused as the students stopped taking notes to bend forward and gawk at the bewildered gentleman’s face. “Now, I’m going to demonstrate some of the physical findings of the disease.” He turned to the helpless man and asked, in the loud doctor voice that assumes that all patients are deaf or slow or both, “May I see your hand, Mr. Felty?”

              The man held out his hand. Killian turned it palm up and said, “A key feature of Myotonic Muscular Dystrophy is the propensity for muscle spasms, followed by delayed muscular relaxation. This can be demonstrated at the bedside with the most rudimentary of tools.”

              He extracted a reflex hammer from his coat pocket and, holding Mr. Felty’s hand outstretched, tapped the fleshy pad at the base of the man’s thumb with a crisp flick of the wrist. The thumb contracted and remained in a stiff contorted position for several seconds before slowly relaxing. The medical students and interns crowded in uttering oohs and aahs while Killian smiled with the satisfaction of a birthday party magician.

              He turned to the patient and asked, “Mr. Felty, do you ever have trouble with your speech?”

              “Maybe, sometimes.”

              “Garbled speech?”

              “I guess so.”

              Dr. Killian pulled two tongue depressors from the vest pocket of a medical student whose white coat bulged, pockets stuffed with medical supplies, like the side saddles of a mule pack.

              “The tongue can also exhibit tonic contractions. Open wide.” He positioned the tongue depressors on the top and bottom of the patient’s tongue and delivered a light tap to the top blade.

              Nothing happened.

              He repositioned the tongue depressors and gave a slightly stronger jab.

              Still nothing.

              He hammered a third time, and harder still a fourth. Then he stopped. He withdrew the rounded blades, now speckled with blood. Mr. Felty sat with his mouth open, his tongue resting on his lower lip, a rivulet of blood emerging from where a lower incisor left a tiny gash.

              “You’re bleeding a little,” Killian whispered as he retreated.

              Lloyd pulled a couple of packages of sterile gauze from the mule pack’s pockets and as he stepped through the crowd of students to attend to the puzzled patient said something that became the main point of contention at his disciplinary hearing. Lloyd maintained that he simply said, “Way to go!” whereas Killian insisted that the phrase was punctuated by the word, “asshole.”

              To their credit, none of the interns and medical students could corroborate Dr. Killian’s version of the event – that is, they lied. Lloyd received a stern warning, was placed on probation, but no charge of insubordination was entered in his permanent record. Six months later, Dr. Killian’s contract was not renewed and he shipped out to Kentucky (or was it West Virginia?) proving to Lloyd that Uncle Marty’s influence was broad and deep, and that there was a bit of an edge lurking beneath that amiable smile of his.

              But how would Lasko have come to know of the incident? And how was it that he came to question Erin about their conversation in the cafeteria?

              Chapter 21

             
B
y now, Lloyd became conscious that whenever his mind was not actively engaged on a matter that demanded his full concentration, his thoughts inevitably turned to Erin. He replayed conversations they had in his mind, wondered what she might be doing at that moment, if she might be thinking of him. He tried in vain to hold a precise image of her in his mind, able only to recreate a single feature at a time – her lips, her eyes, her fine nose, those playful eyebrows – somehow never able, in his mind’s eye, to herd the parts together in a unified whole.

              He wanted to be with her, craved her company. But there was more. As he analyzed the issue objectively he came to a perplexing realization: he cared for her. That is, her happiness mattered to him. But how could he contribute to her happiness? What sort of future would he be able to offer her?

              He thought of the Copeland wives who by all measure seemed to have been born to suffer. He thought of his grandmother and how mirthless her life must have been, caring for a husband who hardly recognized her for nearly three decades. And he thought of his mother.

              He picked up the phone and dialed his mom’s number.

              “Hello, Lloyd,” his mom answered in an apologetic voice.

              “Mom!”

              There was a prolonged pause.

              “Roy told me he talked to you,” she said.

              “Why didn’t you want to tell me?”

              “Did you call just to scold me?”

              “Why didn’t you tell me?”

              “Oh Lloyd, maybe one day you’ll understand.”

              “How are you, mom?”

              “That’s the crazy thing, I don’t feel sick. Sure, I get winded. My leg’s a little swollen, God only knows why. But otherwise I’m fine.”

              “I want to come and see you this weekend,” Lloyd said.

              “You don’t have to make a big fuss, son, honestly. I already have Roy fussing over me like a mother hen. He won’t let me carry a dirty dish to the sink, for crying out loud, as if I’m some… I don’t know.”

              “Won’t let you cook?” Lloyd said.

              “Not even a slice of toast!”

              “What a surprise.” Lloyd said.

              “Oh Lloyd, stop pestering your dying mother.”

              There was a sharp silence.

              “I’m sorry, mom.”

              “Oh dear, I’m so sorry. That was a terrible thing to say. Why would I say such a thing?”

              Lloyd didn’t know what to say. He felt a knot tighten in his throat.

              “I’m more worried about you, son.”

              “I’m doing fine, mom.”

              “
I’m doing fine, mom
. My swollen foot, you’re doing fine. I hear it in your voice, mister-know-it-all. I’m your mother!”

              “I sort of met a girl mom.”

              “Don’t tease me, Lloyd.”

              “No, really. I met someone.”

              “Saint Cadfan, give me strength!  Now you’re really going to give me a coronary. Please tell me she’s a nice girl.”

              “She’s amazing,” Lloyd said.

              “I thought I’d never see the day! So when do we get to meet her?”

              “I don’t know.”

              “Lloyd, the doctors say I don’t have much time.”

              “I told you I wanted to come see you this weekend.”

              “Well why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Ellen said. “Lloyd honey, she’s not one of those ethnic young ladies that are so picky about food, is she?”

              “She’s Irish. She eats everything.”

              “Oh Lord, she sounds too good to be true.”

              “She is,” Lloyd said.

              Lloyd hung up the phone. His head was buzzing. He was drifting into a mellow state of intoxication and it felt liberating and terrifying at the same time. Like the game he played as a child, swimming ever farther from the pier in the chilly lake waters of Door County, wondering if he’d be able to make it back to shore. But at this point, what was stopping him from swimming a few more strokes farther from land?

              Chapter 22

             
F
riday morning Lloyd was preparing to deliver a lecture to a group of second year medical students in the physical diagnosis course when his beeper went off. It was Kaz.

              “Where are you?” Kaz said. 

              Lloyd heard a tightness in his voice.

              “I’m about to give a lesson,” Lloyd said.

              “There are men here, in our lab.”

              “What kind of men?”

              “Professors, with no white coats. They say they are with the Institutional Animals…”

              “Institutional Animal Care and Use Committee,” Lloyd said.

              “Yes, yes. Here for inspection… they have papers,” Kaz said.

              “Listen, Kaz, don’t worry. Show them what they want to see. We have nothing to hide.”

              “I hate inspections.”

              “Kaz, these are not officers of the Red Army. And we have nothing to hide. I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

              After the lecture Lloyd hurried back to the lab. When he opened the unlocked door, he stood there a while trying to appear unruffled but there was a tautness between his shoulders. Having inspectors rifle through his lab was more than demeaning – it was an invasion of his privacy. They may as well search through his sock drawer and report to Lasko what brand of condoms he used.

              When Kaz saw Lloyd he sighed and said, “Dr. Copeland,” motioning to the two inspectors to turn their attention to the doorway. The two men approached Lloyd with a cordial, almost apologetic demeanor. They had no need to introduce themselves. Dr. Nguyen and Dr. Norbert were tenured professors in the basic sciences department; the former taught histology, the latter physiology.

              “I hope you can forgive our unannounced intrusion,” Dr. Nguyen said, “but we received rather specific directives on how to conduct this inspection.”

              “From whom?” Lloyd asked.

              “We’re very impressed by your operation,” Dr. Norbert said, “which only adds to our embarrassment. So far we’ve found no deficiencies, and certainly no evidence of animal cruelty. To the contrary, I don’t believe the research subjects could be treated any more humanely.”

              “Their food is healthier than what they serve in the cafeteria,” Dr. Nguyen said with a smile directed at his colleague.

              Dr. Norbert picked up the thread. “Clean cages, filtered water, even classical music!”“If only they treated basic science professors this well,” Nguyen said. The two men chuckled but stopped abruptly when they saw Lloyd cross his arms without a smile.

              “Mr. Volkov has been extremely helpful and we really don’t want to outlast our welcome,” Dr. Norbert said. “I think we’ve seen quite enough of the laboratory proper. Wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Nguyen?”

              Dr. Nguyen nodded. Lloyd was about to reach out and shake their hands thinking they were preparing their exit when Norbert added, “So there is just one item left for us to look at:  the medication dispensing report.”

              “I’m sorry?” Lloyd said glancing at Kaz who was rubbing his palms together.

              “Surely, you keep a log of all the pharmaceuticals you dispense to live animal subjects?” Norbert said.

              “Of course we do.” Lloyd tried to stay calm. He turned to Kaz who was stiff and pale. “Do you mind pulling it up on your laptop, Kazimir?”

              Kaz looked at his feet. “We have so many reports,” he said, “so much data.”

              “Just a summary report for the last six months will do,” Norbert said, “and we’re only interested in the conjugated prion.”

              Kaz looked at Lloyd wide-eyed.

              “Give them what they need,” Lloyd said.

              Kaz ambled across the room with a wide gait, flipped open the laptop that lay on a counter and began tapping on the keyboard.

              “Don’t let us keep you, Dr. Copeland,” Dr. Nguyen said. “We’ve already taken too much of your time.”

              “I’ll be in my office if you need me,” Lloyd said. He stepped into his office and shut the door behind him. He pulled out the cigarette lighter from his pocket, sat back in his chair and set his feet on the desk. With his thumb he thrust open the lid of the lighter, rolled the flint-wheel creating a few sparks without igniting the wick, then flicked it quickly and stared at the dancing blue flame. With a jerk of the wrist he snapped the lid shut. Opened it again and repeated the operation.