The Lobotomist's Wife(31)

“You never have been very patient, have you, Ruth?” She startled as the door opened suddenly. “I was just finishing up some reading.” Bernard Emeraldine had begun to age. He stood with a slightly stooped spine, which now set him at eye level with his daughter, rather than the imposing several inches above her that he once had. His knees had become arthritic, and he compensated by shuffling along the floor in his slippers. Still, he remained terrifying.

“Good evening, Father. Sorry, it’s just that, well, Mother called dinner for six thirty, and it’s nearly eight. We have Edward here as well, and I just feel awful to make him wait and . . .”

“Stop your equivocating. I’m here, aren’t I? Come then.”

Ruth followed her father down the hall, past the library where she momentarily stopped to gather the group. Bernard continued on directly to the dining room and sat in his oversized chair at the head of the table. The others took their seats, sitting in strained silence. Ruth almost felt as if her father knew that the three of them were hiding something and was testing her, challenging her compunction to address him head-on like a proper professional. Of course, he couldn’t know anything. She hadn’t told him, and she knew Charles had intentionally remained vague.

“Dr. Wilkinson, how do you feel about your post at our hospital now that you have nearly a year with us?” Bernard turned to Edward almost warmly.

“It has been terrific, sir. Everything I could have ever wanted.”

Ruth saw Edward pulling at his napkin under the table.

“I must say I am still surprised that you were interested in the position. I know my son-in-law has his outlandish ideas about treatments that alter the brain somehow, and that’s all well and good for a researcher, but I would think a true surgeon would want to pursue a path that enabled him to use the knife for real work, outside the lab.”

Ruth watched Robert bristle at Bernard’s condescension and began to panic.

“Not at all, sir. Working with Dr. Apter—Robert—has been even more rewarding than I could have ever imagined. He is quite a genius.”

Robert smiled tightly and Ruth held her breath, fearing that Robert might say more. Thankfully Arnold entered the room with the soup, and as the sweet-spicy smell of pumpkin bisque filled the room with notes of Christmas, Ruth took the opportunity to change the subject to something entirely banal. “Mother, I was surprised that the two of you are heading south so early this year. I thought you never miss the holiday party season?”

“Well.” Helen took a dramatic breath. “We felt that the warmer climes would be best for our ailments.” Helen looked pointedly at Bernard, intimating that his deteriorating health was to blame. “Of course, there is quite a festive season in Palm Beach as well.”

“Mr. Emeraldine,” Robert cut in jarringly as his knee bounced under the table, rattling the china charger and nearly spilling the soup. “I’ll have you know that I am not simply doing lab research on cadavers.”

“Robert, Father is aware that you have now spent several years studying the brains of patients.” Ruth reached out under the table to try to hit Robert’s foot with hers and gave him a look, admonishing him to stop.

“You mean that rogue theory about brain connections and mental illness?” Bernard chuckled.

“It is hardly rogue,” Robert retorted. “I know you believe in the biological approach to treatment. And there is cutting-edge research that proves, unequivocally, that altering the connections in the brain helps to address a host of previously uncurable mental diseases. I have been working with a highly respected doctor in Portugal, Egas Moniz, who has been very generous with his own research. In fact, we are now performing a brain surgery based on Dr. Moniz’s leucotomy that seems to be nothing short of a miracle at the hospital. Our lobotomy—”

Edward dropped his spoon with a loud clank. Ruth felt sick. How could Robert be so reckless?

“I am sure I understood you incorrectly. It seemed like you said that you have performed brain surgery at my hospital?” Bernard asked in a voice all the more menacing for its measured tone.

“Gentlemen,” Helen interjected with some force, “I don’t believe this kind of business belongs at the dinner table, particularly during our holiday meal! Honestly.” Helen lifted and refolded her napkin and looked at Bernard and Robert with a sharp warning before taking a graceful and deliberate spoonful of soup.

“You’re absolutely right, Helen. I apologize for steering the conversation in this direction. May I just say, sir”—Robert turned back to Bernard—“that it’s not exactly your hospital. Of course, you paid for the wonderful facilities but—”

“That’s right. I paid for the facilities, I run the board. I might not have a degree in medicine, but make no mistake, as long as my name is on the door, it is most certainly my hospital.”

How could he? Ruth began to sweat and felt her stomach folding in on itself. She had hoped her mother’s admonition would have saved them, but now she feared Robert had reached a point of no return. “Father. Please. Of course it is your hospital. That is why Charles and I are preparing a detailed presentation for you and the rest of the board at Monday’s meeting. You will see all the data to support the impressive results of Robert and Edward’s work. They have made an incredible breakthrough, one that could put Emeraldine at the forefront of the most revolutionary care for the mentally ill—”