Under the Knife(34)

“Sleepwalking, Rita?”

“I know it sounds strange, Chase. But I— There’s no other explanation. I came in last night to do some final checks on the auto-surgeon. I was tired, I put my head down for a few minutes in the OR. I must have undressed and stretched out on the operating-room table without realizing it. It’s the simplest explanation, right? You know, like Occam’s razor.”

“Hmmm.” That was Finney. “Yes. Occam’s razor. All things being equal, the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. An interesting argument, but I’m not sure I agree. The sleepwalking hypothesis involves several assumptions and isn’t necessarily the simplest.”

“Don’t be glib, Rita,” Chase said sharply. “This is serious.” His eyes darted to the hallway beyond the protective sweep of the C-arm. “Goddammit. Your entire professional reputation is at stake here. Do you understand? How am I possibly going to keep this quiet? This whole thing—I mean, I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never heard of anything like it.” He grunted. “Sleepwalking.”

“He’s going to tell you not to operate on Mrs. Sanchez,” Finney said.

“Whatever happened to you last night, one thing is certain,” Chase continued. “We need to cancel the auto-surgeon case this morning.”

“But—”

“No.” He drew a hand down his face and shook his head. “No. Whatever happened to you this morning, it wouldn’t look good. Besides, you don’t look like you’re in top form. We have to think of the patient. The patient always comes first, Rita.”

I know that, Rita thought bitterly. You think I don’t know that, Chase?

“You don’t believe me?” she said.

Chase didn’t reply. The corners of his mouth curled downward; but his eyes roved over her through the narrowed apertures of the squinted lids, paternal and sympathetic.

He looked away and ran his hand down his face.

“You don’t believe me, Chase?” she pressed.

He laughed. Barked, really: a short, guttural chuckle. “Would you believe you, if you were me, Rita?”

His eyes swung back to her and searched her face. It was the way he always glared at a resident when he thought they were faking something about a patient, or trying to bullshit about some scientific paper they either didn’t understand or hadn’t read. It never failed to intimidate the hell out of them. She knew this from personal experience because she’d once been one of Chase’s residents, and she’d learned the hard way never to bullshit him.

Or, at least, to never get caught bullshitting him.

“Is that really what you think happened, Rita?” he said softly.

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

They stared at each other in silence for a full thirty seconds, like two kids playing at a staring contest. Chase finally conceded to Rita, dropping his eyes, spinning around on his heels, and running his hand down his face.

“This is fascinating,” Finney murmured. “Absolutely fascinating. Listening to the two of you.”

Chase began to pace, his chin cupped in his hand. The confines of the alcove prevented him from going more than five steps in any direction. Rita speculated how many circuits across the alcove, from one side to the other, it would take to make him dizzy.

“Goddammit, Rita. Why this morning, of all mornings? Marketing’s been working overtime on this for months. The media’s all set up. There’s a Wall Street Journal reporter here doing a feature. Several prominent surgeons, personal friends of mine, have flown in from the East Coast. Hell, I even convinced Linton to show up, from Boston. You sure as hell aren’t doing me any favors, Rita.”

She didn’t attempt to reply.

“Then there’s our hospital CEO, and the dean of the medical school … even the chancellor. All here for the auto-surgeon. If we back out now—”

His hand came down over his face, pulling and tugging.

Rita stared at him and for some random reason thought, Well, that’s a good way to smear your makeup.

“Yes,” Finney said. “This all does pose a problem.”

She fought down the urge to clamp both her hands over her left ear, as if that would somehow keep him out of her mind.

God, why can’t he just shut up?

Chase stopped pacing and gazed at the C-arm and the operating rooms beyond.

“The work. The amount of work we’ve put into this. And what are we going to tell everyone? It’s going to look bad. Whatever we say. What are we going to say? We’ll have to think of something. Something credible. We can say that the patient was too sick. Or not right for the surgery. Or equipment issues. Right?”

Finney said, “All potential excuses.”

She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs: God, just STOP TALKING!

“We can spin it like that,” Chase said. “Right?” The pitch of his voice rose on right, in a plaintive way, and his broad shoulders drooped. He ran his hand down his face again.

“You can’t let him cancel the surgery,” Finney said. “You have to talk him into letting you do it today, Dr. Wu.”

No, I don’t.

The thought had popped into her mind suddenly, and with a force that took her by surprise.

Of course I don’t. I don’t need to talk Chase into anything.